Intuitively, as he climbed out of bed, Randall homed in on the undertone of anxiety in Amy’s voice. She didn’t panic easily, and with her nursing experience he had complete trust in her judgment. What if…? Women could die in childbirth, the gloomy thought attacked him. No, he banished the possibility from his mind: other women might, but not his Amy. She was too strong, too courageous, and he loved her too much…
‘What else, love?’ He stroked strands of damp brown hair off her forehead.
Amy said between gritted teeth, ‘Tell them to hurry.’
Winnie Cohen and Dr Pearce arrived together, within the hour. Amy’s labour dragged on through the early hours of the morning, past breakfast and lunch. Nora kept Kate amused in Amy’s studio, which had been turned into a nursery and playroom, while Randall paced about the house like a man possessed. As every hour passed without a result his fears multiplied, especially when he heard an occasional scream come from the bedroom.
It shouldn’t be taking this long, not for her second child. Something was wrong. Why wouldn’t they tell him what was going on? Why wouldn’t they let him see her? Thoughts tumbled around in his brain.
He cornered the doctor when he came out of the bedroom for a moment. ‘What’s the problem, Gavin? Amy should have had the baby by now.’
‘There are…difficulties,’ Gavin began. His expression showed that he knew Randall couldn’t be fobbed off with platitudes. ‘It’s a big baby and Amy’s birth canal is small. She’s having difficulty dilating to accommodate the baby’s size.’ He paused for a moment then added, ‘I am concerned because her heart’s weakening due to the severity and length of the labour. I may have to do a Caesarean. It’s a dangerous procedure and would be a last resort. It would be much better for mother and child if the birth is a normal one.’
‘Dear God. I had no idea…’
‘Winnie and I are doing everything we can to keep her comfortable and calm, although the baby seems extraordinarily large,’ Gavin said, ‘but, Randall, I have to ask, if it comes to a decision as to which one can be saved…?’ He looked Randall straight in the eyes. ‘As her husband, you have the right to choose. Your wife or the baby.’
The bluntness of Gavin’s words left Randall speechless for almost half a minute. ‘No.’ He shook his head vehemently. ‘I can’t make that decision. It’s not fair. You have to save both of them.’ His voice held a note of desperation. ‘I want to see her. Now.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ the doctor began.
Suddenly, Randall could take no more. He pushed aside the doctor, who was a more slightly built man, opened the bedroom door and went inside.
‘Get the doctor,’ Winnie screamed at him. ‘The baby’s head’s through, it’s coming out, but Amy’s starting to haemorrhage.’
As Randall studied Amy he saw that she was deathly pale and distressed. With all the blood and the drama of the birth unfolding before his eyes, Randall knew it was a sight he would never forget. Just as he knew that in the future he’d have to deal with it, another nightmare to join the nightmare he had from the war. He stood near the door and watched, admiring Winnie and the doctor’s expertise. They knew exactly what to do, and within minutes, with Amy giving a weak, final scream of pain, their baby entered the world—and, as exhausted as the mother, could only manage a weak, mewling cry.
‘It’s a boy, a whopper too, almost ten pounds, I reckon. A healthy baby boy.’ Winnie beamed first at Amy then at Randall.
In mute fascination Randall watched Winnie bathe away the blood and afterbirth and wrap his son up tightly in a blanket, after which she placed him in a bassinet close to the bed. Amy’s eyes were closed and even when he moved beside the bed, bent down and kissed her forehead, she did not stir.
‘She’s worn out, Randall.’ Winnie stated the obvious. ‘We all are. Why don’t you go and ask Nora to make a pot of tea while we attend to Amy.’
Randall was loath to leave but common sense told him there was little he could do for his wife at the moment. Deep down, and though he didn’t want to dwell on it, he knew he had almost lost her today. And, as the enormity of that set in, shock made him start to tremble. Winnie, seeing his reaction, came over and led him to the bedroom door.
‘She’ll be all right,’ Winnie said soothingly, ‘but not for a while. Now, off you go and get that tea made.’ After which she gave his back a push to encourage him to move.
