Amy's Touch (9 page)

‘
Y
ou’ll never guess whom I came across at the pub this afternoon,’ Randall said as he watched Danny prepare mutton chops and boiled potatoes for dinner—again! ‘And you’d better put a couple more chops on. We’ve got a dinner guest.’

Danny turned to face Randall, a frown creasing his forehead. ‘Who?’

‘Someone you know.’ Randall spun out the suspense. ‘From your time in Britain.’

‘Britain? You mean when I was in hospital?’

‘That’s right.’

Danny’s frown deepened. He couldn’t think of anyone. ‘I give up. Who is it?’

Disappointed by his brother’s lack of persistence, Randall shrugged. ‘All right. The private from the Royal Engineers, James Allen. You remember him?’

‘Jim. One-hand Jim. Of course I remember him. Gutsy bloke was Jim Allen.’ Danny’s voice held a note of admiration. ‘The grenade that blew off his hand caused other injuries and he was still in hospital when I left to come home.’ He paused then added, ‘How did you get to meet him, and what on earth is he doing in Gindaroo?’

‘I was having a beer at the pub and he came up to me. Said he recognised me from when I’d visited you in Ward Twenty. Poor bloke’s been roaming the countryside looking for work.’ He paused in the act of setting the table for three. ‘I reckon we should give him a job.’

Danny stared at his brother, his expression disbelieving. ‘Really! God, Randall, he only has one hand. What he could do on the property would be limited.’

‘That’s what I thought at first. Then he showed me what he can do, using the artificial hook attached to the stump of his arm. He’d manage better than you would think. And he says he can cook.’

Danny glanced at the half-prepared meal. ‘Better than this?’ he pointed to the chops cooking in the skillet, the potatoes bubbling away in the pot on the old fuel stove.

Before Randall had the chance to reply they heard a knock on the kitchen door, which then opened to reveal Jim, his broad-brimmed hat in his hand. ‘Hello, Danny.’

The two men embraced briefly, then Danny stepped back. ‘Jim, you look…bloody good, mate.’ He gave their visitor a boyish grin. ‘Better than the last time I saw you, that’s for sure.’ He had no trouble recalling that Jim had been pathetically skinny in hospital, that he hadn’t been able to eat, and for a while it had been touch and go as to whether he’d survive, physically and mentally. In the intervening period—more than three years—he’d filled out, and appeared remarkably fit, with his olive skin, dark eyes and curly black hair. For a second or two Danny’s gaze rested on Jim’s left arm, travelling down to the wrist to his missing hand.

Then it was Jim’s turn to grin. He held up his left arm. ‘See what they gave me?’ He waggled the arm about. ‘Works pretty well too, once I got the hang of using it.’

Shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other, Danny tried to change the topic. ‘Randall says you’re a good cook.’

‘Bloody oath. I reckon I can do better than chops, boiled potatoes and fried bread, even with one hand,’ Jim said, the grin still in place as he gave Danny’s culinary endeavours the once-over. ‘My family used to manage hotels, and I spent a lot of time in the kitchen helping Mamma with the cooking. Mamma, God rest her soul, was half-Italian, and she taught me to cook many different dishes.’

‘Perhaps you should have become a chef rather than a bricklayer,’ Danny commented.

‘Naw. By the time I was fourteen I was bored with working in hotel kitchens. I wanted to do something different. My brother, Tom, got me a job on a building site in Melbourne and I became a brickie.’

Danny nodded approvingly at Randall. ‘Being able to cook sounds good to me, but can you rope a steer, hold a branding iron, work the
plough? We intend to plant several more acres of wheat, and there’s a veggie garden out the back that needs tending. Well, there used to be one,’ he added with a grimace. ‘Neither Randall nor I have the time to look after it.’

‘I’m your man. I’m pretty good with a spade and fertiliser. We could build a coop, and if you got a few chooks there could be eggs for breakfast. Chook manure’s great for the veggie garden too.’ There was confidence in Jim’s voice as he suggested, ‘Give me a go and see if I work out.’

‘Seems fair to me,’ Randall responded. ‘Say, a month’s trial. Room, board and two pounds, five shillings and sixpence a week. It’s not much, but it’s all we can afford at present.’

‘Just having a job is what I want, Randall. And the money, well, the government gives me a paltry pension—less than thirty shillings a week. It’s not enough to live on, but with your pay and conditions I think I’ll do fine.’

