Even when she had shared it with her family, many rooms had stood empty. Gwyneira had never felt lonely, though—that is, until James and Charlotte died, Jack joined the army, and Gloria disappeared. She fled the empty house to the stables and shearing sheds whenever she could, but now it was June of 1916, and winter had descended. While battles raged across the planet, a ghostly quiet hung over Kiward Station. Outside, the gentle rain so typical of the Canterbury Plains was falling. The animals withdrew into the shelters, and the farmworkers had probably retreated to play poker in the stables. Gwyneira was worried about Jack—he had not written for an eternity, and yet he must long since have left that beach in Turkey. Gallipoli. Although Gwyneira still did not know how to pronounce it properly, it was no longer necessary to know. After a final, desperate offensive, the British had given up the beachhead and withdrawn the ANZAC troops. Apparently in fine shape and with hardly any reported casualties.
