‘Yeah, so am I.’ He gave her a wan smile. ‘I’d better go and get those supplies before she wakes up. Sandra’s inclined to get edgy when she’s hungover, and I don’t want Mum to have to deal with it.’

‘But you need to rest, Terry,’ she protested.

‘How can I when she’s likely to go off hunting for more booze?’

‘Send her over here,’ said Becky rather briskly. ‘There’s plenty to keep her occupied, and we can keep an eye on her at the same time.’

He gave a great sigh of relief. ‘Thanks, Becks, you’re a star.’

She watched as he hurried down the street towards the general store. Poor Terry – he was clearly at his wits’ end to know what to do about Sandra, and if she discovered who the hell had given her that damned whisky, they’d get the sharp end of her tongue. She turned away and went into the ward, her carefully set smile belying her inner turmoil.

The men were definitely feeling better. They were all awake and grumbling about the lateness of their breakfast and the lack of a decent cup of tea. She was about to go to the kitchen to see what had caused the delay when Sarah and her sister entered the ward pushing clattering trolleys loaded with plates and vast tin teapots. As the native girls handed out the food and poured the tea, Becky left them to it and went to look in on her grandmother.

Gwyneth was also awake, her hair standing on end, her expression determined as she struggled to pull her clean trousers on over the thick bandage.

Becky rushed to her side. ‘Let me help you, Gran,’

‘You’ll do no such thing,’ she said through her tightly bound jaw. ‘The last time someone dressed me I was five. Go and find something sensible to do and leave me be.’

‘But it’s silly to struggle when—’

‘Go,’ she said fiercely.

Becky knew when she was beaten. ‘I’ll go if you promise to eat your breakfast first and not try to walk home on your own,’ she said sternly.

Gwyneth gave a deep sigh of aggravation and mumbled something under her breath which Becky suspected was none too polite.

Becky handed her the clean blouse which lay on a nearby chair and closed the door behind her. Gran was as obstinate and independent as a mule, and she wouldn’t put it past her to make a bid for freedom the minute she was dressed – but short of actually locking her in, there wasn’t much she could do about it.

The answer came in the bustling form of Louise Harper, who was approaching with a tray laden with porridge and scrambled egg – Gwyneth was on a strict soft-food diet. ‘And how is Gwyneth this morning?’ she asked cheerfully.

‘Fighting fit,’ she replied.