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 suppose either of you can speak French?’ Midge asked. ‘Or at least speak it better than I can?’
Fred grinned. ‘Inky-pinky parley-voo, and that’s about the strength of it. Hey, I saw the captain go by a minute or two ago, but. I reckon he speaks the lingo like a native.’
‘Well, don’t just stand there,’ ordered Harry. ‘The lady’s waiting. Go get him.’
Fred gave an ironical salute and ducked through the door again.
‘Don’t mind him.’ Harry’s voice was suddenly serious. ‘Been months since we spoke to a sheila. Reckon it’s gone to his head. You’re really from New Zealand? What are you doing here?’
‘Some friends and I run the canteen at the railway station,’ Midge explained. ‘And yes, I really am from New Zealand. Glen Donal. It’s up country from Christchurch on the South Island. Do you know it?’
He shook his head. ‘Geography isn’t my strong suit, miss. Sheep country, is it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, what do you know? We’ve got sheep. Merinos.’
Suddenly Glen Donal seemed so close she could smell it. ‘We have merinos too! Lincolns as well, for the fat lambs, but the wool clip is—’ She broke off as another man came into the shop.
‘Miss Macpherson, is it? I’m Gordon Marks, Captain Marks. Private Randall here said that you needed some help.’
She looked at him gratefully, liking what she saw. Dark hair under his cap. Tall—were all these Australians tall? Or maybe she’d just been seeing French and Englishmen for so long…
‘Would you mind? You speak French?’ Then, as he nodded, ‘I’ve been trying to tell Madame here that the baker hasn’t been delivering all the bread that we’ve ordered. I…we…run the canteen at the station. We give him a hundred kilos of flour each baking, but he’s only been giving us a hundred kilos of bread.’
‘Sounds fair—’ began Fred.
‘Thank you, Randall. I’ll handle it from here.’
The young man grinned. ‘Officers only, eh? Come on, Harry. We’re not wanted.’
‘I…well, thank you.’ Midge was strangely sorry to see the two privates go. Was it the talk of home, of sheep—sanity in an insane world?
‘Our pleasure, miss.’ Harry sketched a vague salute.
Midge watched them leave, then turned to Captain Marks. ‘They were kind,’ she explained.
‘They’re good men. Now, this flour?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. A hundred kilos of flour should give us nearly two hundred kilos of bread, because the flour is mixed with water and water is heavy. I think he thinks we’re fools and he can cheat us.’
‘Does he now? Let’s see what we can do.’
Midge watched. Two minutes of talk later the woman fetched the baker. After five minutes of argument, Captain Marks turned back to her. ‘He says, one hundred and fifty kilograms.’
‘Cent quatre-vingt-dix!’2 said Midge
‘Cent quatre-vingts!’3 the baker replied.
‘D’accord.4 Captain Marks, would you mind telling him that we will weigh the loaves, so there is no point trying to cheat us. And the bread must be made from firstclass flour—the actual flour we give him. No potato flour or bran or acorn flour. We will check that too.’
Another exchange of French, then he smiled down at her. ‘I don’t think he’ll try to cheat you again.’
‘He’d better not,’ said Midge. She began to tug her gloves on.
Captain Marks hesitated. ‘Look, I know we haven’t been properly introduced…’
‘Yes, we have. Private—what was his name—Harrison introduced us very nicely. Well, almost.’
He smiled at that. ‘Well then, as we’ve been almost introduced, I wonder if you’d care to join me for a cup of coffee? There’s a café a few doors down.’
It was as though the world suddenly shifted. For months Midge had spoken to thousands of men a day. But this was different. One man and her…She felt a flush stain her neck. Like a schoolgirl, she thought. What would Aunt Harriet say?
She thought of her bed waiting for her in the 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 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.’
* * *
1‘I understand. I understand. But could you say to him that the loaves are not sufficiently heavy. No, no—I want to say that there is not enough bread—’
2‘One hundred and ninety!’
3‘One hundred and eighty!’
4‘All right.’
Chapter 6
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
4 JUNE 1916
‘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.’
A Rose for the Anzac Boys Page 6