‘Cups of tea without chlorinated water.’

‘Cold English beer.’

‘No such thing, mate.’

Normally heat like this would have left them all listless, the patients dozing on their beds, the nurses moving slowly between them, wiping damp faces with cool cloths, checking for ulcers, infection, dysentery. But the imminent departure of the POWs, the fact that they were mending, that they were here at all, had injected something into the atmosphere. Perhaps it was the sudden realisation that long-standing units, tightly knit groups that had supported each other through the horror of the last years, were about to be disbanded, separated by miles, in some cases continents, and might not meet again.

Audrey Marshall, watching the people before her, felt her throat constrict – a sensation so rare that she was briefly perplexed by it. Suddenly she understood the girls’ need to party, the men’s determination to drink, dance and plough their way with forced merriment through these last hours together. ‘Tell you what,’ she said, gesturing towards the drip in the corner, where one of the physiotherapists was drinking beer from a false limb, ‘make mine a large one.’

The singing started not long afterwards: ‘Shenandoah’. The reedy, drink-lubricated voices drifted through the canvas into the night sky.

It was half-way through the chorus that the girl entered. Audrey didn’t see her at first – the whisky had perhaps dulled the sharp senses that usually ensured she missed nothing. But as she raised her own voice in song, enjoying the sight of the recovering men singing in their beds, the nurses clutching each other, their eyes occasionally welling with sentimental tears, she became aware of a sudden froideur, the sideways glances that told her something had changed.

She was standing in the doorway, her pale, freckled face porcelain still, her thin shoulders erect in her uniform as she took in the scene before her. She was holding a small suitcase and a kitbag. Not much to show for six years in the Australian General Hospital. She stared into the crowded tent as if it had altered her resolve to come in, as if she were about to change her mind. Then she caught Audrey Marshall looking at her, and walked over slowly, staying as close as she could to the side of the tent.

‘Packed already, Sister?’

She hesitated before she spoke. ‘I’ll be boarding the hospital ship tonight, Matron, if it’s all right by you. They could do with a bit of help with the very sick men.’

‘They didn’t ask me,’ said Audrey, trying not to sound aggrieved.

The girl looked at the floor. ‘I – I offered. I hope you don’t mind. I thought I could be of more use . . . that you probably didn’t need me any more.’ With the music it was difficult to hear her.

‘You don’t want to stay and have a last few drinks with us?’ Even as she said it Audrey wasn’t sure why she’d asked. In the four years they had worked together Sister Mackenzie had never been one for parties. Now she probably understood why.

‘You’re very kind, but no, thank you.’ She was already looking at the doorway, as if calculating how soon she could leave.

Audrey was about to press the point, unwilling to let her drift off, to let this be the way her years of service should end. But as she tried to find the right words, she became aware that for the most part the girls had stopped dancing. Several of them stood in huddles, their eyes cold, assessing. ‘I’d like to say—’ she began, but one of the men interrupted.

‘Is that Sister Mackenzie? You hiding her there, Matron? Come on, Sister, you can’t go without saying a proper goodbye.’

Private Lerwick was trying to get out of bed. He had put his feet on the ground and was steadying himself with one hand on the iron bedhead. ‘Don’t you go anywhere, Sister. You made me a promise, remember?’

Audrey caught the knowing smirk between Nurse Fisher and the two girls beside her. She glanced at Sister Mackenzie, and realised that she had seen it too. Sister Mackenzie’s hands had tightened on her two bags. She stiffened, then said quietly, ‘I can’t stay, Private. I’ve got to board the hospital ship.’

‘Ah, will you not take a drink with us, Sister? A last drink?’

‘Sister Mackenzie has work to do, Sergeant O’Brien,’ the matron said firmly.

‘Ah, come on. At least shake my hand.’

The girl took a step forward, then went to shake the hands of those men who proffered them. The music had started up again, deflecting attention from her, but even as she moved, Audrey Marshall noted the narrowed eyes of the other nurses, the deliberate turning away of several men. She walked behind her, making sure she wasn’t kept at each bed for too long.

‘You’ve meant the world to me, Sister.’ Sergeant O’Brien held her pale hand in both of his, voice tearful with drink.

‘Nothing that any of us wouldn’t have done,’ she said, a little curtly.

‘Sister! Sister, come here.’ Private Lerwick was reckoning. Audrey saw the girl register him, and then the number of people she would have to pass to get to him. ‘Come on, Sister Mackenzie. You made me a promise, remember?’

‘I really don’t think—’

‘You wouldn’t break a promise to a wounded man, would you, Sister?’ Private Lerwick’s expression was comically hangdog.

The men on each side of him joined in chorus: ‘Come on, Sister, you promised.’

Then the room went very quiet. Audrey Marshall saw the girls step back as they waited to see what Sister Mackenzie would do.

Finally, unable to bear the girl’s dilemma any longer, she intervened: ‘Private, I’ll thank you to get back into your bed.’ She walked briskly across to where he sat. ‘Promise or no promise, you’re not ready to be out of it.’

‘Aw, Matron. Give a guy a break.’

She was lifting his leg back on to the mattress when a voice said, ‘It’s all right, Matron.’ She turned to see the girl standing behind her, face bright. Only the fluttering of her pale hands betrayed her discomfort. ‘I did promise.’

