1917

by Kelly Gardiner

  ‘Your cooking’ll probably poison her,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, what would you know about cooking?’

  ‘More than you, I reckon.’

  On and on they went, at the tops of their voices, all evening. But as it turned out, Mrs Cartwright knew a thing or two about cooking after all. We had roast pork with crackling and apple sauce, mashed potatoes and cabbage, and then apple crumble with cream.

  ‘She’ll have to get used to apples,’ she said.

  My mouth was too full to answer.

  She had one of those New Improved cookers that Ma would have killed for, and a flash icebox.

  Mr Cartwright caught my admiring glance.

  ‘On sale at the general store,’ he said.

  So were the wellington boots he lent me the next day, and the pruning knife he showed me how to use without slicing off any bits of myself, and his overcoat, and Mrs Cartwright’s pink dressing gown.

  My first night ever away from home was cold and bleak. I lay awake, wriggling my toes to try to warm them up. I missed the sound of Flossie breathing softly on the other side of the room. Instead, I could hear Mr Cartwright snoring down the hallway. Or maybe it was Mrs Cartwright. The rooster crowed in the dark and possums or monsters of some kind scrabbled on the tin roof. I got up, dragged on another pair of socks, then curled up into a ball and tried to go back to sleep. I must have dozed off eventually, because it was daylight when I wandered out to the kitchen.

  Mrs Cartwright was waiting for me.

  ‘Sit, girl, sit,’ she said. She waved me to a chair at the head of the table.

  ‘Where’s Mr Cartwright?’

  ‘He’s in the far paddock,’ she said. ‘Been at it for hours.’

  That was the first lesson of the day. Life starts early on a farm.

  ‘Get this into you,’ she said. She plonked a bowl down in front of me. It looked like hot milk.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Porridge, of course.’

  I picked up the spoon and poked at it. Ma made porridge that sat in great lumps in the bowl, like soggy cake. This was disgustingly runny, with a dusting of—I sniffed at it—cinnamon on top.

  ‘Not what you’re used to, eh?’ asked Mrs Cartwright.

  I shook my head.

  ‘I’ll have no complaints from you,’ she said. ‘Whack some honey on it, and get it down you. There’s work to do.’

  I wondered if I would die of cold or overwork or misery. How could Dad send me here?

  I dribbled honey in circles on top of the porridge, as ordered, and stirred it in. Mrs Cartwright stood over me, supervising every move.

  I sighed. But I had to eat something.

  It was the best porridge in the whole world.

  ‘There you go,’ said Mrs Cartwright. ‘That wasn’t so hard to swallow, now, was it?’

  I grinned. ‘Delicious!’

  She turned away but couldn’t hide her smile. ‘Be off with you. And tell that old fool not to let you cut your foot off with the shovel.’

  It took me days to realise they actually adored each other and only yelled because they were hard of hearing.

  The orchard was bigger than I thought, the house surrounded by apple trees on the rising hills, and in the crop fields the mud clumped in lumps that stuck to my boots and made me four inches taller.

  Mr Cartwright was a lot like Alex. He could fix anything, or make anything, and he loved machinery and all sorts of equipment. If the tool he needed didn’t exist, he simply made it. His shed was like a museum of old metal, half-carved bits of wood, wire in great loops, fishing rods, and tools carefully hung on nails hammered in all around the walls, each with its own spot. There’d be hell to pay, he warned, if I got them mixed up.

  He didn’t talk to me much during the day, which was fine by me. He showed me what needed doing and how to do it, and then left me to it.

  I cleared all the sodden straw and poo out of the chook house and the pig pen, and wheelbarrowed it over to the muck heap. We turned over a whole field, with the horse’s help, and raked it over ready for planting.

  After a few days, my back ached, my hands were blistered, my nose ran the whole time, I might have had chilblains but I wasn’t sure what they were, and I’d never had so much fun in my life. I learned how to milk the cow, and Mr Cartwright showed me inside the bee hive, where all the little fellows were huddled around the queen bee waiting for winter to be over. And who could blame them?

