Amy's Touch

by Lynne Wilding

  Amy’s cheeks were still flushed from Herb’s attempt to malign her, but she smiled her thanks at Winnie.

  Herb, who was known in town for his short temper, refused to let the matter go. ‘What’s in it for you, Amy Carmichael? What do you get out of this…this country women’s league?’

  ‘What are you implying, Herb?’ Valda Smith queried.

  ‘People don’t usually do things for nothing. There has to be some kind of angle that will benefit Amy,’ Herb replied.

  A spark of something indefinable lit up Amy’s blue eyes. ‘Of course. I intend to get a lot out of such a league.’

  Herb smirked at anyone who’d make eye contact with him. ‘I told you there was an angle.’

  ‘For starters,’ Amy began, ‘I’ll see members of the community come together to achieve a common goal, and to help people who are temporarily in dire straits to resettle, readjust or just get on with their lives. One can’t place a commercial value on that.’

  Several women laughed and Herb’s face turned red. ‘A smart answer, but I reckon there’s more to it and more to you, Amy Carmichael.’

  ‘Oh, give it up, Herb,’ Christine said. She smiled at Amy. ‘I think it’s a good idea, and I, for one, am prepared to help in whatever way I can.’

  ‘Thank you, Christine.’

  ‘Me too,’ chorused several women, nodding their heads in the affirmative. Dot Quinton remained silent.

  Disgusted and embarrassed, Herb blustered as he scraped back his chair and got to his feet. ‘People who live in Adelaide might be impressed by what you’re wanting to do, but in the country plain-speaking folk call it grandstanding. I’ve had enough of this…this tomfoolery.’ Plonking his hat firmly on his head, he strode angrily out of the hall.

  ‘There will always be doubting Thomases, or in this case doubting Herberts.’ Meg’s sage words received a unified chuckle.

  ‘I’d like to thank all of you for coming and participating. The intention of today’s meeting was to get an agreement in principle. I think I have that.’ Amy took the time to make eye contact with everyone in the room. ‘This league is going to be new territory for all of us, me included, so we’ll be learning how to do things as we go. I suggest we meet here again, in a month’s time, to discuss the next step—and please, tell other women about our goals. The more interest we can engender from the women of the district, the better. Agreed?’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’ Winnie Cohen spoke for those present and brought the meeting to a close.

  Amy had hoped Randall would leave with the others, but he didn’t. He waited until everyone had filed out of the hall and then, as Amy gathered up the paperwork, approached her.

  ‘Amy, we can’t go on avoiding each other forever.’ He came straight out with it, the depth of his voice betraying his frustration. ‘We need to talk. About Danny. About…us.’

  Amy tried to move past him but he stepped sideways to block her escape. ‘I can’t. Not now, not yet,’ she replied. Blue eyes meshed with deep brown ones. Oh dear. It was so hard, loving him as she did and not being able to show it, to him or to anyone. Being this close to him, it was difficult to maintain a sense of calm. By some miracle she managed to. ‘It’s too soon, and I feel too guilty over what’s happened to sit down and chat with you about it.’

  ‘I do too. I feel as if I’ve ruined two people’s lives: Danny’s and Beth’s. She’s taken off for Europe to get away from the gossip, the sidelong glances. I don’t want to ruin ours too. Besides, the more obvious it is that we’re avoiding each other, the more tongues will wag.’ His voice deepened further. ‘And…I miss seeing you, being with you, touching you.’

  She held up a hand in supplication. ‘Please, don’t. Don’t make it any harder than it already is.’ What she really wanted to do was to rush into his arms, to feel the warmth of him and the strength of him, and it took a supreme effort of will to brush past him towards the hall’s open doorway.

  He caught hold of her arm to stop her. ‘I’ve heard, through Jim, the things some people are saying, mostly about you. They have no right to make such judgments.’

  ‘People are blackening your name too, Randall.’

  He shrugged. ‘I couldn’t care less. I know the truth, as do you, but I won’t let them crucify you, not when you’ve done so much for the people of Gindaroo and the district itself.’

