Mary Grant Bruce

Excerpt: ..."And now you're a hardened old warrior-I've only played at it so far." "But you were gassed, weren't you?" "Yes-but we hadn't had much war before they gassed us. That was the annoying part." "Well, didn't you have a little private war in Ireland? What about that German submarine?" "Oh, that was sheer luck," said Wally joyfully. "Such a lark-only for one thing. But we don't consider we've earned our keep yet." "Oh, well, you've got lots of time," Harry said. "I wonder if they'll send any of us to France-it would be rather fun if we got somewhere in your part of the line." "Yes, wouldn't it?" Then Jack Blake, who had been at school with the boys, came up with Dick Harrison, and England ceased to exist for the five Australians. They talked of their own country-old days at school; hard-fought battles on the Melbourne Cricket Ground; boat-racing on the Yarra; Billabong and other stations; bush-fires and cattle-yarding; long days on the road with cattle, and nights spent watching them under the stars. All the grim business of life that had been theirs since those care-free days seemed but to make their own land dearer by comparison. Not that they said so, in words. But they lingered over their talk with an unspoken delight in being at home again-even in memory. Norah slipped away, regretfully enough, after a time: her responsibilities as housekeeper weighed upon her, and she sought Miss de Lisle in the kitchen. "What, your brother and Mr. Wally? How delightful " ejaculated the cook-lady. "That's what I call really jolly. Their rooms are always ready, I suppose?" "Oh, yes," Norah said. "I've told Bride to put sheets on the beds." "Then that's all right. Dinner? My dear, you need never worry about a couple extra for dinner in a household of this size. Just tell the maids to lay the table accordingly, and let me know-that is all you need do." "Mrs. Atkins had destroyed my nerve " said Norah, laughing. "I came down to tell you with the same...

"Wish Dad would come," she said aloud, puckering her brow over a knot in the silk. "He's late-and it is jolly dull without him." The knot came free, and the needles raced as though making up for lost time. Two dogs lay on the grass: a big sleepy collie that only moved occasionally to snap at a worrying fly; and an Irish terrier, plainly showing by his restlessness that he despised a lazy life, and longed for action. He caught his mistress's eye at last, and jumped up with a little whine. "If YOU had the heel of a sock to turn, Puck," said Norah, "you'd be more steady. Lie down, old man.

Norah's home was on a big station in the north of Victoria-so large that you could almost, in her own phrase, "ride all day and never see any one you didn't want to see"; which was a great advantage in Norah's eyes. Not that Billabong Station ever seemed to the little girl a place that you needed to praise in any way. It occupied so very modest a position as the loveliest part of the world The homestead was built on a gentle rise that sloped gradually away on every side; in front to the wide plain, dotted with huge gum trees and great grey box groves, and at the back, after you had passed through the well-kept vegetable garden and orchard, to a long lagoon, bordered with trees and fringed with tall bulrushes and waving reeds. The house itself was old and quaint and rambling, part of the old wattle and dab walls yet remaining in some of the outhouses, as well as the grey shingle roof. There was a more modern part, for the house had been added to from time to time by different owners, though no additions had been made since Norah's father brought home his young wife, fifteen years before this story opens. Then he had built a large new wing with wide and lofty rooms, and round all had put a very broad, tiled verandah. The creepers had had time to twine round the massive posts in those fifteen years, and some even lay in great masses on the verandah roof; tecoma, pink and salmon-coloured; purple bougainvillea, and the snowy mandevillea clusters. Hard-headed people said this was not good for the building-but Norah's mother had planted them, and because she had loved them they were never touched.

Mary Grant Bruce: Selective Works By Mary Grant Bruce