Free A Rose for the Anzac Boys by Jackie French

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. Speakingof 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