‘Yah?’
‘Good morning.’ Danny recovered from his shock. ‘I’m Danny McLean, Abe’s first mate on the Geraldine. I’ve come to see how he is.’
‘Ahhh!’ the girl smiled at him. ‘You are the Danny. Grandfather has been speaking of you quite a lot,’ she said in accented English. ‘Come in, come in. He is not very well and is still in bed. I am sure he will want to see you.’
Grandfather? Abe? Danny searched his memory and recalled that Abe had spoken about a son he’d had when he was eighteen, to a young wife back in Holland. The marriage had been a disaster from the start and he had continued his career at sea, settling eventually in the South Pacific. He’d happily supported Hans financially until he’d become an adult.
The girl introduced herself. ‘I am Gretel Hennin. I have come from Holland to visit Grandfather, and because he is sick, to look after him. I called Grandfather’s doctor, Dr Singh, yesterday because Grandfather was not well. The doctor said if Grandfather’s condition is to improve, he must rest.’
‘I’ve been telling him that for months, but he’s a stubborn old salt,’ Danny confided, and as they walked over the darkly stained timber floorboards to the main bedroom the sound of their footsteps echoed along the hallway.
Gretel nodded gravely. ‘I am finding that out, quite quickly. He is…difficult.’ She opened the bedroom door and motioned Danny to go in. ‘I will make you both coffee. Yah?’
Danny smiled. ‘Yes please.’ Until he’d boarded the Geraldine he’d been strictly a tea or beer man. Then Abe and Ming had introduced him to the delights of percolated coffee and he’d become addicted to the taste.
Abe was awake and sitting up in bed with four pillows piled behind him. The boredom left his weathered features as he saw Danny. ‘Come in, lad. The damned doctor and my granddaughter won’t let me get out of bed. Gretel’s taken my clothes and hidden them so I can’t get dressed.’
Danny chuckled at the girl’s ingenuity. ‘You could go out in your nightshirt; the natives would probably find that amusing.’
‘I wouldn’t.’ Abe didn’t smile. ‘I’m glad you’ve come, Danny. There’re several things I want you to do regarding the cargo for our next trip.’
‘Sure. We’ll get to that. First, though, I want to make you a proposition concerning the Geraldine…I want to buy her and take over your trading routes.’
Abe frowned and then he gave the younger man a shrewd look. ‘I admire your ambition, but,’ he glanced slyly at Danny, ‘even if I were of a mind to sell, you don’t have the money to buy me out.’
‘Name your price.’
Abe’s bushy grey eyebrows lifted in surprise as he recognised that Danny was serious. ‘All right. Say, three thousand pounds for the lugger and another thousand for the goodwill I’ve established.’
Danny’s features looked troubled. He was quiet for a minute or two. ‘I see. Sounds like a fair price. Are you willing to sell if I can put my hands on that much money?’
It was Abe’s turn to be quiet. His expression changed several times as he pondered the matter, his hands all the while moving restlessly over the sheet. When he finally spoke his tone was subdued. ‘Fate has deemed that I don’t have much option. Singh believes that if I go to sea again the voyage might kill me. But if I learn to take things easy, and look after myself better, I might have a few more good years in me.’ His chest heaved in a long-drawn-out sigh. ‘So, I guess, yes. I am willing to sell and I’d rather sell it to you than anyone else, but…’
Danny untied the cord of the drawstring bag from around the inside of his trousers belt and tipped the contents out onto the bed. He delighted in seeing Abe’s expression change as he saw the pile of money, from melancholic to amazed.
‘There must be more than five thousand pounds there. Where…? How…? Did you rob a bank?’
Danny chuckled as he shook his head and then he told Abe how he’d tried to get a loan, and then about the poker game at Lee Fong’s Bar, how he’d won the pot and added it to the money he had saved. ‘So, is it a deal?’ He held out his hand to shake Abe’s.
‘For four thousand pounds it’s a deal. You’ll need the rest for fuel and to buy cargo and pay the crew’s wages.’
Gretel bustled in with a tray, carrying two cups of coffee, sugar and a plate of shortbread biscuits. ‘All that money!’ she exclaimed. ‘Mr McLean—Danny—you must be a very rich man.’
