Realising there was little she could do to help, she’d returned to the ward mildly surprised at how efficient Sandra had looked. She hoped that this was her first step to recovery. There was nothing like being dropped in at the deep end to see things more clearly.

As food was the last thing any of her patients needed, Becky had put Sarah and her sisters to work in the laundry; they would soon run out of linen at this rate. The Harper spinsters were thoroughly enjoying themselves now they had eighteen helpless men to boss about, and when Charley Sawyer came in they took particular delight in stripping the blacksmith’s clothes and wrestling him into ill-fitting hospital pyjamas.

Charley was a big man and his feet stuck out past the end of the bed where his mongrel dog whined and tried to lick his toes. To a subdued but enthusiastic chorus of disapproval, the women finally caught the dog and tied it to the front veranda post with a bowl of water and two digestive biscuits.

Becky had watched the kerfuffle with a wry smile. The two old dears were efficient and their years of nursing experience were a godsend, but she did wish they’d show a bit of sympathy for those poor men.

She was in the sluice scrubbing out bedpans when her father appeared in the doorway.

‘I’m off to Carey Downs,’ he said. ‘Terry and Sandra will look after Ma, but you’d better be on standby in case you’re needed. Sandra looks as if she’s coping, but you never know.’

‘How is Gran?’

‘She’ll be fine,’ he said with a distracted smile. ‘Her jaw looks as if it’s only dislocated, thank God, but it’ll be the devil’s own job to stop her from talking for a few days so it can rest.’

‘I’ll find her a pad and pencil when I’ve got a minute,’ she replied, relieved that Gwyneth had done no serious damage.

She glanced out of the window at the lowering skies. It was ominously still and the heat was unbearable despite the many whirling ceiling fans. ‘Do you have to go, Dad? It looks like we’re in for another storm, and Carey Downs homestead’s a long way out.’

‘Polly’s only four. She knocked over a kerosene lamp and her dress caught alight. By the sound of it she’s suffering from very serious burns. I have to go, Becky.’

She saw the look in his eyes and understood that despite the fact it was unlikely the child would survive such a terrible accident, he was needed and would go anyway. ‘Of course you must,’ she replied, putting her hand on his arm. ‘Take care out there, Dad. And give us a call on the two-way so we know you’ve arrived safely.’