Matron finished and signed her letter and waited a moment for the ink to dry. She was about to fold it into an envelope when she had another thought and added a post-script, initialling this part of the letter with a flourish, adding it to her pile to be sorted later. Then she stood, the old floorboards creaking in the heavy evening heat, and reached around the safe to pick up a rusted tin bucket. She carefully placed it beneath the worst of the gaps in the old roof that was the only protection afforded her office against the elements, so many years of being over-heated in summer and chilled to the bone in winter, so many years of tidying up others’ mess. She would have to tell the night staff to ready their pails and mops, she doubted that even that latest crack of thunder would be warning enough for them, giddy as they were about the coming Christmas festivities. Many, she knew, had been wishing for a good storm to clear the air, but Matron knew a good storm meant only that a fierce light would be shone on the deficiencies of her hospital. She felt inside her pocket, checked that the safe key was there, warm and protected. She turned off the lamp on her desk. She had her torch in her other pocket and there was no sense risking rain getting through and onto a live electrical wire. She walked out into the night, a smattering of stars were just visible through the rapidly gathering clouds. It was still unbearably hot, but finally the cicadas were silent. The storm would be upon them soon.
Rosamund Farquharson had been under orders to return to duty before seven o’clock. Already she was two hours late and had not yet reached the bridge. The bus, she reflected, must be nearly in by now. Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. Soon there wouldn’t be any more petrol anyway. The fat bag on her lap gave her a grand feeling of independence. A hundred pounds! She could see the pay-out clerk peering at her from his window behind the totalisator. ‘You can collect from the Jockey Club’s offices tomorrow, you know.’ Not she! She wanted to feel the notes in her bag. She supposed twenty pounds would have to go to the people she’d bought the car from. And twenty-five to the dress shop. And another five to Maurice. It would be something to be able to pay back that five pounds to Maurice. She’d be very formal when she gave it to him. ‘It was awfully kind of you. I shouldn’t have let you do it. I’ve been quite worried about it. Thank you so much.’ Or would that look as though she’d noticed the change in him? Would it be better to be casually friendly? ‘Oh, by the way, Maurice, here’s your fiver. I’m rolling in wealth, did you know? Had a marvellous day.’ Let him think she was having fun without him. Hint at an exciting encounter at the races. She’d go to Military 1 as soon as she got in, still wearing the races dress. It made her feel something special and he could see it for himself. Sister Comfort would be on duty but she’d make some excuse. She’d say she’d put a few bob on for him at the races. Or would he think she was—? A feeling of the most bitter desolation came upon her. She experienced, like a physical sickness, a realisation that no matter what she did there could be no return to the old days. As though her pain was a sort of emotional toothache, she began to explore its cavities for the sheer horror of aggravating the screaming nerve. He had lent her the fiver because he was uncomfortable about her. The Johnson woman down at the Bridge pub had cut her out. He was crazy about Sukie Johnson, crazier than he had ever been for Rosamund herself, and that was because she could offer him far more than Rosamund ever could. When Rosamund met up with Maurice now, it was only because he was a patient and she a clerk here at Mount Seager. ‘He’s moved on from me,’ she thought in a crescendo of pain. And having reached a point where she could endure her self-torture no longer she began to hunt for an antidote. She would after all win him back. He’d see her tonight in this lovely frock. He’d be as excited as she was about her winnings. In less than a fortnight he’d be sent back to camp, training and up to the minute tactics and all that. He’d be shipped out again soon enough, but before then she’d see him admit to missing her, she’d borrow a studio and throw a marvellous party for him, a farewell, and a welcome of sorts, welcome back Maurice. Rosamund began to weave plans, muffling her pain with vivid dreams of reconciliation and renewed happiness. By the time she got to the end of Long Leg, the antidote had worked and she felt a kind of gaiety that almost matched the vibrance of her beautiful yellow dress.
It was quite dark when she finally reached the bridge. Her small car bumped over the rattling, uneven planks. At the far end, the road divided. It turned sharply to the left through a patch of dense native bush making a wide angle with a track that ran uphill ending at the Bridge Hotel one way or straight ahead to Mount Seager. As Rosamund drove on to the hospital, her dipped headlamps picked up six white objects that moved alongside the road, stopped, and darted back again. She pulled up short and switched on the beam.
The white objects were resolved into pyjama-clad shins, cut off at the bottom by socks and boots and at the top by army great-coats, the poor fellows must have been sweltering in them. Rosamund leaned out of the driving window.
‘And what the hell do you think you’re up to?’ she asked pleasantly.
‘That’s all right, Miss,’ said a sheepish voice. ‘On your way.’
‘Turn them lights off for Gawsake,’ cried a second voice.
Rosamund switched off the lights and produced a torch which she turned on the owner of the sheepish voice, revealing a long sallow face with a disgruntled expression and a pair of watchful eyes.
‘Private Pawcett, I see.’
‘How’re you doing, Rosie? You haven’t seen a thing now, have you?’
‘Who knows?’ said Rosamund. ‘You’re taking a chance, aren’t you? This is the third time. You’ll catch a packet this trip, Bob.’
‘Cut it out, Rosie, be a sport.’
‘We’ll see. Who are your friends?’
The circle of light shifted. A second face, darker than the first, with smart, bright eyes, blinked nervously.
‘Hul-lo!’ said Rosamund. ‘The pride of Military 1 on the razzle. What’s come over our Corporal Brayling? You don’t usually let yourself get mixed up in your mates’ antics, Cuth.’
An unsteady hand moved across his face.
‘He’s fed up,’ Private Pawcett explained. ‘Poor old Cuth’s fed up. Look, his missus is going to have a kid and they won’t let him off to go and see her. He’s feeling that crook about it all he had to do something. Hadn’t you, Cuth?’
‘I wouldn’t of gone to the house,’ Corporal Brayling protested. ‘I told them I wouldn’t go near her. I could’ve just sent a message. I don’t want to give her the fever. I’m OK now anyway, none of us are infectious and we’ll get discharged soon enough. Ah, it’s all no good.’
‘Tough luck,’ said Rosamund lightly.
‘We brought ’im along for a drink,’ Private Pawcett said. ‘He needed it.’
‘“We”?’ Rosamund repeated. ‘That reminds me. I haven’t met the third gentleman.’
The light dodged about a little, momentarily revealing a bank covered in wild thyme and a thicket of dark leafy scrub, before it found the third figure, coming to a stop upon the back of a sleek dark head.
‘Turn