Abe laughed heartily. ‘He was for a little while. Danny’s just bought the Geraldine,’ he told his granddaughter. ‘And you, young lady, will give me back my clothes so Danny and I can go to the bank, and to my solicitor, to make the sale legal.’
Gretel’s expression was firm and showed that she was unimpressed by her grandfather’s authoritative tone. ‘The doctor has charged me to care for you. He said you were to rest.’
‘We’ll take a taxi there and back, Gretel, so Abe won’t overtax himself. Is that acceptable?’ Danny asked. Waiting for her answer he sipped the near-scalding coffee, his nostrils dilating as he inhaled its aroma. It was interesting to watch Gretel’s expressive features change from determined to uncertain. She was young, he reminded himself, probably no more than seventeen, and as yet hadn’t learnt to mask her emotions. Gretel would be good for Abe, he decided. The man, and even the cottage, spartan in its lack of furniture and knick-knacks, could do with a woman’s touch. She would make him eat properly, rest and exercise, and be company for him.
Finally she gave in. ‘I suppose it will be all right. Danny, you are responsible for bringing him home safely.’
‘I will, Gretel.’
Danny spent a good percentage of the remaining shore leave at Abe’s cottage, keeping the older man company, asking myriad questions about how he ran his business, and enjoying Gretel’s Dutch cooking, as well as her company—not since Amy had he engaged in pleasantries and conversation with a member of the opposite sex. It wasn’t the same, of course, never would be, but it was pleasant to while away a few hours until the time came to supervise the loading of cargo onto the lugger.
Ming’s job was to see that the provisions were correctly stored in and near the galley, while Danny, Jamie Ngairo, Quincey Smith—who also kept the engine running smoothly—and the new hand, Englishman Verne Dennison, saw to the proper loading and stowing of cargo in the hold. When that was full, what was left was securely tied down on deck. Darkness had fallen by the time the cargo’s manifest was completed, and because Danny intended to leave at first light, he gave the crew the opportunity for a final drink, with the proviso that they be back on board no later than ten p.m.
In the wheelhouse, as he studied the charts to become more familiar with the route he intended to take to Tonga and several outlying islands, Danny heard stumbling footsteps along the deck. Then came a growling curse. He checked the clock above the wheelhouse window: a quarter to nine. He hadn’t expected the crew to come back so early.
The port-side wheelhouse door opened with a bang and two broad-shouldered natives, bare-chested with heavy tattoos on their upper bodies, strode in. Behind them came someone Danny had hoped never to see again: Croft, rubbing the side of his head where he’d bumped into something.
‘Took me a while to find you, Danny boy, you son of a bitch,’ Croft said softly. ‘Had to lie low for a couple of days because of your accusation about cheating. I had a good thing going at Fong’s and you ruined it.’ He moved his head to one side and the natives grabbed Danny’s arms, imprisoning him. ‘I want my money back.’
Danny shook his head. ‘I don’t have it. It’s gone.’
‘What!’ An unpleasant expression flickered in Croft’s eyes. ‘You couldn’t have spent all of it in just a few days. Give me what you’ve got. It’ll do for a stake somewhere else.’
Danny shook his head again. ‘You’re not entitled to a penny ’cause you cheated, and besides, I don’t have it. I used the money to buy this boat. The money’s with the previous owner in his bank account.’
‘You bloody shit!�
� Furious, Croft bunched his fingers into a fist and punched Danny in the stomach. Then his expression turned cunning. ‘You can sign this tub’s ownership papers over to me.’
‘No can do. I don’t have the bill of sale yet.’ Which was more or less true. It was in a safety-deposit box at the bank. Danny began to fabricate a story, hoping to fob Croft off. ‘It takes several days for the legalities to be processed.’
‘Well, you’re going to pay, one way or another.’ Croft gestured for the natives to hold Danny tight and proceeded to rain a series of punches to his midriff and to his face, making Danny’s nose bleed and one of his eyes puff up. Danny struggled against his captors but they were too strong; however, when the opportunity came his way, he kicked out at Croft and caught him on the thigh. The kick sent the gambler onto his backside heavily, and knocked the breath out of him.
