A Rose for the Anzac Boys by Jackie French Page A

faces covered in damp cloths. Jumbo, Slogger and Boadicea must be picking up gas cases tonight, Midge thought. Mustard gas caused temporary blindness; the only relief was watersoaked bandages over the eyes till the men could get better help in England.
    Jumbo settled her men down against the waiting room wall, then reappeared with Slogger, each carrying one end of a stretcher. The girls put the stretcher down by the other men. Jumbo knelt and smiled and gestured up at the canteen, obviously asking if the men would like a drink. Midge nodded to their new assistant.
    ‘Better start taking trays down the platform—the stretcher cases can’t come and get it, and the men who’ve been gassed can’t see. They may need you to hold their pannikins while they drink too. No need to hurry. Just let them take their time.’
    The girl nodded. Her name was Lena, Midge remembered—there were now so many volunteers it was hard to keep them straight. She had five brothers, three in Flanders, two still young enough to stay at home.
    ‘Hello, old thing.’ Slogger’s voice sounded flat and strained.
    Midge held out a pannikin of cocoa. ‘Here. You look like you could do with it.’
    ‘Thanks.’ Slogger reached out, then looked on helplessly as the pannikin slid from her fingers. The hot cocoa splashed across Midge’s apron.
    ‘Oh bloody hell!’ The girl suddenly began to cry. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I just can’t help it.’
    Midge glanced down at Slogger’s hands, then stared. Even by the dim lantern light she could see they were red and oozing pus.
    Jumbo ran up to the counter. ‘Darling, I told you your hands were too bad to go out tonight.’
    The tears turned to hiccups as Slogger tried to swallow the sobs, then giggles as Dolores started to lick up the muddy dregs of cocoa. ‘They’re not as bad as they look. Well, all right, they are. Trouble is, one’s hands are always wet and raw, and we’re always handling infected wounds.’
    ‘How can you drive like that?’ Midge asked.
    ‘I can’t. Except one has to keep going, doesn’t one?’
    Midge stared—at the hands; at the face, white and pinched with cold and exhaustion. ‘Can’t you do the driving?’ she asked Jumbo.
    ‘Me?’ Jumbo shook her head. ‘Never learned.’ She looked at Slogger helplessly. ‘If Slogger can’t drive that puts me and Boadicea out of action too. We don’t have any spare drivers at all at the moment.’
    Midge came to a decision. ‘I can drive.’
    ‘You can?’ Slogger looked at her suspiciously, despite the pain and exhaustion. ‘Are you sure? Really drive?’
    ‘Yes. I used to drive all the time back home. In New Zealand.’
    Slogger hesitated, obviously unwilling to trust her beloved Boadicea to a novice. ‘Yes, but these roads—they’re not roads at all mostly. There’s mud and ruts and—’
    Midge laughed. ‘I used to drive our Ford across the paddocks to pick up a sick sheep! And you should see the tracks about Glen Donal after the rain. I remember when the causeway was washed out for weeks and…well, anyway. I can drive. And I’ll take over if you like.’
    Slogger looked half relieved, half anxious, despite her pain. ‘You can be spared here?’
    Midge nodded. ‘I’ll go and fix it with Ethel,’ she said quietly. ‘You sit down. And then I’ll drive you home.’

Chapter 8
    (undated)
    Glen Donal
    New Zealand
    Dear Miss Margery,
    I take up my pen to write to you because Campbell isn’t one for writing much and besides he was out late last night with the lambs we being short-handed with so many men away. But you aren’t to worry, nor Mr Dougie nor Master Tim neither, as all is good here, which is what Campbell wanted me to let you know.
    You will be glad to hear I have been giving your poor mother’s silver a good polish regular, and the curtains closed in the front rooms so the carpets and the furniture covers won’t fade while you are away. I was going to send scones because your father always