Randall stumbled towards the kitchen, still dazed by events in the bedroom, and as he walked along the hall he heard a sound not heard in the Flinders for almost four years: a low, rolling clap of thunder. Amazed, he looked out the window. The sky was a dark greyishgreen and a bolt of forked lightning struck the distant hills. Within minutes raindrops as large as two-shilling pieces began to leave spots on the dry earth, and a short time later the drops became a deluge.
A weak smile lightened his serious features. The drought was breaking. He had a son who would be named Ian Daniel McLean, and when he got the chance he’d write to Danny and tell him he had a nephew. But, best of all, Amy was going to be all right.
Amy, however, did not recover quickly. For several months she was an invalid who rarely ventured out of their bedroom. Ian’s harsh, long labour had weakened her heart and constitution and Gavin insisted she rest as much as possible in the hope that with rest, a good diet and the passage of time, her condition would improve. Amy’s ongoing invalid state had a momentous effect on those at Drovers Way, because where Randall was the physical strength of the property, Amy was its strong, beating heart.
Nora was charged with the care of Kate and infant Ian, and with the drought having broken Jim and Mike were working flat out, moving what little stock had survived to pastures where the grass had been revitalised, and with Hercules back in his paddock and one ram still alive, starting a breeding program to rebuild the herd and flock was the property’s most important task.
Randall was most affected by Amy’s continuing ill-health. He couldn’t handle the fact that ‘his rock’ had become vulnerable, and as a consequence, the bouts of depression that had plagued him since the war deepened. The dark moods took longer to get over, and when he should have been working side by side with Jim and Mike he found excuses not to, and paid little attention to rebuilding the property’s assets. Confused and frustrated by a condition he didn’t know how to control, he began to drink heavily and often, until many of his days and nights were spent in an alcoholic haze. The liquor gave him temporary respite from the fear that Amy would forever be an invalid, and from the moods and nightmares that haunted him daily.
Not only did he dream about what he’d been exposed to during the war; now the memories of Amy’s horrific labour had somehow become enmeshed in the nightmares and he’d wake in a lather of sweat, disorientated, with his heart pounding. Curiously, though, the logical part of his brain knew, when he was sober, that he was slipping into a state of semi-permanent depression, but he also believed he was strong enough to conquer his problems, and that would happen when Amy was well again.
Little Kate suffered too. Her mother was too tired to pay her any attention, and Nora was kept busy caring for Ian, keeping house and, with Jim’s help, preparing meals. And her father—well, Randall practically ignored Kate’s existence. As a consequence she drifted into being naughty and mischievous to get attention and was often in trouble. She let the chickens out of their enclosure at night, and was chastised for it. She pulled carrots out of the vegetable patch before the crop was mature enough to be harvested. She let Crystal, the milking cow, out of her yard and shooed her to the bottom of the home paddock. In the playroom she got into her mother’s painting equipment and painted childish paintings—a house and stick figures—on the wall. But her worst crime was to hide then dispose of her father’s half-empty bottle of whisky. For that transgression she was sent to bed without dinner and confined to her room for two days as a punishment.
All the difficulties being experienced at Drovers with Kate and Randa
ll were kept secret from Amy while she convalesced. Her expertise was missed at the hospital, though Winnie and Dot were adequately handling matters in the Country Women’s League. And so six months passed by, then the new year came and went with Amy being almost but not completely unaware of the turmoil that existed at home. She had her suspicions that Randall was drinking too much and that his black moods affected him far too often. As well, it was obvious that he appeared uninterested in anything other than her welfare.
It was a glorious summer day in February. The sun shone, the sky was cloudless, the fields were still green from all the rain for as far as Amy could see from the bedroom window. A gentle breeze wafted through, stirring the curtains, which made her look up from the sewing she’d been doing on a top for Ian. Amy missed a stitch and the needle pricked her finger. It hurt. Unbidden, tears welled in her eyes as she watched droplets of blood stain the little white shirt with its Peter Pan collar. Ruined before he had the chance to wear it. In a burst of self-directed frustration she threw the garment onto the floor and stood up.