  Curiously, she found she could smile. It was a comfort to have a defender, even though she believed she could handle ‘the problem’ herself. ‘Meg said that most of the time gossip’s a fleeting thing, and when the next juicy titbit occurs, people will have something new to talk about.’

  Randall’s expression showed that he wasn’t convinced. ‘None of it should be happening. People should know better.’

  ‘I’m all right, Randall. Really. I have my work at the hospital, and today I’ve been given enough encouragement to move forward and make a country women’s league for the district a reality.’ Her gaze held his for a moment or two, then skittered away. ‘For now, that’s enough.’

  Her indirect message was not lost on him. He opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and allowed his dark eyebrows to lift then slowly settle. ‘I see.’ He set her arm free and stepped back. ‘Then I’ll say good evening. I hope your women’s league does well.’

  Amy watched him stride past her to the open doorway and knew she’d wounded him emotionally. He had wanted to set things right between them but she wouldn’t allow it. Why? Did she want both of them to suffer because of what their falling in love had inadvertently caused? In a way, yes. She believed that some penance was necessary, but mostly the passage of time was what was needed. One day, she hoped Randall would see that.

  Through summer and autumn Amy continued to be persona non grata among many people in the district. Beth’s poisonous remarks had been very successful, and Bill Walpole never missed an opportunity to subtly denigrate her and Randall. Amy stopped attending church with her father, found she wasn’t invited to several social occasions within the district, and when she wasn’t on duty at the hospital or advancing plans for her country women’s league, she stayed at home, rode the Duchess, whom she agisted in a paddock belonging to the blacksmith, or went bush for the day to paint a scene and take her mind off her plight. She missed Danny’s cheery company, his good humour, but more than anything she missed going to Drovers and being with Randall.

  Her father had remarked that Bill Walpole was doing his best to sabotage Drovers Way. He had sold stock at Hawker’s annual stock sales at a bargain-basement price so that buyers overlooked Randall’s more expensively priced stock. Amy was well aware, after having lived for several years in the bush, that Randall would need the money derived from such sales to improve stock and finance the property till the next wool clip. He’d been forced, with Jim Allen and Mike Milburne, the stockman he’d put on to replace Danny, to drive a mixed herd of cattle and sheep as far as Peterborough, where, to Walpole’s annoyance, he managed to get a decent price. Mike, who hailed from around Ballarat, was red-headed and of stocky build. He had, as Jim told her in town one day, proven to be a real asset to Drovers. His laid-back, dry sense of humour and his practicality were very much appreciated by Randall.

  Winter’s chill struck early in the Flinders that year, bringing with it an unusual flu, sourced from a group of new settlers who’d bought land around Wilpena Pound. Most people in and around the district had no immunity to this new strain, and within weeks the bacteria spread far and wide, becoming a small-scale epidemic.

  All the beds in Gindaroo Hospital were occupied by people who were coughing and had high temperatures. Several patients developed pneumonia. A dozen ex-army stretcher beds were brought in to accommodate more patients who became too ill to be cared for at home. This situation was where Amy first tested her fledgling country women’s league. She called on several of her supporters—Patsy Yarborough, Erica Liszt and Valda Smith—to come to the hospital to help with basic nursing duties. And for Am
y, the epidemic was a salient reminder of nursing in Britain, when the Spanish Flu had run rampant.

  People like the reverend’s wife, Beatrice Whitton, and several of the women in the St John’s Ladies’Auxiliary, who’d snubbed her for months, chose to forget that Amy had become a person of questionable repute because they were desperately ill and needed her expertise in nursing. Some did not get better. Two children and a man in his seventies died from complications due to pneumonia.

  David Carmichael watched his daughter move down the crowded ward, stopping at each bed to speak to and check the condition of each of her patients. He shook his head, marvelling that she could still function after working eighteen hours straight. Willpower and stamina were keeping her going. In all, there were twenty-five sick people in the hospital ward, and the regular staff, as well as those who’d been pressed to help by Amy, were working flat out to keep them comfortable.

