A HAZARD OF HEARTS (3 page)

Elly pushed up the canvas over the window to let
in more light. ‘What is it? An obstruction?’ she asked.

He turned a sweating face to her. ‘God knows. A
nut or fruit stone, perhaps.’

‘Have you put her over your knee and thumped her
back?’

His nod was unconvincing and, seizing the small
body, Elly tried the remedy several times but without success.

The little girl now lay limp in her arms, all
her failing energies concentrated on drawing the next breath.

‘I can’t shift it. What about forceps?’

He said sharply, ‘I’ve tried, dammit. They will
not reach.’

‘Cut her throat.’ It was the mother, Molly O’Bannion,
panting from her hysterical outburst. Her fat face had gone the colour of dough
and she clutched at her breast as if something pained her there. They barely
had time to register shock at her words when she continued, ‘The old doctor did
it. He cut into Jim Ridley’s throat to save him. Ask her. Ask his daughter.’

She pointed at Elly, who shook her head. ‘Too
dangerous. Let me try the forceps.’

Harwood rounded on her. ‘Kindly put my patient down
again and move back. I am about to make an incision.’ Sweat now oozed from each
pore of his face to trickle down his chin. His pale eyes shifted away from Elly’s
as she laid the child back on her cot.

‘Wait. Do you... Are you familiar...?’ She
stuttered to a stop. Drawing a deep breath, she said firmly, ‘Those instruments
have not been cleaned since their last use.’ She swept around to the crowd who
had pushed into the cabin. ‘Someone fetch my medical case for Doctor Harwood.
Dorothy O’Bannion, bring me your father’s whiskey, at once.’

She turned back to see Harwood hovering over the
small patient, his dirty scalpel poised in uncertainty.

Unable to help herself, she cried out, ‘Stop!
Wait. The child can still breathe a little...’

With an arm like a whip he swept her aside,
sending her staggering back into the arms of the onlookers. ‘Stay out of my
way. Keep her off,’ he ordered.

Hands clamped down on Elly’s shoulders. She
stopped struggling and willed her tone to be reasonable. ‘At least clean the
blade first with the whiskey, and swab the child’s throat with it before you
cut.’

He turned his back and proceeded with the
operation.

There was a mewling sound, like a kitten whose
tail has been trodden on. The doctor gasped then straightened up. Elly tore
herself free and sprang forward.

‘What is it? My dear Lord! You’ve nicked the
jugular vein!’ Her face as pale and sweaty as his, she plunged her finger into
the wound to apply pressure. With the other hand she scrabbled at the coverlet.
‘Quickly, what are you...?’ She stared at him. He had frozen, his expression
glazed, the dripping scalpel arrested in mid-air.

Elly let go the coverlet and shook him.

With a jerk he dropped the scalpel and reached
for the forceps, rammed them into the wound and rummaged as if clearing a
blocked drain. Before Elly could react, the forceps had pushed her finger
aside, widening the nick into a hole. Blood poured over her hand, warm and
viscous.

‘Look what you’ve done.’ His voice was shrill. ‘I
told you to keep away, you stupid woman. Now it’s too late.’ He thrust her
aside with bloody hands. A woman screamed, and once again Elly found herself
restrained by others. She watched helplessly as Harwood made futile attempts to
stop the flow of life from little Maureen O’Bannion’s body.

The child grew steadily paler. The blood
streaming onto the floor slowed to a steady drip, then stopped. With a last
flutter of the lips the child stopped breathing.

Silence filled the cabin, except for the moaning
mother kneeling by the cot. Sick with anger and frustration, Elly locked gaze
with the spurious doctor. There was now no doubt left in her. No true medical
man would have made such a dreadful error. But while she sought for words to
express her feelings, he was ready to defend himself by attack.

‘This woman is a danger to your community,’ he
piped. ‘I hold her directly responsible for the child’s death. Due to her
interference at a crucial point in the operation my blade was forced against
the main vein in the neck and irreparable damage occurred.’

Elly saw the ring of darkening faces harden against
her, sensed the growing tension. She could practically smell it, the age-old
urge to find a scapegoat.

