Amy's Touch (36 page)

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 Randall 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.

The men arrived back in the yard, unsaddled the horses, cooled them down and left feed for them. Randall came into the kitchen, and as she studied him Amy’s heart gave a little lift. He looked better, and
sober.
His cheeks were flushed from riding in the sun and there was an alertness to him that had been missing this morning.

It didn’t take long for him to spy the half-dozen whisky bottles on the sink. ‘What’s this?’

‘I think you know. Your drinking,’ Amy took a deep breath and ploughed straight in, ‘it has to stop. It’s changing you, making you weak.’

‘I like to have a drink now and then. And I’ll be damned if I’ll stop doing it,’ he retorted, instantly on the defensive.

She watched him thrust his hands into his trouser pockets in a gesture of defiance. ‘If it were only now and then I wouldn’t object. You were half-drunk this morning, and these,’ she pointed to the bottles lined up in two rows, ‘prove that you like more than an occasional drop. If you don’t stop you’ll end up an alcoholic.’

She could still remember how alcohol had affected her mother. It had dominated her day-to-day living and hastened her early death. She didn’t want the same fate to befall the man she loved.

A dark eyebrow lifted in disbelief. ‘An alcoholic, you say? I think not. I can control my drinking, and,’ his chin jutted forward stubbornly, ‘stop any time I choose to.’

Amy was quiet for a moment or two. Gathering her thoughts, she considered the best way to say what had to be said. ‘I’m asking—no, begging—you to stop. Right now, today. For me, for the children and for Drovers.’

Randall’s cheeks reddened as he strode angrily around the kitchen, working his way towards the sink. That he was uncomfortable talking about himself was obvious, and then, with a shake of his head, he became aggressive. ‘Who are you to tell me what to do, Amy? You have no idea what I’ve gone through these past months. I need,’ he paused, frowned and stared at her. Then his gaze moved to the bottles. ‘I—I need—’ In the next instant a gamut of emotions flickered across his features. Pig-headedness gave way to uncertainty and, finally, to desperation. ‘Sometimes I need the whisky. It helps me…forget things.’

Answering, her voice was gentle. ‘I know.’ She made her way around the long kitchen table to stand in front of him. ‘I know the
things that haunt you, but drowning them in alcohol will only bring temporary relief. The problems will come back. You
, we,
need to find another way to deal with…the nightmares.’

‘For nearly fourteen years I’ve tried to forget them but my brain won’t let me.’ He stared longingly at a half-empty bottle. ‘You don’t understand.’ He shook his head. ‘How can you? You’ve always been so strong, but you didn’t see, didn’t experience what I did.’ His shoulders shuddered then stiffened and his right hand reached for a bottle.

Amy could tell him about some of the horrors she had seen during and after the war, nursing soldiers physically and emotionally devastated by their experiences. But now wasn’t the time to be distracted from her objective. She took his hand in both of hers. Her eyes locked with his, willing him to find the strength to resist temptation. ‘Randall, I love you too much to sit around and watch you destroy yourself and everything you’ve worked for.’ She saw him wince and knew she was hurting him and that she was taking a huge risk in issuing an ultimatum, but she was at a loss to know how else to shock him into seeing how destructive his drinking was.