They shook hands on the deal, and Danny, unabashed by the basic meal he’d cooked, doled the food out onto three plates, before they sat at the long kitchen table, which had been scrubbed so many times that the timber stain had disappeared, and ate heartily…

Amy studied her reflection in the wardrobe mirror and gave a nod of satisfaction. She was sure that her evening gown wasn’t too formal for Bill Walpole’s fiftieth birthday dinner party.

A part of her was looking forward to seeing Ingleside on such an occasion—it was reputed to be the finest homestead not only in the district but in all of the Flinders Ranges. The other part of her was a little hesitant, because she would be seeing Danny again. She hoped he wouldn’t press for an answer to his proposal.

All week, whenever she’d had a spare moment, she had pondered over Danny’s marriage offer, but she still hadn’t made a decision. She didn’t want to make a mistake: marriage was a big step, and for life. Years ago she had thought that over time she would fall in love with Miles, and they’d eventually marry, but the war and life in general had intervened. Now she didn’t want to tell Danny she would marry him, hoping that love would grow. It wouldn’t be fair to either of them.

Besides, she had asked herself the question many times this week, what did being in love mean anyway? Some romantic books she’d read implied that emotional love was an illusion. Authors of other
books claimed that affection could grow to love with the right kind of nurturing. Amy shook her head in confusion. She didn’t know what to believe. Had her mother been alive she could have asked her, because it had been obvious from a young age that her mother had loved her father wholeheartedly, and vice versa. Asking Meg was a waste of time. Strong-minded Meg Barnaby had said often enough that she’d never been in love and never wanted to be in love, because it made one weak and vulnerable.

All Amy knew was that she liked Danny very much. But in all honesty he didn’t make her heart thump madly in her chest; he didn’t make her feel weak or out of control; she didn’t believe that she would be inconsolable if he went away forever. So many times, until she’d made herself dizzy, she had gone over things in her head, questioning whether she was expecting too much. Danny, she knew, would care for and take good care of her, but was that enough? Should there be more to agreeing to spend one’s life with another person, for better or for worse?

Meg knocked and opened the bedroom door. ‘Your father has hitched up the sulky. He’s waiting for you.’

‘I’m coming.’ Amy picked up her lined bouclé jacket with the fur trim, in case the evening became cool, and followed Meg through the kitchen and outside, to the waiting sulky.

No fewer than ten couples were enjoying pre-dinner sherries and hors d’oeuvres on Ingleside’s stone terrace when the Carmichaels arrived.

Beth greeted them at the imposing mahogany and stained-glass double front doors. ‘So glad you could come, Doctor, and you too, Amy.’ She put Amy’s jacket in a closet near the door and said, ‘Come out to the terrace for a sherry, or, if you prefer, a cordial.’

‘Sherry? I’d be delighted. I’m a sherry and port man from way back,’ David Carmichael said affably, as he took his daughter’s arm and followed Beth through the main foyer out to the gas-lit terrace.

By the time they’d sipped their sherries, wished Bill a happy birthday and joined Byron Ellis and his wife in general conversation, the delicate brass chimes used in place of a dinner bell sounded. The guests filed into the large dining room, with its rich burgundy velvet drapes and a long table set with an impressive array of glassware, crockery and silverware. Several members of the household staff, dressed formally for the occasion, helped people find their place cards and move to their chairs.

The Walpoles were out to impress, Amy thought, as she regarded the fine bone-china table settings, the silverware, the cut-glass wine glasses and the centrepiece of native flowers. She was a little disconcerted to find she’d been seated opposite Danny and Randall McLean, with Beth sitting between the two men. As the kitchen staff served the first course—oxtail soup—and others filled the wine glasses with white wine from the Barossa Valley, Byron Ellis pushed back his padded chair, stood and raised his glass to all and sundry.

‘On behalf of everyone here tonight, Bill, happy birthday. May you have many, many more in years to come.’

‘Hear, hear. Happy birthday, Bill,’ came the unified guests’ response.

Amy took the time to glance around the other guests. She knew several but not all of them. Her gaze stopped at Joe Walpole and her eyebrows lifted in surprise as she acknowledged that, scrubbed and wearing a decent suit and with his straw-blond hair neatly combed into place, he made a presentable figure. Amazingly, one day all this, Ingleside and the Walpoles’ other properties, would be his. Her gaze moved to Beth, who was talking animatedly to Randall. Damned unfair, she thought, that Joe should inherit everything and all Beth could expect, most likely, was a reasonable dowry.