‘That is a lie,’ she said calmly. ‘It was your
hand that made the slip. When I tried to help you stop the bleeding you pushed
me aside and compounded the damage with your forceps. You have the hands of a
bullock driver and with them you have killed a child.’

Uproar broke out behind her. As helpless as a
doll, she was pulled about by the men and women holding her and others who
tried to join them. Molly O’Bannion turned a tear-ravaged face to her,
screeched ‘murderess’, then collapsed.

Elly had to shout to be heard. ‘Listen to me.
You know nothing about this man, this so-called Doctor Harwood. Have you
questioned his credentials, or heard any good report from someone who has had
dealings with him? How do you know whether he’s qualified to touch your
children? Ask him for proof.’

Several heads nodded. The room quietened, while
the imprisoning hands relaxed enough for Elly to stand alone and rub her
bruised shoulders.

‘Bluff, pure bluff.’ Harwood’s voice had reached
its highest pitch, emerging as a squeak. ‘I resent your attempt to impugn my
character. I will have you know the crowned heads of Europe –’

‘Will you stop pontificating and attend to the
poor woman at your feet?’ Elly indicated the prostrate Molly O’Bannion. ‘And
someone might take care of the child’s body. Then I suggest everybody else should
go outside. This is no place to conduct your kangaroo court.’

Her tartness had an effect. People began to move
out, the exodus continuing until there were left only Elly, Harwood, Molly and
the women about to lay out the child. Molly had recovered her senses, without
any assistance. She sat staring hopelessly at the wall, her grief etched into
her puffy face. Elly prepared for battle. Her deep anger at the unnecessary
death overlaid her personal response to the accusations. For the sake of the
township she had to prove this man a dangerous idiot.

Harwood gave her no chance. Grasping her arm he
thrust her out the door to face the encircling men and women. Heat poured down
on her braided head. The sun was like molten lead, dragging her down.

‘This woman,’ Harwood began in the high voice
that no longer seemed slightly comical but carried the conviction of a powerful
orator, ‘This woman has killed one of your children. Because she has formerly
been useful when supervised by her father, you’ve been led to believe in her
skills as equal to those of a proper practitioner. But she is not a doctor. She
has not been properly trained or accredited. She’s merely a nurse assistant.
Yet she holds a high opinion of herself, even deeming it proper to interfere
with a surgeon at work. Therefore she is dangerous. Shall you harbour a ticking
bomb in your midst? Shall you go about your daily lives never knowing when she
may explode into a furore of pseudo-medical activity and kill someone else?
Shall we live with that?’

‘No!’ It was a united roar from twenty throats.
Old Cyrus Bennetts, the hotel rouseabout whose smell kept others at a
comfortable distance, and whose ulcerated leg Elly had treated over long weeks
of battle with infection, shook his fist at her. His stubbled face was twisted
with hate. Women who had cried over Elly in gratitude when their children
recovered from the fever, and others she had trudged miles to help, leaned
towards her to hiss, even to spit. The tremor in her legs moved up through her
spine until her whole body shook.

 I don’t believe this, she thought. How could
they turn on her, even if they preferred Harwood and his remedies? She’d done
nothing to deserve such hatred. Surely they knew she would never harm their
children in any way. But she read only animosity in the ugly faces, almost
unrecognisable as belonging to friends and neighbours. This was the unthinking
mob, swayed by emotionalism. She’d never seen one before. It frightened her. It
was as though the crowd had one face, one accusing gaze, one voice that
menaced.

Harwood tightened his grip, painfully.

‘Let me go at once,’ she whispered, ‘or I’ll
kick you.’

He released her, perhaps in surprise, and Elly
confronted the crowd. Choosing one person, Old Susan, who had as much cause as
anyone to be grateful to the Ballards. Elly addressed her directly.

‘Susan, you know me better than that. Will you
listen to a stranger who knows nothing about me? She swept her gaze across the
faces, noting each one. ‘All you good people, my friends of years, I ask you to
remember who I am, and for how long my father served you all. He was a brilliant
doctor who chose to make his great skills available to you, when he might have
been acclaimed in the world. He never refused a call for help. He cared
desperately that none of you should suffer.’

