Amy's Touch (2 page)

B
raving the chill of a Friday in December, huddled in her militaryissue greatcoat with a woollen scarf wound around her neck, Amy sat on the wooden verandah outside the nurses’ quarters, determinedly penning a reply to Miles’s letter, the one she had received two weeks ago. Writing with gloves on was too awkward, so she’d taken the right-hand glove off. She dipped the pen into the ink bottle and continued writing about hospital experiences, the bland food, the weather. Oh, yes, the weather. She glanced up from the letter to see fine, misty rain start to fall, and sighed. How she missed the sun—even the excessive heat of summer was preferable to the cold and gloom of another British winter.

She shivered inside her coat and, bending her head downwards, she wrote,
With the war over and sick soldiers being repatriated every day, I’m hopeful that I too will be back in Adelaide by the end of March, or June at the latest, though with the threat of the Spanish Flu bordering on being an epidemic, and which has killed many people in Spain and other parts of Europe, I might be requested to stay longer.

Newspaper articles and personal stories were beginning to filter down with alarming regularity to the medical staff about how devastating the Spanish Flu was becoming. Conservatively, estimates had been made that millions of people throughout Europe, including men in the trenches, and people in Asia and even the United States of America, had died quick but horrible deaths.

A discreet masculine cough made her jump. She’d been concentrating so hard on writing information that Miles would find
satisfactory that the only sound she’d heard till then was the light squeak the nib made as it met the paper. At that moment a gust of wind blew in an otherwise still day, and two pages of her letter became airborne. They flew off the verandah and landed on the wet ground.

‘Oh, damn,’ she muttered in a most unladylike fashion.

‘Indeed,’ came a cool, masculine comment. ‘Let me retrieve them for you.’

She was startled to see a soldier, and an officer at that. Cranky about the wet pages, which would have to be rewritten, she watched the officer, noting from the pips on his coat that he was a lieutenant, as he hurried to the pages, picked them up and came up onto the verandah to return them to her.

He was tall and wide-shouldered, and the few strands of straight black hair that protruded from beneath his cap were wet with rain. His eyes, so dark a brown they were almost black, were large and wide set, she noted as he gave her the sodden pages. In their dark depths she recognised a hint of amusement and something else, dark and haunting. Amy considered herself reasonably good at reading people’s faces, gauging their character in an instant or two—her work as a nurse had taught her to do that. This officer had seen things, done things alien to his nature, she was sure of it. And, even more curious, there was something familiar about him. Did she know him?

Then she saw the resemblance. He was a taller, more severe version of Private Danny McLean.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry your pages got wet and…You see, I’m at a bit of a loss…’

Politeness made her respond with, ‘That’s all right. You’ve come to see your brother, I presume. Private McLean?’

‘Correct. I believe he’s in Ward Twenty.’ His dark brown eyes crinkled up as he smiled. ‘I guess we do look a bit alike, Danny and I.’

Amy checked her wristwatch—a parting gift from her father, envied by many of the nurses—after which she screwed the top back on her ink bottle and stood up. ‘I’m due to go on duty. If you’ll wait a moment while I put these things away, I’ll take you there.’ She could just give him directions, she realised, but an unusual sense of curiosity to see how Private McLean would react when he saw his brother took hold of her. Not many wounded soldiers got visits from relatives. She watched a dark eyebrow arch up in surprise.

‘That’s kind of you. I’ll wait.’

‘Who’s that?’ Nurse Jessie Mills hissed as Amy came into the room to put her writing implements on the highboy.

‘He didn’t say. He’s visiting someone in Ward Twenty,’ Amy responded as she put her headgear on and fastened it with bobby pins. Her co-worker and roommate—they’d shared accommodation for several months, since Jessie had replaced one of the nurses—was a character, but Amy liked her. Jessie had a reputation for being the nursing staff’s greatest flirt, and all the women knew, because Jessie had told them, that her goal in life was to ‘snaffle’ a doctor or a recovering officer, fall in love, and marry him.

‘He’s rather nice.’ Jessie gave Amy a knowing wink.

