Amy's Touch (10 page)

Puffing heartily on a cigar, Joe sidled up to Danny and Randall, elbowing the latter in the ribs. ‘Saw you giving my sister a lot of attention tonight, mate.’ He winked. ‘Reckon she was impressed.’

‘I like Beth,’ Randall said straight out. ‘We deal well with each other.’

‘Yeah,’ Joe slurred, ‘I’ll bet you do.’ The three ports Joe had scoffed had gone straight to his head. He leaned conspiratorially towards the McLean brothers. ‘She’s on the shelf, you know. Had three offers of marriage and turned the fellows down flat.’ His upper lip curled in a brotherly sneer. ‘It’s not like she’s young and pretty and can afford to be choosy.’

‘That’s not a nice way to talk about your sister, Joe,’ Danny said coldly.

Joe shrugged and was unrepentant. ‘’Tis true, though. Beth’s not a patch on your Amy. What a looker she is.’

Randall let his disgust with Joe show. ‘A man should look for more in a woman than her being beautiful. Your sister has brains, and she knows how to behave in public. I think she’d be an asset to any man.’

Danny stared at Randall, surprised by his brother’s words.

‘Pleased to hear you say that, Randall, my lad,’ Joe went on. ‘If you’re that interested in her I’ll tell you a secret. The old man’s settled a huge dowry on Beth, should someone come along and want to
marry her.’ He winked again. ‘Enough to set you up extremely well on Drovers.’

Randall’s dark eyes narrowed on the shorter man and he gave a disdainful sniff. ‘If I were thinking of marrying, and I’m not saying that I am, I wouldn’t wed solely for money.’

‘I agree,’ Danny affirmed. ‘If you don’t have love, or at least affection, in a relationship, you have nothing.’

Joe chuckled. His right hand slapped his thigh as he shook his head in amazement. ‘I can’t believe it. What a pair of bloody romantics! I wish the old man would settle some money on me if I married. He’s the richest man around the place, but so bloody tightfisted.’ Joe’s tone changed from mocking jocularity to churlishness. ‘It’s a pity he’s so healthy, he’ll last another twenty years at least.’

‘He’s your father, you should hope that he does,’ Randall reprimanded before he turned away. One could take only so much of Joe Walpole’s company. ‘Come on, Danny, we should make our way home.’

But Joe had more to say. ‘Heard you gave that one-handed man a job. Charity case, hey?’

‘Not at all.’ Danny’s tone was firm. ‘Jim might have a disability but he’s earning his keep. Randall and I are very pleased with him.’

‘Let’s go,’ Randall encouraged his brother. ‘We’ve a big day tomorrow, branding the weaners.’

‘Of course. Give me five minutes to say goodnight to Amy and her father.’

Five minutes turned to fifteen, Randall noted as he glanced at his watch for the third time, and it was close to midnight when they left.

‘Isn’t Joe a pain sometimes?’ Danny observed as the Ford bumped along the country road towards Drovers. ‘Talking about Beth and her dowry. What does he think he is, a matchmaker?’

‘Hardly.’ Randall’s reply was sarcastic. ‘The man’s a dill. Walpole really is unlucky, having a son like Joe. It must be depressing for him to think that one day Joe’ll inherit the fortune he’s accumulating.’

‘Did you know that Joe has a gambling problem? Several times bookies have sent men to collect money owed. He’ll get his legs broken one day, Joe will.’ Danny stopped speaking and thought for a moment. ‘What you said about Beth, are you serious about courting her?’

‘It’s early days to say serious but, yes, I think I’ll see Beth again socially,’ Randall said, adding in a stern tone, ‘but not for the money settled on her.’

‘Christ, Randall, I didn’t think that for a minute.’

‘Maybe not, but some people will.’

‘To hell with what other people think. If you like Beth that’s all that matters.’

Of course he liked Beth Walpole; Randall worked hard at convincing himself of that as the Ford laboured up the hill that led to their property. But, if he were brutally honest with himself, the reason he intended to see Beth on a regular basis was to counteract the attraction he had—yes, he couldn’t deny it—towards Amy.

R
andall didn’t bother to stifle a yawn as he crawled beneath the covers, suppressing a shiver because the sheets were cold. With his hands tucked behind his head he stared up at the pitch-black ceiling as he went over the evening’s events. Walpole’s fiftieth birthday celebration had turned out differently from how he’d expected. He had been prepared to be bored at the dinner party, but that hadn’t happened. In fact, he had
almost
enjoyed himself.

