A Rose for the Anzac Boys (6 page)

‘I think you’re wonderful. You’re too young even to put your hair up. But you’re here, doing all this.’

Midge flushed. ‘It’s nothing compared to what you men are facing. And the real work is done in England, getting the supplies to us. That’s Mr Carryman and Lady George. They arrange all the donations, the transport. We just serve things out.’

‘To how many?’

‘About ten thousand in one night’s the most so far.’

‘Ten thousand!’ He sipped again and made a face. ‘This tastes like boiled bark.’

Midge laughed. ‘I didn’t want to say anything when you had been so kind as to buy it. Sometimes I feel I’d sell my last pair of shoes for a good milky cup of tea.’

‘You should taste the tea my batman makes. I think he strains it through his old socks.’

‘Is he also from—where did you say it was again? Goldburn?’

‘Goulburn. No, he’s from a farm out of Yass. Funny little chap. Boasts he could shear a sheep blindfolded.’

‘Is every Australian soldier in France a sheep farmer?’

He laughed. ‘Just about. Our lot anyway. I’m regular army, but most of us volunteered on the Snowy River March down to Sydney. It was a sight, they tell me—brass bands, and everyone cheering, and the young men all racing to join up as the volunteers marched into town. Even Jack, that’s my older brother, joined up, and now,’ he added with satisfaction, ‘he’s a lieutenant and I’m a captain. I tell you, it’s grand to outrank your older brother.’

‘I can imagine. I’d love to outrank mine. He’s in Flanders now.’

‘Macpherson…No, I don’t know him. I wish him luck.’

‘You…you didn’t come across a Private Tim Smith at Gallipoli, did you?’

‘Smith? Probably a dozen of ’em. Why?’

Midge flushed. ‘He was my brother.
Is
my brother. My twin. He enlisted under another name because he was underage and Dougie—that’s my older brother—said he
had to stay at Glen Donal. That’s our place on the South Island. It’s a farm too.’

‘Brave lad. But no, seriously, I don’t think I came across him.’

Midge looked down at her coffee. ‘I had a letter saying he was missing. It seems to have happened at a place called Mule Valley. But it’s all a bit confused because I had a letter from him written after the time he was supposed to be missing, and, well…’ She looked up at him. ‘We’re hoping, that’s all.’

‘It’s all anyone can do, sometimes,’ he said gently. ‘But I’ll ask around. So, tell me about this Glen Donal of yours. You know, your face lit up like a candle when you said its name.’

Midge flushed again. ‘It’s…who I am, I suppose. Margery Macpherson of Glen Donal. The mountains are behind us, with white caps—you can smell the snow all year round, even when the grass is shrivelling in the heat. My great-grandfather—my mother’s grandfather—started it. Dad was English—’

‘Was?’

‘He died four years ago. Now it’s just me and Tim and Dougie. What about you?’

‘Both parents still alive and kicking, touch wood. Two boys, me and Jack, three girls. Daphne is married, June and Julie are still at school. Look, are you sure you wouldn’t like anything else? Something to eat?’

She shook her head. ‘It’s luxury just to sit here in the sun. It’s funny, isn’t it, to think of it all still going on at home while we’re here? All still the same. What would be happening at your place now, do you think?’

He grinned. ‘They’d all be asleep.’

‘No, you know what I mean.’

‘Shut your eyes and dream of home? All right then. It’s breakfast in the dining room. Mum is pouring tea and Dad is spooning treacle on his porridge.’

‘Treacle?’

‘Dad likes treacle.’

‘Are you there?’

‘Too right. I’ve got a plate of chops in gravy,’ he said dreamily. ‘And there’s scrambled eggs and lots of butter for the toast and strawberry jam…and liver and bacon…What about you?’

‘I’m on Ruby—she’s the sweetest little mare—down the back of the run with old Campbell; he’s our manager. We’re moving the ewes up for lambing.’ She smiled. ‘It’s funny how I think of sheep and the outdoors, and you’re inside with the food. Should be the other way around.’

‘Not if you saw the grub we get. It’s bad enough even when we’re not in the trenches. All our billet spent last Sunday afternoon dreaming of roast lamb with the fixings. You know—parsnips and roast pumpkin, roast potato and cauliflower cheese. Ah well,
fabas indulcet fames
.’

Midge frowned. ‘I’m sorry?’

He smiled. ‘No, I apologise. I have a habit of Latin tags. Got into it at school. It means “Hunger sweetens beans” or “Hunger makes everything taste good”!’