Audrey felt, rather than saw, the gaze of the other women and, despite the heat, felt her skin prickle. ‘If you’re sure, Sister.’

She was a tall girl so she had to stoop as she helped the young man to a sitting position, and then, arm under his shoulders in a long-practised manoeuvre, hauled him to his feet.

For a moment, no one spoke. Then Sergeant Levy yelled for music, and someone jigged the gramophone back into life.

‘Go on, Scottie,’ said the man behind her. ‘Just don’t step on her toes.’

‘I couldn’t dance before,’ he joked, as they moved slowly on to the sandy area that had passed as the dance floor. ‘Two pounds of shrapnel in my knees isn’t going to help none.’

They began to dance. ‘Ah, Sister,’ Audrey heard him say, ‘you don’t know how long I’ve been wishing for this.’

Those men still nearby broke out a spontaneous round of applause. Audrey Marshall found she was clapping too, moved by the sight of the frail man standing tall and proud, beaming to have achieved his modest ambition: to stand on a dance floor again with a woman in his arms. She watched the girl, braving her own discomfort for him, rangy arms tensed to support him if he lost his balance. A kind girl. A good nurse.

That was the saddest part of it.

The music stopped. Private Lerwick sank gratefully into his bed, still grinning despite his obvious exhaustion. Audrey felt her heart sink, knowing that the simple act of kindness would count against the young nurse. Knowing that, as the girl searched with her eyes for her bags, she was aware of it too. ‘I’ll see you out, Sister,’ she said, wanting to save her further exposure.

Private Lerwick was still hanging on to her hand. ‘We know what you’ve all done, coming here in your time off . . . You’ve all been like – like our sisters.’ He broke down and, after a brief hesitation, Sister Mackenzie bent over him, murmuring to him not to upset himself. ‘That’s what I’ll think of when I think of you, Sister. Nothing else. I just wish poor Chalkie . . .’

Audrey placed herself swiftly between them. ‘I’m sure we’re all very grateful to Sister Mackenzie, aren’t we? And I’m sure we’d like to wish her all the best for the future.’

A few nurses clapped politely. A couple of the men exchanged a smirk.

‘Thank you,’ the girl said quietly. ‘Thank you. I’m glad to have known you . . . all . . .’ She bit her lip and glanced towards the door of the tent, apparently desperate to be away.

‘I’ll see you out, Sister.’

‘You take care now, Sister Mackenzie.’

‘Give the boys at home our best.’

‘Tell my missus to warm up my side of the bed.’ This was accompanied by ribald laughter.

Audrey, lifted briefly from her strange, low-level anxiety, observed this with satisfaction. Several weeks ago, some of the men could not have told her their wife’s name.

The two women walked slowly towards the ship, only the sound of their starched uniforms and the soft thud of their shoes on the sand breaking the silence as the sounds of the party faded. They walked the length of the perimeter fence, past the now-deserted rows of hospital tents, the corrugated-iron staff quarters, cookhouse and latrines. They nodded at the security guard on the gate, who saluted, and then, free of the camp, they walked the length of the deserted road to the end of the peninsula, footsteps echoing on the Tarmac, to where the hospital ship sat in the glinting water, illuminated by the moon.

They reached the checkpoint and stopped. Sister Mackenzie stared at the ship, and Audrey Marshall wondered what was going through the girl’s head, suspecting she knew the answer. ‘Not long to Sydney, is it?’ she said, when the silence became awkward.

‘No. Not long at all.’

There were too many inappropriate questions, too many trite answers. Audrey fought the urge to place an arm round the girl, wishing she could better express some of what she felt. ‘You’re doing the right thing, Frances,’ she said, eventually. ‘I’d do the same if I were you.’

The girl looked at her, back straight, eyes level. She had always been guarded, Audrey thought, but in the past weeks her expression had closed over as completely as if it had been cast in marble. ‘Don’t pay any attention to the others,’ she said suddenly. ‘They’re probably just jealous.’

They both knew that wasn’t it.

‘Fresh start, eh?’ she said, holding out her hand.

‘Fresh start.’ Sister Mackenzie shook it firmly. Her hand was cool, despite the heat. Her expression was unreadable. ‘Thank you.’

‘You take care now.’ Audrey was not a woman given to sentiment or high emotion. As the girl turned towards the ship, she nodded, brushing off her slacks and went back towards the camp.

PART TWO

4

Sydney’s most stirring show last week was the departure for England of HMS Victorious with 700 Australian wives of British servicemen aboard. Hours before the ship sailed the road outside the wharf was dense with relatives and friends . . . Mostly the brides were amazingly young.’

The Bulletin, 10 July 1946

Embarkation

Afterwards, she realised she wasn’t sure what she had expected; perhaps some orderly queue of women, suitcases in hand, making their way past the captain. With a shake of his hand and some discreet, perhaps tearful goodbyes, they would walk up the gangplank on to their big white ship. She would wave until her family were out of sight, call a few last-minute instructions about the feeding of the mare, the whereabouts of Mum’s good boots for Letty, then finally her love and goodbyes, her voice echoing across the harbour as the ship slowly pulled out to sea. She would be brave, keep her eyes trained on what she was going to, not what she was leaving behind.