  I took the train home every weekend. Our house seemed so loud, what with Flossie and Bertie squealing and singing and trains steaming past the front gate, and a trip into the city with Ma meant wearing a posh hat and there were tall buildings and people rushing everywhere and meetings where everyone talked at once.

  Back at the orchard, the trees were bare of leaves now, lined up in neat rows as far as the eye could see, and the only sounds were magpies and kookaburras and Mr Cartwright muttering to himself as we worked. Each night Mrs Cartwright heated a brick in the fire, wrapped it in cloth, and slipped it between the sheets in my bed to keep my toes warm. Every morning I woke up before dawn, pulled on my boots and walked out, belly full of porridge, to start the day’s work.

  One day Mr Cartwright sent me to the orchard next door to ask if they needed help pruning the fruit trees. All the men were away, and there was only Mrs Bennett and her two small sons left to look after the place.

  I rode the old horse up the lane and headed towards the sound of a saw. Mrs Bennett was up a ladder, hacking at a branch.

  ‘Morning, love,’ she said. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘Wondered if you need a hand.’

  ‘Always,’ she said. ‘Got tools?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Know what you’re doing?’

  ‘Mr Cartwright showed me.’

  ‘Good as gold,’ she said. ‘Find yourself a tree.’

  Mrs Bennett and I pruned all day. Apple trees, they were, but different varieties from Mr Cartwright’s trees. She talked to me through the branches from time to time, but mostly we worked silently.

  It was tough work standing on a ladder in the cold, sawing and cutting and throwing the branches down to the ground for the little boys to collect. But I loved it. I felt the muscles in my arm tire and then hurt, and a blister on my palm about to blister all over again. None of that mattered.

  I was out in the world, doing something, earning my keep and helping somebody else. It wasn’t a big adventure, not like riding a camel or finding buried treasure, but I’d never done such a thing before. None of the girls at school had, either.

  I was working. At an orchard. Making sure the trees were ready for next year’s fruit. Doing a man’s work. And wearing overalls. That would never have happened before the war—not to me, anyway.

  ‘Is this the first time you’ve done this?’ I asked Mrs Bennett.

  ‘Bless you, no,’ she said. ‘Grew up in orchards. Done it my whole life.’

  ‘Really?’ I said. ‘I thought this was men’s work?’

  ‘That’s what they like to tell us.’ She winked. ‘But we know better.’

  ‘So when your husband’s here?’

  ‘We’re all up the ladders,’ she said. ‘Whole family, and cousins come over. Everyone pitches in for harvest and pruning.’

  ‘And are they all away at the war now?’ I asked.

  ‘War took ’em,’ she said, brushing her hair out of her eyes. ‘That’s for sure.’

  ‘My brother’s over there,’ I said.

  ‘Mine too,’ she said. ‘But that’s not where my lads are.’

  ‘Mumma!’ one of the boys shouted up at her. ‘I’m hungry.’

  Mrs Bennett peered down at him through the branches. ‘Fair enough.’ She motioned to me. ‘Get yourself down now, love. Let’s have a cuppa.’

  She led me into the farmhouse, threw down her work gloves, and waved me to a seat. It was an old stone house, all whitewashed inside, with the flagstone floors covered in hooked rugs. The
re was a piano in one corner and a shelf crammed with well-thumbed books. The room was neat as a pin. Ma would have approved. Mrs Bennett blew on the coals to get the fire going, then sent one of the boys out to the pump to fill the kettle.

  As soon as I sat down, my tired muscles started aching.

  ‘You’ll sleep well tonight,’ she said.

  ‘Like a rock. I do every night, now I’m here.’

  ‘You like it then?’ she asked. ‘Lots of girls wouldn’t.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ I said. ‘But I’m different from lots of girls.’

  ‘Good for you, love. I was the same at your age.’

  She reached into the dresser and pulled out a tin. Both boys’ eyes widened. She grinned at them.

  ‘Seen something interesting, have we?’

  ‘Fruit cake!’

  ‘Fetch me a knife then.’ She glanced over at me. ‘Bit of a treat nowadays, isn’t it, with all these shortages? But I think we’ve earned it today.’