She grinned back. ‘No need to apologise. Every time Dougie and Tim came back from school they’d throw Latin and Greek around just to show off to me. Speaking
of food…’ She glanced down at the watch on her lapel. ‘Heavens, I need to get back!’

No time for a sleep now. No time even to change, except her shoes.

He stood up. ‘I’d offer you a lift back, but—’

‘No need. I left my car down by the baker’s. Well, it belongs to Monsieur the Station Master, but he lets us use it sometimes.’

‘What about your driver?’

‘Don’t need one. I learned to drive at home.’

‘Clever girl. Admirable in every way. Look, can I write to you? You don’t have to write back or anything…’

‘Of course I’ll write back.’ She gave him her hand, and he held it for a moment. ‘It’s care of the Egremont Hotel.’

‘Miss Margery Macpherson, care of the Egremont.’

She hesitated, liking the way his eyes wrinkled when he smiled. ‘My friends call me Midge.’

‘Midge?’

‘It’s a small biting insect. It was Dougie’s idea, when I was two,’ she added drily. ‘The name sort of stuck.’

‘Brothers…’ He looked at her consideringly. ‘No, the name doesn’t suit at all.’

‘Too late to change it now.’

‘Midge it is then. And I’m Gordon. Come on. I’ll walk you back to your car.’

22 May 1916

Dear Gordon,

It was grand to get your letter. I loved the story about your uncle being rescued by the pig. I read it out to the other girls and it kept us laughing all morning. I could just imagine that pig sitting up on its chair in the kitchen every morning ever afterwards, waiting for its breakfast like a proper hero.

All is well with us here, though the village is still in mourning over General Gallieni’s death. I wish we had more generals like him! Madame still talks about how he marshalled all the taxi cabs and other cars when the Germans were marching on Paris, as well as all the reserve troops. She is sure Paris would have been lost without him. Our hotel has black garlands over every window. Madame is in black too, but then she is in black every day so that
doesn’t count. But to please her we put on black armbands when we are at the canteen.

The supplies are coming through, though there have been some delays lately, but that is to be expected. Ethel sent a lot of letters to friends of her father who are in the grocery trade too, and at times we now have biscuits and sometimes even chocolate to give to the men. The chocolate is greatly appreciated, as you can imagine, as the men can take it with them—as long as they do not leave it in their pocket like one poor Tommy who then sat down on it. You should have seen the mess! Poor boy. It looked as though he’d had the most embarrassing accident.

I hope you don’t mind my reading your letters to the other girls. They all send their best wishes, as I do too.

Your friend,

Midge Macpherson

31 May 1916

Dear Midge,

Another week has passed since I wrote to you last and by and large it has been an easy and quiet time. The men have been doing navvying on the nearby roads. I think it was Napoleon who said an army marches on its stomach. Well, ours marches in ruts big enough to bury a cart horse unless the roads are maintained pretty regularly. We can hear the shells over the hills but are pretty much out of it. It was strange today to watch the horses ploughing the fields unaware that a stray shell might plummet down, destroying them.

You’d hardly know you were in France these days. I think I’ve only seen six French in the past week, and those were mostly horses. It is all Tommies and Anzacs where we are.

I don’t know when we are for the front again, but my big news is that I am getting leave—two whole days of it. Could you bear to spend one of them with me, or even both? I could arrive on the ten past eight train—or whatever time it chooses to get in these days. Would Madame at your hotel be able to put me up? I can fit in with any plans you have. Or to bring up another of those Latin tags:
Malum consilium quod mutari non potest
—‘It’s a bad plan that you can’t change!’

Do let me know if this would be an imposition. But as much as your letters mean to me, I would very much like to see you again in person.

I remain, yours sincerely,

Gordon Marks

11 June 1916

Dear Gordon,

I have only time for a short note—things have been so hectic here. Please excuse all the blots too. My pen is weeping tonight—the ink here is so old it has lumps in it, or perhaps Madame makes it out of soot. I would so like to see you. I will arrange for the others to take my shifts so I can spend the whole two days with you.
Carpe diem
! (I do know that much Latin! Or is it Greek?) And
mirabile dictu
too! (I got that one from Anne.)

Madame will have a room for you. She is so impressed that Anne has a title that she does whatever she can for us, and perhaps she is a little grateful for what we do for ‘
la belle France
’ as well. Anyway, she will give you the room of her sister’s husband’s nephew, who cleans the shoes and lights the fires and tends the geese in the afternoons, and he can sleep with his family and run back to the hotel for his
petit-déjeuner
.

I am so looking forward to seeing you.

Your affectionate friend,

Midge

‘Happy birthday, old thing.’