Dear God, when was she going to be her old self again? It was a question she had asked many times over the past few months. She was getting better, stronger, and Gavin Pearce agreed that she was. Yesterday she had become so bored with staring at the bedroom walls that she’d dressed and walked around the house, inspecting every room, and had enjoyed a cup of tea with Nora and Kate in the kitchen. The exercise, mild as it had been, had exhausted her but in a positive way.
Gavin, who visited weekly, was a conservative doctor and had encouraged her not to over-exert herself, to be patient and let nature take its course. If she did, in time he believed her health would return to normal again. A sigh fluttered from her compressed lips. She was, she decided as her chin lifted with determination, tired of waiting. She would make herself well again, her lips twisted in a wry smile—if it killed her!
The decision made, she went to the large oak wardrobe, took out some clothes, her heeled walking shoes and a wide-brimmed hat and began to dress. Her frock, a patterned print with short sleeves, a scooped neckline and gathered from the waist, was too big on her; she’d lost so much weight. She found a leather belt to make the frock look reasonable. Glancing in the mirror, Amy saw a pale reflection of the woman she had once been, and shock at her appearance galvanised her to further action. She brushed her hair and let it fall about her shoulders, and then applied a little rouge to her cheeks and salve to her lips. That was the best she could do.
Hat in hand, she went in search of Kate and found her in the playroom writing the alphabet in chalk on a slate board, under Nora’s supervision. Baby Ian was sleeping peacefully on the floor on top of a mattress of different-coloured cushions.
‘Mummy, you’re dressed.’ Kate’s young voice echoed wonderment when she saw her mother standing in the room’s doorway.
‘Do you feel all right?’ Nora asked, her forehead furrowing with concern. It was obvious from her expression that she was very fond of Drovers Way’s mistress.
‘I feel fine,’ Amy assured Nora and Kate. She glanced at her sleeping son and smiled. Such a beautiful baby and she had hardly nursed him, bathed him or changed his nappies since he’d been born. That was about to change. She turned her attention to Kate. ‘Go and get a hat, darling, we’re going for a walk.’ Blinking with amazement and delighted by her mother’s request, the little girl rushed out of the room.
Nora came up to Amy and placed a hand on her arm. ‘Are you strong enough for that?’
‘I don’t know.’ Still smiling, Amy’s answer was honest. ‘I’ve realised that I won’t get strong sitting around the bedroom doing nothing. We’ll only walk around the yard and go and say hello to the Duchess. She probably won’t know me after so long.’
‘Dr Pearce said…’
Amy cut Nora off before she could finish the sentence. ‘He said getting better would take time. I’ve waited long enough and now I’m going to make myself whole again, little by little.’ She cocked her head to one side, remembering something. ‘My mother had a saying, “life is for living”, and that’s what I’m going to do. Today,’ she gave a confirming nod, ‘is the first day of the rest of my life. Next week I intend to start back at the hosital too. I’ve been away much too long.’ After which she added, ‘I’ll never be able to thank you enough for caring for Kate and Ian.’
Nora smiled. ‘It was my pleasure to.’
Kate rushed back into the room, her hat plonked at a precarious angle on her dark, curly head. ‘I’m ready, Mummy.’
Amy held out a hand and Kate took it. ‘Let’s go walking.’
It was invigorating to inhale the fresh air and see close-up how lush and green the fields were after several periods of good, drenching rain. They visited the tack shed to see the child’s saddle that Mike—who’d once been an apprentice saddler—was making for Kate, then checked the progress of vegetables in the garden, fed scraps to the chooks and inspected Crystal, who was due to calve any day now. Amy was aware of her heart throbbing at an increased pace inside her chest from her small exertions, but she kept going, believing that every step she took made her stronger.
However, by the time they reached the paddock where the Duchess roamed free, Amy’s weakened muscles screamed for a rest. She leaned on the fence’s top rail and called, ‘Come here, girl. I’ve got something for you.’ Amy held out the half-eaten apple she’d rescued from the scraps bucket and studied the horse’s reaction.
