‘Killigarth Station, but Max is in the bush about a mile away, close to that newfangled windmill.’ She pedalled faster as her sense of urgency increased. ‘Please, whoever you are, send help quick. He’s very badly injured.’

‘I’m Mrs Terence Morgan, and the minute my husband is out of theatre I’ll give him your message.’

‘How long will that be?’

‘Not too long now,’ the other woman soothed. ‘Perhaps you could give me some idea of Max’s injuries, so Terence can be prepared?’

Sal was perspiring and her heart was racing as she carried on pedalling and gave the irritatingly calm woman at the other end of the line all the salient details she knew. ‘I have to get back to him,’ she finished breathlessly. ‘We’ll be by the windmill.’ She didn’t wait for a response and cut the connection.

Racing back into the kitchen, she hunted out clean cloths that would do for bandages, two small bottles of antiseptic and a wad of cotton wool. Then she filled an abandoned water-bag to the brim and, after a slight hesitation, also took the half-bottle of brandy that was on the dresser. As she ran back towards the front door she snatched up two blankets and a cushion from a couch and tied everything in a bundle before clattering through the screens.

Molly was standing by the steps, happily munching the withered remains of several pot plants. She clearly didn’t like the noises Sal was making, or the way she tried to grab her mane, for she rolled her eyes and, with a snort of displeasure, skittered off.

‘Molly, get back here,’ yelled Sal, the tears of frustration running down her face as she set off after her.

Molly tossed her head and flicked her tail, then kicked up her heels and headed in the opposite direction at a fast gallop.

Sal knew when she was beaten. She tightened the knot on the bundle, slung it over her shoulder and broke into a stumbling run across the clearing. ‘Let him be all right,’ she muttered as she ran. ‘Please, please let him be all right.’

*

Gwyneth had set Frances Baker to work in the kitchen making piles of sandwiches and endless cups of tea. She kept an eye on her as well as on the native girls who were ironing the fresh linen while she sterilised the medical instruments and rolled bandages in preparation for the next influx of patients.

They’d had a busy afternoon, with men coming in with burns, smoke inhalation, heatstroke and exhaustion – as well as a multitude of accidents caused by the misuse of axes and other sharp objects. It was quite like old times and, despite the fact she couldn’t move about too easily, and it was a damned nuisance not being able to talk properly, Gwyneth felt useful.