  He prayed that the epidemic had reached its peak, because if it worsened he didn’t know how the hospital would cope. Aspirin and sulphur were the most effective compounds used to combat the bacterial infection, but they were in short supply. Byron Ellis had driven to Hawker to get fresh supplies from the newly opened hospital, but he wouldn’t be back till morning. As his gaze moved from bed to bed, David Carmichael believed, fatalistically, that not all would last the night.

  He had to make Amy go home and rest. If she came down with the flu he doubted the hospital would manage. His daughter was very good at what she did. Better than good: excellent. She managed the hospital efficiently, like a tightly run ship. Her organisational skills were better than his and she had grasped and could perform several surgical procedures by herself. His heart swelled with pride as he saw her dampen a washcloth, wring it out and place it against a patient’s forehead. Had she been working in a large hospital in Adelaide she would have been an assistant matron by now, a more prestigious position than being matron of a small country hospital.

  David’s concentration was diverted when the double swing doors to the ward opened. In strode Ben and Dot Quinton, jointly supporting their teenage son, George. The boy’s face was flushed, he could hardly walk, and there was a telltale blueness around his mouth, evidence that he was having trouble breathing. Ben’s features were pinched tight with worry, and his wife, renowned for her toughness, looked as if she were going to burst into tears.

  As Patsy guided George to the one empty bed, David approached with his stethoscope in hand.

  ‘He’s pretty crook, Doctor,’ Ben stated the obvious. ‘We’ve been looking after him at home for several days, but he isn’t getting better.’ He glanced sideways, almost accusingly, at his wife. ‘He’s getting worse.’

  ‘I thought we could manage, but…’ Dot murmured, wringing her hands together in her anxiety.

  ‘Well, he’s here now. Let’s see what can be done. Patsy, find a hospital gown while I check George over.’

  ‘He’ll be all right, won’t he, Doctor?’ Dot asked in a fearful whisper. ‘I’ve heard…’ She stared hollow-eyed at her and Ben’s only child and her hand clamped over her mouth.

  David sounded the boy’s chest and felt his forehead. George was burning up, his fever reaching its peak. Experience told him that the next twenty-four hours would be critical. ‘He’s young and he’s strong, Dot. Once the fever breaks he’ll improve dramatically.’ So long as the flu didn’t degenerate into pneumonia, he thought.

  ‘Come on, Dot, let the doctor and nurses do their work,’ Ben said. Taking hold of his wife’s arm he tried to shepherd her from the ward.

  Amy came up to them. She looked at George and his parents, recognised the anxiety in their faces. ‘Go on home and try to rest,’ she advised. ‘We’ll look after George.’

  Dot Quinton studied Amy in her nurse’s uniform. It was one of the few times she had seen her in her official capacity at the hospital. Her anxious gaze roamed around the long hospital ward, studying the women seeing to patients, the neatness and cleanliness, the hospital’s overall efficiency. A raised eyebrow preceded her question to Dr Carmichael, ‘Who’s in charge?’

  ‘Amy,’ Dr Carmichael answered. ‘She’s been appointed matron by the hospital governors and me.’ And then he verbalised his earlier thoughts. ‘The state nursing authority has recognised her as being suitable to be matron, because of glowing reports from medical authorities in Britain about her work during the war and at the time of the Spanish Flu.’

  Dot’s eyebrows lifted another quarter of an inch and the expression in her eyes was a mixture of scepticism and surprise. ‘Really? But…isn’t she too young for such a responsible position?’

  ‘The hospital board doesn’t think so. Neither do I,’ David replied.

  Amy was helping Patsy get George into a hospital gown, making up his bed and positioning him high on three pillows to assist his breathing. She almost smiled as she heard her father’s firm tone. David Carmichael was a gentle man who rarely criticised anyone, but she knew he didn’t have a high opinion of Dot Quinton. Still, whether one liked her or not, she was obviously concerned about her son.

  Dot looked at Ben. ‘You go home. I—I want to stay here to help look after George.’

  ‘There’s no need for that, Dot.’ Amy’s tone was firm. ‘Someone—me or Sister Osborne or one of the nurses’ aides—will watch George around the clock until his fever breaks. It would be best for you to go home and rest.’ She glanced at her father, who nodded in agreement.