‘Fools! Hold him properly!’ Croft screamed. He got up and rubbed his thigh. ‘I’m going to beat the living daylights out of you.’ He took a flick-knife out of his trouser pocket and waved it menacingly at Danny. ‘And cut you up a bit before the boys throw you overboard for the sharks to finish off.’
Danny knew that Croft was a mean enough so-and-so to do just that. He began to sweat profusely and a knot of fear tightened his stomach muscles. He had to find a way out of this. But how? He tried to take a deep breath and couldn’t, because of the pain in his side. Croft’s blows had fractured one or two of his ribs. The bastard.
Things were looking very grim. Croft’s goons would do anything he ordered them to—and worse, the gambler appeared to be beside himself with fury because he couldn’t get his hands on the money. Please, God, he prayed, his brown eyes gazing up at the boat’s ceiling, a small miracle now would really be appreciated.
A noise behind Croft made the man turn around. Quincey, Verne and Ming, the latter with a cleaver raised in his right hand, ready to attack, stood in the starboard wheelhouse doorway. Danny grinned in spite of the pain. Thank you, God.
‘’Allo, ’allo, what do we have here? A party? Good, I like parties,’ the Englishman said, tongue-in-cheek.
The natives holding Danny stepped back and let him go. He saved himself from falling to the floor by grabbing the lugger’s wheel. He watched Croft’s gaze make a speedy calculation of the situation and reassess the possible outcome. ‘Just a little misunderstanding, mates,’ his whine was placatory. ‘Wasn’t it, Danny?’
Danny wiped the blood away from his upper lip. A large part of him wanted to retaliate, to give Croft a dose of his own medicine, but common sense, and the fact that he wasn’t naturally aggressive, prevailed. ‘I guess so. But let me say this, Croft: if you ever board the Geraldine again, it might be you who ends up as shark bait. Do I make myself clear?’
Croft knew when he was beaten. He nodded, snapped his fingers for the natives to follow and turned on his heel. Quincey and Verne jostled him with their chests as he passed, and the natives, big as they were, received similar treatment, with Ming waving his chopper threateningly and following them all the way to the gangplank.
‘You a mess, Cap’n Danny,’ Ming said when he came back to the wheelhouse. ‘I get warm water and special salve. You wait here.’
Danny knew the men deserved an explanation for what had gone on, and he would give them one, but not now. He hurt all over from Croft’s beating and he’d consider himself lucky if his nose wasn’t broken. ‘Thanks, all of you. Things were a bit grim for a while. When Jamie comes on board I want someone to stand watch on the gangplank all night. Do it in four-hourly shifts.’
‘Will you be well enough to sail, Captain?’ Verne asked, his tone respectful.
Danny held on to his ribcage. Now he was sure that Croft had fractured at least one rib—he remembered the feeling because once, in his younger days, he’d had a riding accident and broken two ribs. He felt dreadful, but he didn’t want the men to see that, so when he spoke his tone was confident. ‘Get what rest you can. We up anchor at first light.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Joe Walpole crouched behind several jagged rocks to spy on the stockmen from Drovers Way working the tractor to build another earth dam. The old man was back from Britain and he wasn’t going to be happy about Randall putting in several dams to catch rainwater. It would stand Drovers in good stead during the long summers when little rain fell, or when the Flinders went through a drought cycle.
His father remained determined to force Randall off the land in spite of being satisfied that Beth was now happily wed. In fact, the old geezer was purposely losing money, intending to undersell his flock at the Hawker sales again to make it difficult for Drovers to make a profit. Joe was more than a little miffed about that. Old Bill was whittling away the value of Ingleside’s stock, which meant, in the long run, less money for Joe when the old so-and-so finally passed on. If he ever did! Bill Walpole, now well into his fifties, was as healthy as the proverbial Mallee bull. Joe swallowed the sour taste in his mouth—because his mother took such good care of Bill, he’d probablyhang on for another twenty years!
