Free Nightingale by Fiona McIntosh Page B

whole meadows of searing red.’ His voice had taken on a faraway quality, and when he returned to the ward full of sleeping men where they sat, he shrugged. ‘Makes you want to write about it.’
    â€˜You should,’ she urged, delighted by his vivid description. ‘You’ve made me want to see it for myself now. Are you a shearer?’
    He grinned and she found his amusement disarming. It felt like each time he smiled, he stripped away another layer of her.
    â€˜My family are landowners in the region – it’s a distant spot. There are four of us sons. Dad wouldn’t let Hugh or Robert go to war – they’re both needed on the farm. And my mother refused young John, even though he wanted to run away with me.’
    â€˜But they let you go?’
    She saw the tightening around his generous mouth and the lines on his cheeks shifted. Those would deepen as he aged – and they would suit him, if he lived long enough. ‘I’m twenty-seven. I guess you could say I’m the middle son. My father fought in the Boer War. He agreed that the Wrens should do their part in this one. But don’t read them wrong. We’re a close family in our own way. I reckon Mum will still be setting a table for six and demanding Dad check the mail for my letters even when she knows there won’t be one.’
    â€˜Sounds like you all love each other,’ she admitted, wishing she could wrap herself in a similar cocoon of affection even for a day or two. ‘So, let’s start cleaning this wound out. Tell me about them . . . your family. Tell me about your father.’
    She watched his expression cloud slightly. ‘He’s a tricky person to explain because he’s not easy to get to know.’
    â€˜You’ve been with him all your life.’
    â€˜Dad’s a closed book. He refuses to be read.’
    She smiled at that. ‘My dad was the opposite – he was so affectionate and he’d get excited over the smallest stuff. I miss that in my life. I think I’ve become introverted because he’s not around.’ She nodded at the mug. ‘Drink your tea. The sugar will help. I’m sure your father worries in his quiet hours about you over here. He’s been to war, you say, so he knows what you’re facing, understands the dangers.’
    â€˜Mum says his distant air is a product of his upbringing. He was an orphan, raised on hundreds of acres by mainly shearers, no other children, no women, and then thrown into Adelaide at seven to be watched over by maiden aunts who gave little love but plenty of criticism. Mum always reminds me that I should hold some pity for him because he really does do his best by us all.’
    â€˜She’s right. Four sons. He must believe his job is to make men of you.’
    â€˜Have you and my mother been talking?’ he asked with a cheeky wink and in that moment Claire was sure she could see the boy that Jamie must have been. ‘The strange thing is that there’s no doubting the love between him and Mum.’
    In her daydreams Claire liked to imagine that her parents were inseparable when her mother was alive and that everyone around them could see they were deeply in love. ‘Go on.’ She found Jamie’s husky voice irresistible with his fresh South Australian country accent.
    â€˜He’s got this . . . er, well, this steely sort of gaze.’ Jamie tried to mimic it. ‘I swear he could herd sheep with his scary light-blue stare.’
    Claire gusted with laughter.
    â€˜But you know, that hard look over the moustache that never seems to move, even when he talks, it just seems to soften whenever Mum’s around.’
    Claire stopped laughing and felt her heart melt. ‘I think it’s so special that you notice.’
    He nodded. ‘That’s how I want it to be.’
    â€˜When you fall in love, you mean?’
    He didn’t meet her