  It was just about the tastiest cake I’d ever had, better even than Ma’s, though I’d never say so, and full of fruit from the farm’s own trees.

  Mrs Bennett settled into a chair by the fire. ‘Just catch our breath, eh?’

  The boys sprawled on a rug in front of the fire.

  ‘They’ve worked hard too,’ I said.

  ‘They’re good lads. They keep me company.’

  ‘How long has your husband been away?’ I asked.

  ‘Since the start of it,’ she said.

  ‘All that time? Gosh. He must have enlisted early, then.’

  Her laughter echoed off the stone walls. ‘Bless you, love, he didn’t enlist. They took him.’

  I sat up straight. ‘Who did? He can’t be forced to fight.’

  ‘Mr Cartwright didn’t tell you, then?’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  She rubbed her eyes. ‘Wonder if he’s being polite or ashamed.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘Nothing to be done,’ she said. ‘My husband is German, you see. Well, not really, but German enough for the government. He was born there but grew up here. Went to school just down the road. As Australian as you or me. But that’s not how they see it. They took him away, early on. Then they decided my eldest sons were German too. My boys!’ Her voice rose. ‘Born right here in this room. They wanted to join the Army with all their mates, but instead they’re called enemies of the state.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Government’s shipped them north to Sydney now,’ she said. ‘They were at a camp in Langwarrin. We could visit, take them things. But not now. So many of the fellows around here are with them. Orchards are deserted, with one thing or another, from here out to Doncaster. So many of us have German blood, German husbands. All gone.’

  I’d read all those newspaper stories about The Enemy Within. I’d never thought about who they might be.

  ‘Bennett’s not a very German name,’ I said.

  ‘I had to change it,’ she said. ‘Young blokes came around here in the dark, throwing bricks and rotten food. Heroes. Attacking a woman.’ She sighed. ‘Bennett is my maiden name.’

  I couldn’t imagine anyone who lived here and was married to Mrs Bennett being the Enemy Within.

  ‘I live in Coburg,’ I said. ‘They haven’t bothered changing that name.’

  She smiled. ‘Just shows you, doesn’t it? No logic at all. Why, Queen Victoria herself had a German husband. Everyone loved him. Named streets and suburbs after him. Named their sons after him, for that matter. Now …’

  She shook her head. One of her boys clambered up to sit on her knee, curling one arm around her neck. She sat, rocking in her chair and staring into the fire, and stroked his hair.

  June, 1917

  Appletree Farm,

  Box Hill

  Dear Nincompoop,

  (I suppose I have to stop insulting you, now you’re the dux of your flying school.) I wonder what you’re up to now. All your letters seem to take so long to reach us. But hopefully you’re wrapped up somewhere warm. Or is it summer there? I suppose it must be. I’ve lost track. Anyway, I hope that those Englishmen are keeping you out of harm’s way.

  Never mind Charlie being grumpy and impatient. We’re all in favour of you being trained and trained for years on end. Keep it up, we say. No need to rush into anything.

  It’s been two months now since the Yanks joined the war, although no sign of them actually doing anything yet. Soon, I hope. And then perhaps it’ll be over before you get there.

  Fingers crossed,

  Mags

  XXX

  Our new Flight Commander sent us up as soon as we arrived—to get our bearings, he said. I was paired with an observer, Burke, an Irishman who’d been in the squadron for six weeks. A veteran. He didn’t look any older than me. Charlie was sent off with Jimmy Grady, a pilot who’d been shot down the week before and managed to land safely. Or so they said. He looked a bit crook to me. Shaky hands. Eye twitch. Not my definition of safe. But Charlie went off happily enough and glad, at last, to be doing what we’d come all this way to do.

  The airfield was a few miles behind the Front but we could hear the big guns pounding. They never stopped. And each time, I’d think: that’s another soldier dead or hurt, somewhere. Maybe more. I felt like ducking at each blast. One explosion was so massive it shook the bottles off the shelf in the Officers’ Mess. You could feel it in the air, as if the whole world was shifting: huge mines, we heard later, set off deep underground, all the way over at Messines, but we heard it and felt it miles away— shattering earth and sky and nerves. It was all I could do to climb into the cockpit and head into the clouds for my first look at the trenches.