Midge looked down at the parcel in Anne’s hand. ‘What is it? Chocolate! Oh, you darling. I thought we’d given out the last weeks ago. How did you get it?’

Chocolate was their one luxury, to be nibbled in the cold corners of the night, when faces blurred and it seemed the whole world was cocoa and cans of bully beef.

‘It’s from both of us. Ethel and I have been saving our ration for the past fortnight. Chocolate’s bad for my spots, anyway.’ Anne grinned from her seat on the bed. She was on the day shift too today. Her apron still held its morning crispness, freshly ironed by Beryl as though it had been a morning dress back home. ‘Now, of course, your lovely
captain will bring you a whole box of chocs and our effort will be put in the shade.’

‘He’s not “my captain”. He’s…’ What was he, wondered Midge. Her friend?

Anne’s grin grew wider. She put on a cockney accent. ‘He’s the bloke you’re walkin’ out with, that’s what.’

‘We haven’t done any walking yet!’

‘True. But you’ve written to him every second day for the last month.
And
you let him call you by your first name.’

‘How do you—’

‘I saw one of his letters. No, I didn’t read it. You left it on your bed and I only saw the beginning. Darling, I’m not your aunt. Or your chaperone. What does he look like? A nice warrior Achilles? I always loved Achilles at school. Even Miss Torrens couldn’t spoil him.’

Midge hesitated. ‘He’s…he’s nice, Anne. He makes me think of…oh, things other than the war.’

‘And undoubtedly you do the same for him,’ said Anne drily. ‘My dear, you grab it with both hands. Now, hadn’t you better get dressed? His train will be here soon.’

‘What shall I wear?’

‘As though one had a choice—unless you’ve sent a wire to your aunt for more clothes in the last two days? Blue serge, grey serge, blue wool…’

Midge put down her grey serge and picked up the green one, the colour like the willow trees of home. ‘Anne…do you think one day that you’ll—’

‘Fall in love? I’m immune,’ Anne said lightly. ‘When one knows one’s marriage arrangements have been planned
since the day one was born…well, it puts a crimp in any dreams of love. Every day we’re here I bless the war. I’m probably the only person in the world who does. No debutante season till the war is over. No one to count one’s spots. No feathers in one’s hair and damned court dress. No smiling at every eligible in the stud book for little Anne. Not till my spots are gone and I can do Mummy proud at any rate. Now, darling, you go and enjoy yourself. Make hay while the sun shines and all the rest of it.’

Midge peered out through the limp curtains. ‘It’s raining. Drizzling, anyhow.’

‘What does one make in drizzle then?’ Anne sighed. ‘Cocoa. Another thousand gallons of bloody cocoa.’

‘Anne!’

Anne giggled. ‘Wouldn’t Mummy be shocked. Maybe I should try it when I go home. Give one another bloody sherry, Wilkins. It’d do you good to swear a bit.’

‘I’ll swear when you say “weekend”.’

‘Darling, that middle-class word! Mummy would have pink kittens.’ Anne looked down at the small gold watch on her wrist. It had been a present from Lady George before they left. ‘Darling, I don’t want to hurry you, but what time did you say his train arrived?’

‘Ten past eight. Oh…’ Midge hesitated.

‘Say it, darling. Damn. Bloody hell.’ Anne sighed theatrically. ‘You colonials. Always so proper.’

Midge grinned. ‘Bloody hell then, I’m late. That satisfy you?’ She slid the dress over her petticoat and reached behind to do up the buttons. Anne helped her.

‘What do you plan to do with him?’ she asked.

‘You make it sound like I’m holding up a post office. I don’t know really. Walk to the hotel with him, wait while he leaves his bag. He’s only got the two days’ leave. Maybe a walk along the river if this rain stops. I asked Madame if she could make us some sandwiches for a picnic.’

‘
L’amour parmi les meules de foin
.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Love among the haystacks, darling.’ Anne stretched. ‘To think we could be back in school now. You could be brushing up on your irregular verbs instead of thinking about irregular behaviour.’

Midge was blushing. ‘Anne, I’m not—’

Anne laughed. ‘Don’t mind me. You know, for the first time in my life I feel free. In all the months we’ve been here, no one has known who I am…well, cared, anyhow. You’ve no idea what it’s like to always be the Honourable Anne, to always have people’s eyes on one. To know one has to behave impeccably, not let the side down, don’t you know.’ Her face grew serious. ‘It’s going to be terribly hard to go back to normal life after this.’

‘Maybe the war will go on for ages—another year even,’ Midge said and shivered. ‘Horrible to think it might. Oh, bloody hell, it’s nearly eight o’clock. I
am
late!’