And he knew why. His eyelids drooped, closed, opened, drooped again. Beth Walpole…but more than Beth: Amy.
I can’t get her out of my mind.
He shook his head from side to side on the pillow, trying to dislodge the mental image of the nurse.
Damn it, why can’t I?
She wasn’t so special, even if Danny thought otherwise. Restless, he moved under the covers and turned on his side. Slowly, he willed his body to relax, and finally sleep overtook him…

The midday sun was high in a heavily clouded sky, and not a glimmer of warmth filtered down to the soldiers on duty in the trenches. Randall huddled under the blanket he’d wrapped around himself like an Indian and pulled the ends together more tightly. It didn’t help. An icy midwinter wind had begun to blow through the rain-soaked trenches, turning the slush into thick, congealed mud. How on earth did the military hierarchy expect men to survive in these abominable conditions? It was a question he’d posed to himself and other junior officers many times. If the Huns’ bullets didn’t get you, or you weren’t blown to smithereens by grenades or heavy artillery fire, there was a
good chance you’d die from pneumonia, gangrene or some other blasted disease that ran riot in the trenches. Sometimes he wondered if those giving the commands cared a damn about the rank-and-file soldiers.

A young private—Randall knew he was a replacement soldier because his uniform looked new, the buttons shiny and his boots polished above the mud line—came up with an enamel mug of tea.

‘Sir, Cook thought you might like this,’ the private saluted as he handed over the mug. ‘There’s milk in it but we’re out of sugar. Sorry, sir.’

Randall nodded and stared at the milky mug of tea. Tiny flecks of powdered milk floated unappetisingly to the surface, refusing to dissolve in what was little more than hot water with a few tea leaves thrown into the pot to change the colour. ‘That’s all right. It’s hard to get supplies through in this weather.’

Halfway down the trench the lookout yelled out, ‘Huns are on the move. Looks like a bayonet charge, sir.’

Damn! ‘Get your rifle, Private, and take your position,’ Randall ordered the young private, who, judging by his suddenly wide-eyed expression, had not seen action yet. ‘Be sure to fix your bayonet.’ He had time to gulp just one mouthful of tea before moving towards the ladder.

Word of an impending charge spread down the line and soldiers appeared, seemingly from nowhere. Cigarettes were extinguished, blankets thrown off, ammunition checked, bayonets attached.

Randall put his foot on the crudely made ladder and drew his armyissue Webley revolver. ‘Okay, lads, let’s go and surprise the bastards.’

One day his number would come up; this thought ran through his mind as he led the charge out of the trenches, but he promptly dismissed it. The enemy was barely visible due to a veil of grey—part mist, part cloud—which hung over what the lads called ‘no man’s land’—unclaimed ground between their and the Huns’ trenches. It was littered with bomb and grenade craters, half-full of muddy water, strands of barbed wire, and posts dug into the ground with the sharpened ends protruding at an angle. It was a sight to inspire terror, even in those who’d experienced it before.

A swift look back towards the trenches showed Randall’s men fanning out, most of them moving at a slow run, half doubled over to present as small a target as possible. A bullet whizzed by his left ear, so close he felt the breeze its passage created. The man on his left dropped. Randall spared him a glance: a bullet between the eyes.
Poor bastard. Quick, though. Damn the Huns, and damn this rotten war to hell and back. The grip on his revolver tightened, his mouth thinned with determination. The young private who’d given him his tea moved up to replace the fallen soldier. His eyes were wide with fear and something else Randall had seen before, more than once, and recognised as excitement
.

…Randall stirred and twisted in the bed, moaning as the details of the dream became more vivid…

The Huns were so close he could see their features, grim and set, probably mirroring his own as they charged with rifles protruding forward, yelling encouragement to each other in their own language. Only ten feet separated them from the inevitable hand-to-hand combat. Suddenly the space on his right, where the young soldier had been, became vacant. He looked back, saw the young private kneeling, three patches of red staining his clean khaki uniform. Randall’s gaze narrowed as he swivelled his head to both sides and back again. A bloody sniper, hidden somewhere in the multitude of craters. With an effort he shook the image of the dead boy from his consciousness, knowing he had to concentrate or he’d be the next one lying face down in the mud.

Then the line of Huns suddenly fell to the ground, flattening themselves in the mud. All at once he almost admired the cunningness of their plan. The charge was a feint. Behind the line of enemy soldiers stood two machine-gun positions. Christ, his men, advancing towards what they thought was a bayonet charge, were sitting ducks, and utterly exposed.

Randall cupped one hand to the side of his mouth and shouted, ‘The charge is a ruse, men.’ He spotted the bugler close to him and yelled an order. ‘Sound the recall. Quickly.’