‘Is he? I hadn’t noticed,’ Amy returned, tongue-in-cheek. She donned her gloves, picked up her valise and headed for the door. In all truth, she had noticed; she would have to have had impaired vision not to. He was handsome, but in a severe, serious way. The corners of her mouth tucked in as she thought he was probably the no-nonsense, do-as-I-say type. Which was doubtless why he was an officer.

‘Find out if he’s married or engaged,’ Jessie said in a whisper.

‘Jessie, he’s just come to see a patient. There’s not likely to be an opportunity for you or anyone else to pursue an interest in the lieutenant,’ Amy said in her common-sense way.

Jessie made a huffing noise. ‘Oh! I suppose you’re right. Still,’ she sighed plaintively, ‘he is rather yummy.’

Shaking her head, Amy collected herself and made for the front door. Jessie Mills was incorrigible when it came to her quest to find a husband, a fact that Amy found amazing. She, at twenty-one, was in no hurry to settle into married life, to run a household, prepare meals and raise children.

As she moved down the steps towards Lieutenant McLean, curiosity, of which she had more than her share, made her wonder about the horrors he must have seen, the number of German soldiers he might have killed. Was that why he looked so serious? She firmly believed, after her time in Britain, that no one could go through what the Allied soldiers had experienced and not be emotionally scarred. She grunted softly to herself. Not that the army was interested in that. So long as the medical and nursing staff were able to restore a soldier to reasonable physical health, the high-ranking officers were happy.

He fell into step with her as they walked along the crushed seashell path to the hospital area of the army base. The rain had turned to fine
sleet, and Amy shivered under her greatcoat. Matron would have to issue extra blankets tonight if it got any colder, which was likely. A cold snap and a marked drop in temperature meant that one or two patients might not make it through the night.

‘I’ll be pleased to get home and feel some good Australian sunshine on my face,’ the lieutenant said, making conversation as they walked. ‘I’ve seen enough mud and snow and slush to last a lifetime.’

‘Snow’s rather nice.’ She cast him a quick glance, the dourness of his tone confirming in her mind that he had seen a good deal of action. ‘Until it begins to melt.’

‘Too right,’ he agreed, with obvious feeling. ‘You’re Australian too. Where are you from? Have you been stationed here long?’

‘In Britain? I left Adelaide two years ago next January. I requested to be attached to a frontline hospital but the army said I was too inexperienced.’ She smiled sourly. ‘What they really meant was that they considered me too young, and the wrong gender, for such a post.’

‘Be grateful they did.’ An edge of hardness came into his voice. ‘Believe me, frontline hospitalising was no place for women. From what I saw, it was hard enough on the doctors and male nursing attendants.’

Something in his tone, a subtle condemnation, ruffled Amy’s equilibrium. She should have been used to masculine prejudice, there was an abundance of it back home and here, but she knew she never would be able to accept it. Her free-thinking suffragette mother, God rest Amelia Carmichael’s soul, had taught Amy too well for her to meekly accept that because she was a woman she was somehow inferior. And who was he, and who were they—those in command

—to decide that the front wasn’t the right place for women; that they couldn’t be as emotionally or physically tough as men? She couldn’t deny her sex, but she was a jolly good nurse, and should have been posted to where there was the most need.

‘It’s attitudes like yours, Lieutenant, that led to the suffragette movement gaining momentum in South Australia and elsewhere. The colonial government of our state gave women the vote in 1894, before I was born.’ Warming to her topic, Amy went on, ‘Most women of my acquaintance do not want to be put on a pedestal. They want respect, but they’re also prepared to get their hands dirty to get the job done.’

The lieutenant’s steps faltered for a second or two, as if he was not used to being taken to task for such remarks. ‘Oh, dear, what have we here: a Pankhurst admirer?’

‘No. Simply a woman who doesn’t intend to be patted on the head and told to sit in a corner and to be quiet and obedient. At least the British government has seen the light and given certain women the right to vote in this year’s election.’ Aware that she might sound preachy, but annoyed by his sarcasm, she forged on. ‘The Great War has brought about many changes, good and bad, but in my opinion it’s been largely liberating for women, many of whom have had to do men’s work because the men were at the front.’

The frankness and accuracy of her response made Randall McLean concede with a laugh, ‘I can’t argue with that. Many women adequately filled the void left by men serving in the war. However, do let me offer my commiserations to the man you’ll one day wed.’ Brown eyes twinkled with sardonic amusement, as if he were enjoying their verbal clash. ‘I believe you’ll lead him a merry chase, won’t you?’

