Read Online A Rose for the Anzac Boys by Jackie French - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jackie French
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hotel. Her lovely hard narrow bed and the glorious four hours’ sleep she might get before working through the night. But coffee with Captain Marks sounded even better than sleep.
The chicory-flavoured coffee was hot and bitter, but at least it wasn’t cocoa.
‘I still can’t quite believe it.’ Captain Marks sat back in his chair outside the café and sipped at his coffee. The young leaves of the chestnut trees dappled the light around them. ‘The three of you, running that canteen. Pardon me, but you look so young. If you don’t mind my asking—exactly how old are you?’
‘Sixteen.’
He blinked. ‘My word.’
‘Well, nearly seventeen actually,’ Midge assured him. ‘Sorry, I had to think if I’d had my birthday yet. We’ve been so short-handed lately I haven’t had time to think. It started off as six of us, then eight. But Mrs Chiswick had to go home to nurse her son—he was wounded at Loos—and Ellen left to be married. So there’s only six of us again at the moment. We used to work three shifts of eight hours each, but now it’s twelve hours on, twelve hours off. If we’re lucky.’
‘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 hehad 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
The chicory-flavoured coffee was hot and bitter, but at least it wasn’t cocoa.
‘I still can’t quite believe it.’ Captain Marks sat back in his chair outside the café and sipped at his coffee. The young leaves of the chestnut trees dappled the light around them. ‘The three of you, running that canteen. Pardon me, but you look so young. If you don’t mind my asking—exactly how old are you?’
‘Sixteen.’
He blinked. ‘My word.’
‘Well, nearly seventeen actually,’ Midge assured him. ‘Sorry, I had to think if I’d had my birthday yet. We’ve been so short-handed lately I haven’t had time to think. It started off as six of us, then eight. But Mrs Chiswick had to go home to nurse her son—he was wounded at Loos—and Ellen left to be married. So there’s only six of us again at the moment. We used to work three shifts of eight hours each, but now it’s twelve hours on, twelve hours off. If we’re lucky.’
‘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 hehad 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
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