  Dot Quinton gazed at her son. His eyes were closed but his breathing was wheezy and laboured. ‘Promise you’ll let me know if there’s any change…’

  ‘Of course,’ Amy assured her. She almost sighed with relief when Ben led his wife out of the ward.

  ‘Amy, I want you to go home and get a few hours’ rest before you fall flat on your face,’ David ordered his daughter.

  She shook her head. ‘I can’t. Sarah’s been on duty longer than me. I’m sending her home for six hours’ rest. When the ward settles down I’ll grab a little sleep in the operating room.’ She and Sarah were the only senior, fully trained nurses at the hospital, and they took separate ten-hour shifts so that for twenty out of twenty-four hours of each day one of them was on duty. For months Amy had been petitioning the board for another fully trained nursing sister, but they kept postponing making a decision. And while Therese, Rosemary and Rebekkah, the aides, were progressing well, it would be years before they became qualified nurses.

  ‘That’s not good enough,’ David criticised, his forehead furrowing in a frown. ‘Your devotion to duty is admirable, my dear. However, I don’t want you coming down with this dreadful flu because you’re run-down.’

  ‘I’m fine, Father. I survived the Spanish Flu.’ She gave him a tired smile, and her shoulders squared determinedly. ‘I’ll survive this.’

  David Carmichael threw up his hands in defeat. Experience told him that further argument was pointless. ‘All right. I’ll go home for a couple of hours. Call me if you need me.’

  Amy barely waited till he was half a dozen steps down the centre aisle of the ward before she beckoned Patsy and Valda Smith to George’s bedside. ‘Patsy, get a bowl of tepid water and several washcloths. We’re out of aspirin and sulphur and won’t have a supply till tomorrow. We’re going to sponge-bathe George to try to lower his temperature. The tepid washes should be done every two hours throughout the night.’

  And that was what the three women did, but by six a.m., when a worried Dot Quinton sneaked into the ward to check on her son, his fever still hadn’t broken. His breathing was worse, shallower, and he looked exhausted from the effort of trying to drag air into his lungs.

  ‘Oh, dear God…’ Dot Quinton had to grab the metal bed-end to support her weak knees when she saw George. ‘W-why isn’t he better? He’s been here all night, he should be getting better,’ she whispered fearfully to Amy, who’d been sitting at his bedside, wiping his arms and torso with a cloth to bring his temperature down.

  Amy didn’t
want to tell Dot that her son was bordering on developing pneumonia. She didn’t think the woman’s nerves could take that. ‘He should be, but sometimes the fever persists. When it breaks you’ll see a marked improvement in him.’

  ‘Where’s your father?’ Dot demanded. ‘Why isn’t he here, looking after my boy?’

  ‘Dot,’ Amy was so tired she was almost seeing double, ‘there’s nothing more the doctor can do. We have to wait. I know that’s a hard thing to ask of a worried parent, but until the drugs arrive there’s little more we can do for George other than keep him comfortable.’

  Dot stared at Amy, and the businesswoman’s tough exterior crumpled. ‘Don’t let him die, Amy. Please.’

  Past differences of opinion between the two women were swept aside as Amy rose, walked to the end of the bed and put an arm around Dot’s weary shoulders. What could she say? In all honesty she couldn’t promise that George would get better, not at this point. The flu had a strong hold on him and he was getting weaker by the hour. Then, through the veil of tiredness dulling her thoughts, came the image of someone she’d known several years ago when she was in Britain. Her friend Jessie Mills. Amy had fought with all her being to save Jessie’s life from the Spanish Flu, but in the end the illness had claimed her. It had taken a long time to come to terms with Jessie’s death and to realise that sometimes understanding why some survived and others didn’t was beyond a person’s capacity: it was just fate.

  ‘I promise to do everything possible to save George,’ she said quietly to Dot. Even if she wore herself out in the process, she vowed.

  ‘I—I’d like to stay and help, like Patsy and Valda. Can you find something for me to do?’