Towards the end of one of the hottest days in the summer after Paddy Hannan’s find, one of the regulars at the hotel, Bluey Whitehead, came in from his outlying camp. He had taken off his shirt, which was drenched in sweat, and wore it tied around his waist when he appeared at the kitchen door.
‘Bar’s that way,’ Florrie told him. He didn’t move. ‘Or is it the office you need?’
‘No, miss,’ he said, snatching the battered hat off his head and holding it pressed to his chest. ‘I come for Miss Clara.’
‘What is it, Bluey?’ I asked, wiping my hands down my apron.
‘Bill Derby is took real bad, miss,’ he said.
‘Did you take him to the nurses’ tent?’ I asked. Four nurses had arrived and set up a sick bay in a tent on the edge of town, with proper equipment and medicines. They were working night and day, doing what they could for the sick and injured, even though many of the old bushmen wouldn’t go near them. They had an unshakeable fear of ending their days in a hospital.
‘He won’t come in,’ Bluey said. ‘I fear if you don’t come out to him, he’ll not last the night.’
‘How far out are you?’ Florrie asked.
‘Five miles,’ Bluey said.
‘Five miles! In this heat,’ Florrie said, shaking her head, but Bluey’s eyes never left mine.
‘Please, miss, he knows you from all the time he spends at the pub. He’ll listen to you.’ The man looked so desperate that my heart went out to him.
‘I’ll have to finish up here and –’
‘I’ll wait,’ he said. A look of relief swept the lines from his face. He beamed and backed out of the doorway.
‘You can’t walk five miles in this heat,’ Florrie declared.
‘I’ll manage,’ I said, taking my hat from the peg and downing a glass of water.
‘Wait. I’m coming too,’ Florrie said.
I stopped and looked at her. ‘Are you sure?’ I asked. Florrie’s fair English skin never tanned and she suffered badly in this sort of weather.
She took her hat from the peg and jammed it on her head. ‘Shall we go?’ she said, glaring at me and marching out the door.
It was mid-afternoon. There was not a breath of wind and no obvious drop in the temperature. We had gone about a mile when Florrie turned to me and said, ‘This is madness. We’ll die of heat stroke and where will that leave your mate Bill Derby?’
‘It is hot,’ I agreed. ‘But I can’t let him die out there.’
Florrie and I trudged along behind Bluey. My dress clung to my back and I gave up trying to wipe the sweat and flies from my face. We passed a low mallee tree and I broke off a switch of leaves. It did little to shift the flies, but at least it created a slight movement in the air as I swung it back and forth. I broke off another one and handed it to Florrie. I swapped my bag, packed with towels, patent medicines and my mother’s book, from one shoulder to the other, not only because it was heavy, but to cool the sweaty patch on my dress underneath. In spite of me telling Florrie not to come, I was glad of her company.
‘Not far now, miss,’ Bluey turned his head to reassure us.
We finally reached a rough bush hut. It was surrounded by rubbish. Everything was covered in the usual layer of red dust. Nothing moved. Even the old dog lying in the shade appeared, at first, to be dead. It eventually opened one eye, but did not get up. Bluey put his head in through the open door, then turned and beckoned to us. ‘You’ll be all right now, Bill,’ Bluey said cheerfully. ‘Miss Clara has come to help you.’
I stepped inside the one-room hut. Even in the dim light, the mess was confronting. Soiled clothing lay on the dirt floor beside the bed. The mattress had been discarded and a single filthy sheet covered the sagging canvas that was stretched over an iron bed frame. I glanced at Florrie, who had followed me in. I could see she was struggling not to vomit.
Bill Derby lay inert on the bed. When he opened his eyes they seemed far too big for his shrunken face. The tattered flannel singlet that hung loosely on his body was covered in sweat and grime. He wore no trousers. Bluey quickly pulled the flannel down over his friend’s crotch. The shape of each bone in his legs showed clearly under the wrinkled flesh.
‘Go away,’ he croaked through parched lips. ‘I don’t want no women messin’ about wi’ me.’
‘Oh, yes you do, Bill Derby,’ I said. ‘You love women. And we’ve come all the way out here to see you. Now let’s get this flannel off and give you a wash.’
Bill turned his head away. ‘I ain’t havin’ no wash. Washin’ weakens a man.’ Out of the corner of his eye, he glared at Florrie. ‘Get her outta here,’ he demanded.
