The weather had continued to be very hot for the whole of March, going on into April. One Saturday afternoon, I was setting up the tables in the dining room when a man staggered in through the main door. He took off his hat and I saw that it was Paddy Hannan. He was a well-known prospector who had been camped out past Tipperary for a while. Although he was never very sociable, like Arthur Bayley, he had a reputation for being able to smell gold. He had left Coolgardie three or four weeks back to try his luck further east. Paddy had never been a big man, but always strong and wiry. Now his face was gaunt, his lips were dry and cracked, his skin seemed to hang loose on his bones and the whites of his eyes had a yellowish tinge to them. He was asking for a room, but I had to tell him that the hotel was absolutely full.
‘Would ya not have a corner of the stables, then? I’d be happy to share with me horse.’ He spoke slowly, pausing for breath between the words. His body swayed and he put one hand on a table to steady himself. I quickly pulled out a chair.
‘Please, sit here,’ I said. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He sank gratefully onto the chair.
I went to find Mrs Fagan and told her that Paddy was in the dining room. ‘I know we are full,’ I said, ‘but he looks terribly ill. He can have my room – just for a few days – and I’ll bunk in with Florrie. I’m sure she won’t mind.’
Mrs Fagan looked hard at me. ‘Ya’ve a good heart, Clara, but we can’t be takin’ in any old prospector who comes along, especially one who is already ill. How do we know he won’t be passin’ on some dreadful disease to the rest of us?’
‘Oh, please, Mrs Fagan. We can’t turn him away. What if he dies? I will always blame myself.’
‘Aeh, child, these men know what they’re comin’ to.’
‘But sometimes they don’t. I meet them at the dances and some of them have been told the most terrible lies. They believe that there is so much gold lying in the streets of Coolgardie that anyone who comes here will pick up a fortune – before lunchtime.’
Mrs Fagan sighed. She went to the open doorway between the kitchen and dining room and looked in. I stood close behind her and peeped over her shoulder.
‘Ya’re right, Clara,’ Mrs Fagan said softly. ‘He looks awful peaky, so he does.’ He was slumped in the chair with his mouth hanging open, his eyes closed. We need not have worried that he would see us watching him. He looked as if he might never open his eyes again.
Mrs Fagan crossed the room and tapped him gently on the shoulder.
‘Mr Hannan,’ she said. ‘’Tis true we’ve no rooms left, but Clara has offered ya hers.’
He opened his eyes. ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘Very kind … couldn’t possibly.’ He tried to stand but his legs would not support him and he fell back onto the chair.
‘Come, now,’ Mrs Fagan said firmly. She was a strong woman and lifted him easily to his feet. Putting her shoulder under one of his arms, she indicated that I should do the same. He weighed almost nothing and between us we steadied him for the walk around the verandah to my room.
‘Rest here,’ Mrs Fagan said, and sat the poor man on my bed. Then she turned to me. ‘Gather up ya things, lass. Florrie can be makin’ up a camp bed for ya.’
While I packed my few belongings into my travel bag, Mrs Fagan took off Mr Hannan’s boots. She lifted his legs and swung them up onto the bed.
‘I’ll be bringin’ ya some water,’ she told him, although I don’t think he heard her. His eyes had closed again. His skin had a sort of waxy look to it and every breath he took sounded as if it would be his last.
‘Get out yer doctor book, Clara,’ Mrs Fagan said quietly. ‘I’m after thinkin’ he may have typhoid.’
‘Typhoid!’ I exclaimed.
‘Hush now, lass,’ Mrs Fagan whispered, her finger resting across her lips. ‘Ya’ll be scarin’ the livin’ daylights outta him.’
I suspected there was not much ‘daylight’ left in him by then, but I took the encyclopaedia out of my bag. Mrs Fagan made a shooing motion and we stepped outside onto the verandah. I looked up typhoid fever in the book and began to read:
A severe infection caused by the bacterium Salmonella typhi being ingested into the stomach and passed into the stool or urine.
Causes: Eating or drinking food or water contaminated by flies, poor hygiene or lack of sanitation.
Treatment: Plenty of fluids, bed rest, plain rice.
NB: Highly contagious.
During that first day, I looked in on Mr Hannan as often as I could. Eventually I woke him and supported his head while I held a mug of boiled water to his lips. He took a mouthful and swallowed it eagerly, then slumped back and closed his eyes again. His skin was hot and damp to touch. He had taken off his shirt and a pinkish rash showed above the neckline of his flannel undershirt. I put a bucket beside his bed and went out quietly.
In the evening I tried to feed him some plain boiled rice. He chewed a little but couldn’t swallow it. He retched painfully and the mush ran down his chin and onto his flannel which was already soaked with sweat. He lay back, exhausted. I cleaned him up and let him rest. He looked so bad that first night that I expected him to be dead before long.
The next morning I went into the room to find Paddy Hannan lying motionless in the bed with his eyes closed. To my surprise, he was still breathing. I took out the bucket and put the empty chamber-pot from under his bed in its place. When I put water on his lips he licked them, but did not seem to be aware that I was there.
I continued to check on him as I went about my work. In the evening, when I opened his door, I could see that he was awake.
‘How are you, Mr Hannan?’ I asked. He tried to speak but it was only after I had spooned some of the boiled water into his mouth that any sound came out.
‘Better … I think.’ His voice was so faint that I had to lean in to hear him. There was a sickly sweet smell to his breath. He tried to sit up, but his elbows wouldn’t support him. I put some more water on a spoon and he opened his dry lips eagerly. Some of the water trickled out of the corner of his mouth. I wiped it away and tucked the handtowel under his chin before I offered him more. When most of the water was gone, he closed his eyes. I straightened out his bedding as best I could.
‘Remind me of your name, lass,’ he said faintly as I bent to tuck the sheet around him. His flannel now stank of dried sweat and the smell of his body almost made me gag.
‘Clara,’ I told him, straightening up. ‘Clara Saunders.’
‘Thank you, Clara,’ he said. I left him then. There was nothing more I could do.