Already the machine-gunners were cranking their weapons, spitting bullets at them. Three men fell. One man screamed as he tumbled face down into a water-filled crater and lay unmoving in its swill. For a second or two Randall closed his eyes against the impending carnage, trying to blot out the sights crowding his mind and threatening to paralyse him. His jaws clamped together so hard it hurt, and then…deep within him, something happened. A tremendous surge of anger and energy at the horror that was occurring, the futility of it all. It filled his mind, his heart, his senses.

…The nocturnal images rolled on, shaping themselves into an all-too-familiar nightmare…

Yelling with rage, instead of falling back as he had ordered his men to do, Randall picked up a discarded rifle, shot two Huns lying on the ground, and charged at the first machine-gun position. He fired as he ran, emptying the bullets in the Enfield rifle into the two Huns who manned one machine gun, and firing the remaining bullets in his Webley six-shot revolver. Then, by a stroke of luck and within the space of several precious seconds, he glimpsed a German hand grenade lying loose on the ground. He reached for it. With a grunt of exertion he primed it and hurled the explosive device at the second machine-gun position. The resulting explosion killed another two Huns instantly. A third soldier raised his rifle to shoot Randall, who was now devoid of ammunition, but the soldier failed to pull the trigger. His body jerked upright as if pulled by invisible strings, then the rifle fell from his grasp and, holding his stomach with both hands, he collapsed back into the trench.

Randall searched around for a weapon and found one of the dead Huns’ rifles. He was frighteningly aware that those who’d initiated the bayonet charge would soon be upon him as they returned to their trenches. The dropped soldier cried out in pain and, unmindful of the risk, Randall strode towards the edge of the trench…

Wounded, the soldier lay on his back. Randall felt a lump of bile rise in his throat as he saw the man’s injuries. He had seen enough battle wounds to know that the soldier couldn’t survive: his stomach was blown away, his entrails hung out. Blood was everywhere, soaking into the soldier’s uniform, the sandbags, the muddy French soil. Randall glanced furtively around no man’s land and to his amazement saw no other enemy soldiers. He assumed that without the protection of the machine guns they had retreated to a trench further east of the battleground. Prepared to leave the soldier to his fate, Randall halfturned away. He stopped when the wounded man spoke…

‘Bitte, setze mir ein Ende.’

Randall knew a smattering of German, and seeing the man’s wounds was enough to guess what he was being asked to do: finish him off. His head gave a shake. He couldn’t! It was one thing to kill a man in the heat of battle when his own life was in danger, quite another to end someone’s life in cold blood. That was murder, wasn’t it? His conscience, sorely tested by his time in the trenches, had to
draw the line somewhere. Even with the knowledge that the man faced a slow, painful death, he couldn’t do it.

‘
Mein Gott
, you must end it,’ the soldier pleaded in broken English. ‘
Bitte.
’

After the soldier had spoken, Randall watched in horror as the young man’s face and body contorted with pain, saw his body stiffen as he fought the inevitable. Randall looked away. God Almighty, no man, enemy or otherwise, should be left to die like this, in pain and alone. He swallowed hard to rid himself of the lump of bile that had lodged in his throat and threatened to choke him. Christ, how would he feel if the positions were reversed and he lay mortally wounded? It was a question he didn’t want to ask, and he hesitated because he knew the answer.

…The stark details of the nightmare made Randall thrash under the bedcovers, trying to free himself from the memories. Suddenly he turned onto his back, woke, then sat up in bed, eyes staring into the blackness. Though the night air had turned decidedly chilly, sweat trickled down his forehead into his eyelashes. Its saltiness stung and made him blink. A deep, bottomless moan vibrated in his chest and forced its way out into the room. ‘No…no…no…’ He ground the words out and blinked again as he dragged himself to complete wakefulness. Had Danny heard him yell out? Probably not. His brother slept like the proverbial log once his head hit the pillow.

Running fingers through his tousled hair, Randall heaved a huge sigh. Dear God, when would the nightmares stop? Some nights he would sit up till after midnight, dreading going to sleep for fear they would come and take over his subconscious again. Ever mindful of his mother’s mental problem, he didn’t want that to happen, couldn’t afford for any possible weakness to take hold.

He thought of his father. What would Colin McLean have done to stay strong? He knew the answer to that question: work. When his wife’s health failed and she had to have full-time nursing, Colin McLean had immersed himself in so many chores and tasks that by the time he went to his bed he said he was too tired to even dream. Randall’s mouth curved in a cynical smile as he lay back against the pillow.