Danny smiled across the table at her. She smiled back. He’d put her at ease on the terrace, promising again not to pressure her for a decision on his proposal. He really was quite sweet, no doubt about it. And…so different from his brother. She glanced at Randall and became aware of the same feeling she had every time she was close to him: a sense of being ill at ease and slightly out of balance.

She tasted the soup. It needed salt. The salt and pepper shakers were too far away for her to reach; they were close to Randall. ‘Excuse me, Randall, could I have the salt and pepper, please?’

He acquiesced with a nod and gathered them in his left hand to pass to her. Their fingers touched as she took the shakers, and something—a strong current of warmth—rose up her arm. She saw his eyes widen slightly, which told her that he’d experienced the charge too. Suddenly her throat muscles tightened and, confused, she had to ask her father to repeat the question he’d asked. How…odd. To feel, to be so aware of, someone she almost disliked. It made no sense whatsoever.

With an effort she regathered her thoughts, determined to block Randall out, and answered her father’s question. ‘The foreman at the building site said the hospital would be completed within the month.’

‘We must have a grand opening,’ said Jack McTaggert, the stock and station agent. ‘I’ll see if the Minister for Health can open the hospital.’

‘I can do that,’ Bill replied. ‘I know him personally.’

‘We, the ladies of St John’s Auxiliary, could organise a fête in the grounds to raise money for any special equipment that might be required,’ Margaret Walpole suggested.

‘Good idea, love,’ Bill complimented his wife with a toothy, condescending grin.

Randall, studying Bill, who sat at the head of the table, thought the man would burst with self-importance. Being fussed over for his birthday, letting his guests know that he knew influential people, was stroking the man’s already inflated ego. Randall happened to glance across at Amy and saw her eyebrows rise slightly, as if she too was aware that Walpole enjoyed being centre stage. Her lips curved in a subtle smile and her blue eyes sparkled with suppressed amusement. Oh, God, she really was beautiful when she smiled. Despite his earlier determination to pay Amy no mind, he couldn’t resist the urge to take note of her overall appearance.

Her gown was of beige silk that dipped provocatively at her chest. It was sleeveless and, as he’d seen earlier on the terrace, it had a waistline that dropped to the hips. The hemline was short enough to show her legs to mid-calf, which were complimented by jewelled high heels. She wore gold and pearl drop earrings, a fine gold chain with a gold locket around her neck, and several gold and pearl bracelets dangled from her left arm. She looked regal and sophisticated and…bloody lovely.

Something tightened inside Randall’s chest, and in the next instant he had to fight to gather in a deep breath. Damn it, what was wrong with him? Annoyed with his uncontrolled reaction, he turned slightly in the chair to give Beth his full attention.

‘You should go on that committee for the hospital fête, Beth. You’d be good at organising several of the stalls,’ he suggested, to get his mind off the woman opposite him.

Beth beamed. ‘You think so, Randall?’

‘I do. And if I can help in any way, please don’t hesitate to ask.’

She blinked twice with surprise at his offer. ‘Oh, I’m sure I will.’

Randall took a large gulp of white wine then set the glass down. He remembered the night of the dance, and the way he and Beth had whirled around the floor together. Beth Walpole wasn’t a bad old
stick. In fact they got along well together, and from the way she looked at him, smiled and seemed to enjoy his company, it wasn’t hard to work out that she thought he was pretty interesting too. So where was the harm in squiring Beth around? They were fairly compatible, and doing so would rid him of his peculiar preoccupation with Danny’s girlfriend.

However, there were drawbacks to courting Beth. It would necessitate a better, possibly closer relationship with her father, and even with Joe, which would be irksome. But Danny deserved his shot at happiness with Amy, after surviving the Great War, and Randall had no intention of standing in his way, even though he doubted that Amy could adapt to being a proper country wife.

Over the main course and then dessert, Randall showered attention, almost exclusively, on Beth, exhibiting the intense masculine charm he possessed but rarely bothered to use. Later, the men moved into Bill’s large library for port and cigars, while the female guests were ushered into the drawing room for coffee and cake.