Read Online A Rose for the Anzac Boys by Jackie French - Free Book Online
Authors: Jackie French
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to them this week—and thank Aunt for the socks. She sent a big package of rock cakes too. Though as they took nearlythree weeks to reach me they were rock cakes indeed, but there is no need to tell her that.
Your loving brother,
Dougie.
14 January 1916
Dear Dougie,
I hope you got the Christmas pudding. I made it myself in Madame’s kitchen. Anne says if you don’t want to eat it you can lob it at the enemy. I didn’t think it was THAT bad, but after all it is the first one I have made! We all had a stir of it for luck, and all our love and best wishes went into it.
Everyone here is still trying to come to terms with the retreat from Gallipoli. It is hard to believe that so much was lost for nothing. There is a lot of criticism of Sir John French in the papers and Kitchener too. But the evacuation seems to have been a triumph.
We had a busy Christmas here. Aunt Harriet’s Comforts Committee sent us more than 200 puddings! They even had sixpences in them. We were able to give every man a slice on Christmas Day, as well as extra cigarettes. At midnight some of the ambulance girls sang ‘Silent Night’. It was very moving. For the first time we have mostly Tommies here now, so at least they understood the words! My French is improving but it is still hard to make myself understood sometimes.
If there is any chance of leave in England do let me know in time and I will find someone to take over for me here for a fewdays somehow. It would be so wonderful to see you. I miss you and Tim and home so very much. But it is easier now I am working here, not just twiddling my thumbs at school.
I still haven’t heard from Tim, but Uncle Thomas says that mail from the Turkish prisoners of war is only just starting to get through, so we may get a letter from him any day now.
Your loving sister,
Midge
1 MAY 1916
The baker’s shop was small, like a cupboard. It smelled of burnt flour, smothering the scent of spring and chestnut trees. The wire bread racks behind the counter were empty; the lunchtime loaves bought and sliced and eaten.
Midge tried again. ‘ Pourriez-vous dire Monsieur —’
The woman narrowed her dark eyes, then broke into another torrent of speech. The meaning was obvious. Monsieur the Baker was not there.
‘ Je comprends. Je comprends. Mais pourriez-vous lui dire que les pains ne sont assez lourds. Non, non—je veux dire qu’il n’y a pas assez des pains —’ 1 The woman broke in with another burst of talk.
Either my French is even worse than I thought, Midge decided, or she’s deliberately trying to confuse me. Probably both.
‘ S’il vous plaît, madame… No, madame, don’t go. I mean, ne pas aller, s’il vous plait .’
‘Hey, Harry, she’s English!’
Midge turned as two large bodies filled the shop’s doorway. ‘I am not.’
‘Stone the flaming crows, she’s a flaming Aussie!’
‘Watch your language,’ ordered the man called Harry. He was so tall he had to bend his head to pass under the lintel. Even in the dimness his hair shone like sunlight on winter grass. Both men were in uniform, with the peaked caps of Australian army privates.
‘I’m not Australian either! I’m from New Zealand.’
‘Hey, a Kiwi! Well, they’re white men too. Except for the Maoris, of course.’ He pronounced it ‘mowrees’. ‘Them Kiwis can outfight any blighter this side of Flanders. Except for us, of course,’ he added.
‘Can it, Fred.’ Harry slapped him lightly on the shoulder, then held out his large hand to Midge. ‘Harry Harrison. And this gorilla is Fred Randall. Don’t mind him, miss. Some idiot’s been feeding him meat.’
Midge felt the hand gently shake hers. As though he thinks I might break, she thought. ‘I’m Margery Macpherson.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Macpherson.’ Harry looked over at the shopkeeper who was standing with her arms crossed, glaring at them as though they were the invaders, not the Germans. ‘You need a hand here?’
‘I don’t
Your loving brother,
Dougie.
14 January 1916
Dear Dougie,
I hope you got the Christmas pudding. I made it myself in Madame’s kitchen. Anne says if you don’t want to eat it you can lob it at the enemy. I didn’t think it was THAT bad, but after all it is the first one I have made! We all had a stir of it for luck, and all our love and best wishes went into it.
Everyone here is still trying to come to terms with the retreat from Gallipoli. It is hard to believe that so much was lost for nothing. There is a lot of criticism of Sir John French in the papers and Kitchener too. But the evacuation seems to have been a triumph.
We had a busy Christmas here. Aunt Harriet’s Comforts Committee sent us more than 200 puddings! They even had sixpences in them. We were able to give every man a slice on Christmas Day, as well as extra cigarettes. At midnight some of the ambulance girls sang ‘Silent Night’. It was very moving. For the first time we have mostly Tommies here now, so at least they understood the words! My French is improving but it is still hard to make myself understood sometimes.
If there is any chance of leave in England do let me know in time and I will find someone to take over for me here for a fewdays somehow. It would be so wonderful to see you. I miss you and Tim and home so very much. But it is easier now I am working here, not just twiddling my thumbs at school.
I still haven’t heard from Tim, but Uncle Thomas says that mail from the Turkish prisoners of war is only just starting to get through, so we may get a letter from him any day now.
Your loving sister,
Midge
1 MAY 1916
The baker’s shop was small, like a cupboard. It smelled of burnt flour, smothering the scent of spring and chestnut trees. The wire bread racks behind the counter were empty; the lunchtime loaves bought and sliced and eaten.
Midge tried again. ‘ Pourriez-vous dire Monsieur —’
The woman narrowed her dark eyes, then broke into another torrent of speech. The meaning was obvious. Monsieur the Baker was not there.
‘ Je comprends. Je comprends. Mais pourriez-vous lui dire que les pains ne sont assez lourds. Non, non—je veux dire qu’il n’y a pas assez des pains —’ 1 The woman broke in with another burst of talk.
Either my French is even worse than I thought, Midge decided, or she’s deliberately trying to confuse me. Probably both.
‘ S’il vous plaît, madame… No, madame, don’t go. I mean, ne pas aller, s’il vous plait .’
‘Hey, Harry, she’s English!’
Midge turned as two large bodies filled the shop’s doorway. ‘I am not.’
‘Stone the flaming crows, she’s a flaming Aussie!’
‘Watch your language,’ ordered the man called Harry. He was so tall he had to bend his head to pass under the lintel. Even in the dimness his hair shone like sunlight on winter grass. Both men were in uniform, with the peaked caps of Australian army privates.
‘I’m not Australian either! I’m from New Zealand.’
‘Hey, a Kiwi! Well, they’re white men too. Except for the Maoris, of course.’ He pronounced it ‘mowrees’. ‘Them Kiwis can outfight any blighter this side of Flanders. Except for us, of course,’ he added.
‘Can it, Fred.’ Harry slapped him lightly on the shoulder, then held out his large hand to Midge. ‘Harry Harrison. And this gorilla is Fred Randall. Don’t mind him, miss. Some idiot’s been feeding him meat.’
Midge felt the hand gently shake hers. As though he thinks I might break, she thought. ‘I’m Margery Macpherson.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Macpherson.’ Harry looked over at the shopkeeper who was standing with her arms crossed, glaring at them as though they were the invaders, not the Germans. ‘You need a hand here?’
‘I don’t
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