The drizzle had cleared to dappled clouds as she left the hotel. It felt strange to go to the train station and not be working. For once the tiny platform was peaceful. The red geraniums glowed in the sunlight. The station master was
feeding his pig behind his cottage. Even the seat outside the storeroom was empty, of soldiers and the few ordinary travellers. A small boy in ragged shorts wandered down the train track, looking for fallen lumps of coal.

Midge sat, and stretched out her legs.

The train must be late again, she thought. She shut her eyes for a moment. It was so good to sit down, to let the pain seep out of her feet for a while, to feel the sun on her face. For a moment even the distant thunder of the guns faded.

‘Midge?’

She opened her eyes. It was Ethel.

‘Sorry to disturb you, old thing. I just had a note from the brigadier’s office. He says all hell’s going to break loose here later.’

‘He didn’t!’

‘Well, no, he sent his compliments to Miss Carryman and said he thought she might like to know that things could be busy today.’

‘Another push,’ said Midge slowly. ‘I thought there was more noise than usual last night. I counted five dispatch riders’ motorbikes before I went to sleep.’

‘Look, I know you and your captain have only two days, and it’s your birthday too, but do you think you could lend a hand tonight, just for a few hours?’

Midge smiled. ‘If he wants to spend time with me, he can help serve cocoa. It’ll be a good test of his mettle.’

‘Thank you, old thing. Oh, here’s the passenger train now.’

Midge peered down the track at the smoke in the distance, puffing grey and white above the trees. In a few seconds they could hear it, feel the tiny vibrations in the platform, and suddenly there it was: brakes screaming, the windows of its carriages looking blankly out at the station.

Midge frowned. Only two carriages. The ten past eight usually had six or eight, all crammed with men on leave going back home or to Paris.

One of the doors opened. She ran forward. But it was only an elderly woman in a black dress and black shawl. Midge helped her down to the platform. The woman patted her on the arm and thanked her in rapid French, too fast for Midge to understand.

She nodded quickly and said, ‘
Merci, madame
,’ then looked at the other carriage. Its door was still shut, the platform empty. She ran down the train, peering in at the windows. Where was Gordon? Perhaps he had fallen asleep. He must have left really early to get the train…An old man with a newspaper looked at her curiously. Two children argued in a corner while their mother dozed, her basket on her lap. There were no other passengers.

Midge stepped back as the guard blew his whistle. The train grunted, then began to roll away.

‘Midge.’ It was Ethel again. ‘Don’t worry yourself, lass. He must have missed it. He’ll be on the ten o’clock instead.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Midge flatly. She shrugged. ‘No point going back to the hotel. I couldn’t sleep. I may as well give you a hand till then.’

‘Better put an apron on your good dress then.’ Ethel eyed her leaf green dress, with the white fur tipped on her shoulders.

They walked up the platform together. Suddenly Ethel said, ‘Can you hear something?’

Midge listened. ‘An engine. A truck or something.’

Ethel shook her head. ‘Not just one truck…’

They ran to the courtyard as the first of an endless line of ambulances arrived.

There was no time to think. Stretcher after stretcher lined the platform, crammed side by side. Men slumped against the walls outside, their faces bandaged, their uniforms bloodstained. And still the trucks and ambulances kept coming.

No lining up for cocoa now. Once more the girls worked in strict order, Anne and Beryl handing cocoa and sandwiches to those who could walk, who had hands to hold the cup or bread, while the others knelt beside the stretchers, offering what they could.

The morning passed. No ten o’clock passenger train arrived, but another hospital train, with so many carriages that it was impossible to see the end. Red Cross nurses, army orderlies and ambulance drivers lifted stretcher after stretcher onto the train; the walking wounded helped one another hobble into the carriages.

And then the train was gone. The platform was empty. But not for long. More ambulances arrived, and trucks too, their trays lined with bloodstained hay. More men,
with the blank faces of those whose world had narrowed into pain and waiting. Waiting for help. For home. For whatever tomorrow might bring…

The platform was full again. Even the courtyard was crammed, stretchers lying on the muddy gravel as the trucks unloaded their grim cargo and rumbled off again. And still they came…

Another train. The stretchers were loaded on. A lull.

Ethel was grim-faced. ‘We’re out of milk. Nearly out of cocoa too.’

Midge stared at her. ‘We can’t stop now.’

‘And we won’t if I have anything to do with it. These men deserve better than a pannikin of slop.’ Ethel pulled off her apron. ‘Here, take this. I’ll be back in an hour, maybe more.’