‘Oh, I’m more than happy to oblige, you ungrateful old sod,’ Florrie almost spat the words at him. An empty wooden box stood just inside the doorway. She picked it up, marched out with it, set it against the wall in a patch of shade and sat there fanning herself with her hat.
‘Now, Bill, don’t you go upsettin’ these ladies.’ Bluey came in with a kerosene tin that had been converted into a bucket. I frowned as I peered inside it. ‘Water for washin’,’ Bluey explained. ‘It’s only been used once.’
I took out a washcloth from my bag and dipped it in the milky-looking water. Bill’s skin was so hot to touch that I didn’t need a thermometer to tell me he had a raging fever. I suspected typhoid, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to treat him properly out in the camps if it was.
‘Where’s your drinking water?’ I asked Bluey.
A makeshift Coolgardie safe stood in the corner. He opened it and took out a pottery jug.
‘Has this water been boiled?’ I said. Bluey nodded and I held the jug to Bill’s lips. At first, he tried to push it away, but Bluey pinned down his arms, and I kept coaxing him to try it. Eventually Bill gulped down a mouthful of water.
I washed the filth and grime from Bill’s body and decided not to dry him. I was hoping the evaporating water would lower his temperature a little. I waited for several minutes. Bill’s eyes closed but his limbs looked more relaxed. In spite of his protests it seemed the bathing had made him more comfortable. I offered the jug of water again. This time he drank deeply.
I found Bluey and Florrie sitting together outside in the shade of the hut. The dog had moved slightly to make room for them.
‘You’ll have to bring him into town, Bluey. His temperature is coming down, but he really needs the doctor,’ I said.
‘He won’t go!’ Bluey shook his head. ‘I’ve tried to make him. He just says he ain’t goin’ nowhere. He’d rather die here.’
‘I’ll get Mac to come out with his donkey cart. When he arrives, you and Mac will have to pick Bill up and get him into it. He’s in no state to put up a fight. Just be firm with him, Bluey.’ The old prospector sucked in his bottom lip, but nodded his head. ‘Take him to the nurses,’ I insisted. ‘They’ll have a bed for him. Then find Doctor Foreman.’ The doctor had recently moved into town, but was often called out to the nurses’ tent.
‘Right, miss.’ Bluey stood up and straightened his shoulders. For a moment, I thought he might leap to attention. I felt a giggle coming on in spite of everything, or maybe because of it. After the relentless heat, the long walk and the effort of trying to help a man who didn’t want my help, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
‘Will he recover?’ Florrie asked as we made our way slowly back to town. I felt drained of every last ounce of energy and could barely place one foot in front of the other. I simply shrugged and spread my hands.
The sun had set by the time Florrie and I reached the hotel, but there was still no cooling easterly wind. We went into the kitchen, took off our hats and flopped down onto the chairs. Florrie took off her shoes and stretched her legs straight out in front of her. I dumped my boots and folded my body forward, resting my aching head in my hands.
Mrs Fagan took the jug from the Coolgardie safe and poured a glass of water for each of us. As usual, in really hot weather, she had a wet cotton handkerchief draped around the back of her neck. She kept taking it off, dipping it in a bowl of washing water, and putting it in place again. It kept her cool, she said, although her face was so red and her brow so sweaty that I wondered if it had any effect at all.
‘Is old Bill Derby still alive, then?’ Mrs Fagan asked, sitting down and lifting her skirts to fan herself with them.
‘Barely,’ I said.
‘Cantankerous as ever, I’ll be bound,’ she muttered.
‘I don’t think he’s eaten in days,’ I told her. ‘He’s in a desperate state.’
‘And filthy,’ Florrie added, holding her nose.
‘His clothes are so ragged they’re falling off him,’ I said. ‘He needs a new shirt and flannel at the very least.’
‘Aeh, lass, just leave that to me now,’ Mrs Fagan winked. ‘I’m thinkin’ that our friend Evan Wisdom will be after losin’ another one of his shirts in the wash, so he will.’
‘Mrs Fagan!’ Florrie sounded shocked. ‘You haven’t stolen Mr Wisdom’s shirts before, have you?’
‘Well now, he’s plenty of ’em,’ she said. ‘And he’ll not really mind, even if he does miss it. I’ll be after choosin’ one he doesn’t wear.’
Florrie and I looked at each other and laughed. It was the best pick-me-up we could possibly have had.