The Duchess’s ears twitched, then she made a low whinnying sound and stamped her front right leg, after which she began to walk skittishly towards Amy and Kate. Then she stopped and shook her head, which made her black mane flutter in the breeze.
‘Come on, girl, it’s all right,’ Amy said in a half-whisper. ‘You know you want the apple.’
After more hesitation the mare came to the rail and sniffed noisily, breathing in Amy’s scent. She whinnied again, this time in recognition, took the apple, then galloped away about twenty feet and began to chew it.
‘See, Mummy, she does remember you,’ Kate said, her small features beaming with pleasure.
‘Amy!’ Randall’s masculine voice bellowed from behind. ‘What are you doing outside? You should be in the house.’ Then, realising his sharpness, he softened his words with a lopsided grin. ‘You’re not well enough…’
Amy turned to regard her husband and what she saw caused her to frown. He hadn’t bothered to shave or comb his hair, his eyes were bleary and had difficulty focusing, his work shirt was half-in and halfout of his trousers, the sleeves were rolled up at odd lengths and his hands were filthy, covered with some kind of grease. As he drew closer she got a whiff—more than a whiff—of alcohol on his breath.
With growing concern over her husband’s condition Amy tried to disguise her inner alarm. Her intuition hadn’t been wrong. She’d suspected he was drinking too much, and here he was at midmorning, half-drunk! Oh, Randall…Her heart went out to him. He had been strong for so long, dealing with Drovers, the drought, putting up with Walpole’s conniving ways, being patient over her ill-health. Clearly, though, her husband had reached the end of his tether, and her nursing experience—having nursed soldiers with psychological issues during and after the Great War—told her he was close to slipping into a physical and mental decline.
‘I feel fine, Randall. The walk, being out of doors with Kate, wandering about and seeing the Duchess, has done me the world of good.’ Her tone was one of absolute conviction. ‘From today on this is how it’s going to be. No more moping about in the bedroom or the house, or being treated like an invalid. I’ll be relieving Nora of her duties with Ian and Kate, and helping with the housework and the cooking.’ And, my dear husband, she made a silent vow, I’ll do everything in my power to rid you of the black moods and the need for alcohol.
‘I see.’ He scratched his stubble, his features betraying confusion and some befuddlement.
Amy took the initiative and hooked her arm through his. ‘Come
inside and clean up. We’ll have a cup of tea and a chat.’
Still bemused, he glanced sideways at her profile. ‘About what?’
‘About Drovers and…everything.’
It was a long time, months, since they’d talked honestly to each other. Whenever he visited her in the bedroom Randall had taken great pains to keep the conversation light and general, but now that she was stronger and had vowed to get well again, she was wise enough to know that talking to him about his problems in his present condition would be a waste of time. But when he was completely sober…
‘Nora, where does Randall keep the alcohol?’ Amy asked in a conversational tone as they dried dishes after lunch. The men, Jim, Mike and Randall, had eaten and gone out on the range. Ian, at seven months almost able to sit up by himself, was taking a nap, and Kate was in the playroom drawing pictures for her mother.
‘You don’t mean the beer, do you?’ Nora queried, nodding when she saw the expression on Amy’s face. ‘I’ve found a couple of bottles in the study, behind some books, and in other places too.’
‘I want you to take the bottles from their various hiding places and bring them all, even the empty ones, and put them on the kitchen sink.’ Amy wasn’t looking forward to the confrontation that would take place, but the sooner it happened, the better. Only then, after Randall agreed to stop drinking, could she begin to help him control his other problem: the nightmares that drove him into bouts of depression.
‘I’ll take care of the children if you like,’ Nora offered. She had a good idea of what was about to take place.
‘Thank you.’ Amy glanced at the pendulum clock on the kitchen wall. Dinner, a casserole, was on the stove cooking, and the men would return in a few hours to clean up and to eat. Time enough for her to think about what she wanted to say to the man she loved with all her heart.
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