  They reckon Flanders is flat. I guess it is, compared to some places. It seemed flat from the air. But it isn’t. There are hills, ever so slight, and a little high ground. Not much. But the Germans held it all, and one machine gun on a slope made the ground below a field of death. One big artillery gun hidden behind the hill meant there was nowhere safe to hide, from shells or machine guns, no matter how deep they dug the trenches.

  That was the problem with the whole area. The Salient, the newspapers called it. The hellhole. The British had pushed their way in here, forcing a bulge in the line, and then got stuck. They couldn’t take the hills, but they wouldn’t retreat. So they just got shot at all day every day, and every night too. Poor blighters.

  From the air you could trace your way along the main roads by the avenues of trees. The trees were old. They trimmed them back, or at least they had in peacetime. But there weren’t any trees close to the Front. They were all gone. In some places, where there’d been a forest, there was nothing but craters. Along the Menin Road leading from Ypres there was an avenue of smashed stumps. But then, there wasn’t much of Ypres left either. Just rubble and smashed glass and a few walls here and there. The town had been shelled for months. Years, I guess. The Tommies called it Wipers and it was just about wiped out.

  But not everything was like that. Behind the trenches, life seemed to go on as normal, although I don’t suppose it was. Looking down from the plane, I could see canals, church spires, tiny villages, and lines of troops walking to and from the lines. There were windmills, and red tiled roofs, and little chapels way out in the middle of nowhere. The farmhouses were made of red brick, built in a horseshoe shape with stables and cottages joined up around a courtyard. The fields were a brilliant green, but in some places last season’s hay still stood, wrecked by storms. There weren’t any farmers to cut it down and bring it in. Further away from the trenches, I saw children hard at work alongside their mothers and grandmothers. On one hand, the countryside was full of men. Millions of them, dead and alive and somewhere in between. On the other, it felt deserted.

  Even when we flew over the lines, it seemed peaceful. Strange, but true. You couldn’t really hear the guns from thousands of feet in the air. The trenches looked like a smudge
on the earth. Like a mistake that’d been rubbed out.

  But when we got lower, I saw it all. The wire and the mud and the shell holes full of water. The earth was riddled with trenches, wriggling like woodworm trails from the sea to the mountains—as far as the distance between Sydney and Melbourne, they reckoned. The German trenches looked like spider webs, cleverly and deeply dug, indented every few yards so that an attacker could never get a clear shot. Every so often, a concrete pillbox or fortified post marked a machine gun or anti-aircraft crew.

  Our trenches weren’t as deep, and they’d been smashed so many times by shells that in places they were more like piles of scattered sandbags. But they too twisted and turned, with communication trenches leading back to the reserve lines and then away into acres of pulverised mud. And between our lines and the Germans’ was No Man’s Land. In some spots, the two rows of trenches were so close you could have thrown a cricket ball from one to the other. Or a grenade. That thin strip of land had been pummelled and bloodied and gassed for three years now. Even from the sky, it reeked of fear and horror and death.

  There was a huge battle going on further down the line. We’d been told to keep out of the way, but we could see planes circling and diving, shell bursts of dirt and shrapnel on both sides of the lines, and the lumbering machines they called tanks beetling their way over broken ground.

  Our daily orders were to zoom back and forth above the German trenches, flying low enough to take photographs and spot troop movements or machine gun posts or ammunition dumps. Our blokes on the ground couldn’t see any of that. If they peeped over the top of their trench, they could get shot. We were the eyes of the Army.

  Problem was, the Hun had eyes too.

  They came out of a break in the clouds, right above us. Standard tactics. I was busy gawking at the distant battle. Didn’t notice a thing. Then I heard a shout.

  ‘Albatros!’

  The Lewis gun clattered. I looked behind. Three German machines, swooping and weaving, all on my tail. A bullet smashed through the dashboard, just near my knee.

  ‘Hell!’

  I swerved left. Then right. Then pitched up her nose and climbed in wild zigzags back and forth across the sky. I had to get them off my tail.