Thinking about that made Joe’s features contort into lines of irritation. Shit, if old Bill lived that long that’d make Joe an old man himself, more than fifty. A nerve at the side of his mouth began to twitch. How was he going to survive till then on the pitiful wage his father paid, having to beg and scrape to get every additional pound out of him? Maybe, the thought struck him, he should look around for a wealthy wife. A few women in the Flinders considered him a worthy catch because of his financial potential. Trouble was, he hadn’t found a woman who appealed to him—they all acted too much the lady, like his faraway sister, and none was a patch on Bessie Thomas, who ran a brothel in Hawker. She was all woman. He licked his lips in anticipation of a visit to Bessie’s place when they took their flock to market.
He got up awkwardly from his crouching position and massaged his gammy leg to get the circulation going. He’d seen enough to make his father cranky as hell. A sly smile spread across his lips as he went back to his horse. Good. He kind of enjoyed seeing the old man get upset…
Amy scattered the greens and other scraps near the chicken coop and smiled as hens of several different sizes and colours ran from all directions to peck at their daily treat. With her face turned skywards, one of her hands patted the growing mound of her stomach and her smile widened as she did so. The baby was due around their first wedding anniversary, and, as she went to the fenced-off vegetable patch Jim had created, to ladle water on what was growing, she silently marvelled at how her life had changed since her marriage to Randall.
She had thrown herself into the role of a pastoralist’s wife with gusto, embracing life on a property, with its mixture of advantages and disadvantages. Jim, kind soul that he was, had helped her to learn how to cook for three men with hearty appetites. She had learned to milk Crystal, the Jersey cow, to make butter and cheese in the hand-operated churn, to bake bread and to find eggs in the chicken coop. But she’d baulked at having to kill or pluck poultry for a Sunday lunch. If the men wanted a roast chicken lunch—as a change from lamb or beef—someone had to provide the chook ready for baking.
Stop daydreaming, she chided herself, as she turned towards the back porch. She still had half a dozen chores to finish before she went into Gindaroo for her shift at the hospital.
Thinking about work drew her thoughts to her father. With his surgery and home visits and operations at the hospital, he had fallen into the same situation he’d been in in Adelaide, of doing too much. He looked permanently tired and needed to slow down, as well as to make the decision to bring another doctor into the practice. Gindaroo was growing. It wasn’t as big as Hawker or Quorn, but it was becoming large enough to accommodate two doctors. She decided to ask her father and Meg out to Drovers for Sunday lunch, during which she would bring up the matter.
Back in the kitchen, her chores done, including cold lunches put in the meat safe for the men, Amy stuffed several pieces of paperwork into her valise. After wo
rk at the hospital today she would chair an important meeting of the Country Women’s League.
Plans had been drawn up and, after many months, they had finally been approved by the district council for the Mabel Ellis Sports Field. The members, who’d been fundraising for almost a year, were to vote today on allocating those funds in order to start building the facility. Winnie and Dot were particularly excited that the plans were moving from the drawing board towards reality.
Amy spread the plan of the sports field out on the kitchen table for one final inspection before rolling it up and taking it with her. It had taken some doing, working with an engineer from Whyalla, but she’d insisted that the sports field be a facility where cricket could be played in the middle of the oval in summer, Australian Rules football in winter, with a small grandstand for spectators, and that the circular fence be strong and suitable to hold occasional race meetings. In addition, there should be a toilet block to enable the district to hold the occasional country show. Secretly she was proud of herself, because she believed that with her own and the members’ input they’d thought of everything.
Randall, who’d been in the study, came into the kitchen at that precise moment. ‘Can’t believe it’s actually going to happen, can you?’ he teased as, standing behind her, he put his arms around her expanded waistline and drew her back against his chest. His lips found the nape of her neck and rained a series of kisses from her hairline down to the lace-edged top of her frock.
‘Mmmm, it has taken longer than expected.’
‘Thanks mainly to Walpole making things difficult by having the council veto it.’
His comment made her smile. ‘He didn’t count on two of the councillors having wives who are members of the league. I believe they made home life, shall we say, hell for them, until they caved in and gave approval.’
Randall sighed and kissed her hair. ‘Never underestimate the power of a woman.’
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