Harwood raised his voice above hers. ‘We all
know and appreciate the work of Doctor Ballard. But he’s gone, and his daughter
brazenly tries to assume his mantle.’

Elly spread her hands. ‘That’s not so. Few
trained men could emulate Robert Ballard. I don’t aspire to do so. But he
taught me well. I’m experienced enough to help you in many ways. What happened
here today –’

Harwood shouted her down again. ‘She’s only a
woman. Don’t listen to her. Her humility is false. The truth is, she believes
herself to have equal standing with a professional man. Does not her arrogance
demonstrate the danger? How often has she failed you? You there, Juniper Jones,
still as crippled as the day you fell down, despite this woman’s efforts. And
you, Colgrave. Did she give you back power in your legs? Will you ever swing
hammer to anvil again before you die? No, you will not, because she failed in
her treatment, overreached herself, in fact, and condemned a good man to a life
of misery.’ He pointed dramatically to the brawny fellow balanced on rough
crutches, his limbs trailing between them.

The crowd roared ominously, but Harwood raised a
hand. ‘This woman should be got rid of, before someone else dies. I urge you,
friends, to wrench out this canker in your midst, to dismiss it from your lives.’

‘Yes, yes. She should be punished. Let’s hang
the bitch.’

In vain Elly shouted that no-one could have
helped the two men named, that she was not responsible for Maureen’s death. Her
words were buried beneath the united voices hurling abuse. She braced herself
against the palpable wall of hostility about to fall on her. This wasn’t
happening. It was a nightmare, like the fever “ward” in the hotel that night,
like the worst of dreams that had turned to harsh reality when she gazed down
at her father’s corpse. Life did hold living nightmares. She was experiencing
one now.

The mob began to move in on her. She backed
away, coming up against Harwood, who grasped her arm once more.

Again he held up his hand. ‘Wait, friends. We’re
all reasonable folk. We do not return blow for blow, harm for harm. A life has
been taken. Very well. But we are not monsters to demand a life in revenge. Let
us simply remove the killer from our society. Let us –’

‘Run her out of town,’ someone shouted.

‘Yes. Yes. Run her out of town.’

The mob halted, then took up the refrain. ‘Out
of town. Out of town.’ They surged forward.

The women got to her first. ‘We’ll fix her
before she goes. Child-killer!’

Old Susan, feebly protesting, was hustled to the
rear, while Mollie O’Bannion ran forward and spat in Elly’s face. Others held
her down as several more brandished shears with which they attacked her braids.
Elly screamed and struggled madly but couldn’t break free. The shears clashed,
one blade carelessly gashing her forehead as it tore at the silken strands now
falling about her neck. She ceased to scream, her horror too great for
expression. She felt blood drip down over her ear, heard the hissing breath of
her tormentors, smelt their rank sweat. She closed her eyes against the faces,
the awful faces.

At last they finished. The women fell back and
Elly was dragged to her feet, then shoved and jostled along the crooked street,
Harwood at her side, guard and guardian, protecting her from physical attack.
How kind. She swallowed hysterical laughter. Accuser, judge and jury, but unwilling
to be branded executioner. She stumbled along in a daze.

They passed the hotel where the mongrel slept
under the boarded verandah, where less than a month ago she had slaved to save
these people and their dear ones. Past Bessie Flaxman’s cabin, where Bessie lay
obediently resting a leg that she would never use fully again. Past the pathway
to her own cabin. Here Elly halted but was roughly forced on again. Then the
realisation came to her. They truly meant to run her out of town, without
preparation, without food or water, or even a hat to keep off the fierce sun.
But they couldn’t! They wouldn’t do it to an animal.

Looking ahead she saw the street straggle to an
end, vanishing into the encroaching bush. It was so vast, so impenetrable,
unbroken miles of trees and undergrowth, save for the stony track winding away
towards a limitless horizon. Heat, dust and incredible loneliness. That’s what
lay ahead of her. A desolate road to oblivion.