‘Not if he sees things my way,’ she answered, less sweetly than she meant to because her temper was still a little frayed. Yesterday she had had a run-in with a doctor regarding the treatment of a patient, and his arrogant, condescending attitude towards her suggestions had sparked several sharp words between them.

They paused at the outer doors to Ward Twenty.

‘There’s your ward, Lieutenant,’ Amy said, and started to move past him.

‘Aren’t you going on duty?’

She remembered that she had wanted to see the look on Private McLean’s face when he first saw his brother, but she had been assigned to Ward Sixteen for the first half of her shift and she was running late. ‘Yes, but I’m not on Ward Twenty till later. Good day, Lieutenant McLean. Your brother is coming along nicely. You should find him in good spirits,’ she said as she left him.

‘Randall!’ Danny’s eyes widened, first with amazement then with mirrored delight, as he watched his brother walk briskly down the aisle between the beds towards him. He attempted to get out of bed in greeting, but the movement caused him to remember his wounds, and made him give a quiet moan. He propped himself up and, grinning broadly, waited for Randall to reach him.

‘Thought I’d better drop in to check on whether you were malingering,’ Randall said as he tossed a couple of packets of cigarettes into Danny’s lap.

Danny shook his head. ‘God, it’s good to see you.’ They clasped hands. ‘Thanks for the fags. I’ll give them up when I get out of this place. I smoke here ’cause I’m bored.’

‘What’s this?’ Randall reached a finger across to flick the light brown moustache.

Danny shrugged. ‘Makes me look more mature, don’t you think? And saves a little shaving time.’

Randall chuckled. ‘You are a lazy one.’ The look in his eyes became serious. ‘So how are you, really?’

‘Getting better every day, at least that’s what the doctors tell me.’ He gave his brother the once-over. ‘You’ve come through unscathed, not a mark on you. Lucky bugger.’

‘Yes. Damned lucky.’ But Randall knew that while he mightn’t have any physical scars, no one who’d served in the trenches came through unscathed. The scars were there; Danny just couldn’t see them. His gaze broke away from Danny’s to rove about the ward, moving from bed to bed, studying soldiers at various stages of recovery.

Then Danny spotted the Distinguished Service Medal and ribbon on the left-hand side of his brother’s uniform. ‘And a hero, too.’ There was a catch in his voice as he added, ‘Dad would have been proud.’

Randall shrugged, as if the medal wasn’t important to him. ‘If I had my way it would sit in its satin-lined box, but Colonel Lindner said if I didn’t wear it all the time he’d confine me to barracks. Muttered something about it being good for morale.’

‘What did you do to get it?’ Danny wanted to know.

Randall didn’t answer straight away. His dark eyes appeared to become slightly glazed as he recalled the events. ‘Nothing much,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Just took out two machine-gun nests with up to half a dozen Huns.’

‘How did you manage that?’ a curious Harry across the aisle, untroubled by the fact that he was eavesdropping, wanted to know.

‘The usual way. Shooting, running, dodging bullets,’ Randall said, without looking at the other man. He stared at Danny for a moment or two. ‘You or anyone else would have done the same.’

Harry harrumphed loudly; everyone in the ward knew it was his favourite non-verbal expletive. ‘Not bloody likely, mate. I mean, sir.’

Gaze narrowing, Danny took a closer look at his older brother. Though both of them had joined up at the same time and had been in the same regiment, they hadn’t seen each other for a long time. They had only met up once, when they both managed to get two days’ furlough at the same time, in a bar in a small, half bombed-out village near Rheims. Randall looked several years older than his twenty-four years, and when he turned his head towards the light a few premature silver hairs were visible through his jet-black hair. But it was his overall manner that caused Danny concern, coupled with the guarded, watchful expression in his dark eyes, as if he couldn’t relax. Not surprising, really, considering what he had gone through. Danny had seen more than a few survivors with that same, almost feral look about them.

‘Did you find out anything about Edward? Where he might be buried?’ Danny asked. Part of him needed to know, and part of him didn’t want to, for it would formally acknowledge their brother’s death.