“And you all fighting!”
“Norah, dear, we can’t have you in it,” O’Neill said. “I know it’s hard: far harder than anything we have to do. But you have too much sense not to know that this isn’t woman’s work.”
Norah choked back a sob.
“I know you couldn’t have me where there’s shooting,” she said. “But I can do something, if you’ll let me: and in Australia women always did help men when there was need, and they didn’t talk about things being ‘women’s work.’ Women had to fight the blacks, too.”
“Norah, we can’t let you fight,” Jim said. “Be sensible, old kiddie.”
“I don’t want to fight,” said poor Norah. “At least, I do, but I know that’s out of the question. But why on earth shouldn’t I light the beacon?”
“Because there would be risk,” O’Neill said roughly. “Norah, I hate hurting you. Don’t make it harder for us.”
“I don’t want to, indeed I don’t,” Norah faltered. “But . . .” There was a lump in her throat, and she turned away, fighting for her voice. Jim’s arm round her shoulders steadied her.
“You know you’ll be outnumbered,” she said. “You can’t tell any of these people, and there are only the three of you until daddy brings help. And one of you is going to light the beacon! If you let me do it, it leaves you all free to fight; and there’s no risk to me. No one will be on the point. I’d only have to light a match and get out of the way.”
“No,” said Wally, his young voice strained. “You aren’t going to do it.”