The Land Girls

by Victoria Purman

‘Where?’ someone shouted.

  ‘The House of Representatives,’ he said. ‘Canberra.’

  ‘No, I mean did you say New Guinea?’ A woman pushed closer, her large bosom brushing past Betty’s shoulder. ‘My husband’s in New Guinea.’

  A short young man and the round woman peered at the fine print on the front page. Betty could hardly hear herself think between the crush and the loud thudding in her ears. She looked up to the sky above Pitt Street and breathed deep, trying to block out all the nervous chatter around her and the pushing and shoving and the beeping car horns and shouts from the newspaper boy.

  Was it safer to be out here on the street? Would she see the Japanese planes flying overhead as they followed the harbour past the Heads and right into the heart of Sydney? Would she see the painted flag on the aircraft from all the way down there? Would she hear the throb and hum of their engines? And when a bomb was released from a Zero fighter, would she see it falling, getting bigger and bigger until everything turned black and her last thought in the world would be about who she would miss the most?

  The next day, Betty tried her best all day to keep a brave face. Her customers would expect nothing less than a smile and a warm welcome from a Woolworths girl, and she was practised at both. What use was there in thinking about being bombed? The night before, she’d fallen into fitful sleep and had dreamt vividly all through the night about the London Blitz and the images she’d seen on newsreels of buildings collapsing and fire and smoke engulfing the city. When she got to work that morning, the air-raid drill was all anyone could talk about and she faced interrogations from every customer. She had quickly found her shopgirl smile and batted off their questions.

  ‘Were you frightened?’ asked a thin-lipped mother, clutching a white handkerchief and her little boy’s hand. He had a finger firmly stuck up one nostril.

  ‘Of course not,’ Betty had replied as she’d handed over the woman’s package. ‘It was only a drill. A practice to keep all our customers safe.’

  ‘That’s not what I heard. My neighbour told me there really was a Japanese plane in the skies over Garden Island yesterday,’ a matronly older woman pronounced with great authority as she purchased her deodorant cream. ‘I’m only glad I was at my daughter’s at Mosman instead of being here where we could all have been killed right where we stand.’

  Her friend nodded in agreement. ‘I heard that an elderly gentlemen had a heart attack right outside in Market Street. Is that true?’

  Another customer, a young woman wearing a hat with a large spray of feathers on one side, swore that she’d seen Clark Gable himself directing evacuees from the building.

  ‘Clark Gable? You mean, the movie star Clark Gable?’ Betty’s colleague Muriel sidled up to her to listen in to the conversation.

  Betty was puzzled. ‘I’m not sure he’s even in the army.’

  ‘He most certainly is,’ the customer replied adamantly. ‘He’s a captain with a uniform and all. I read about it in PhotoPlayer.’

  Betty did her best to reassure everyone but quickly came to realise that people believed what they wanted to believe, no matter what the truth was.

  By lunchtime, she was tired of explaining and tired of her customers and their morbid curiosity. She found Jean at their regular table in the cafeteria and sat with her. Another day, another cheese and pickle sandwich and cup of tea. Another day closer to Michael’s departure. ‘I don’t know about you, Jean, but if I hear one more question about—’

  ‘The drill?’ Jean interrupted. ‘I don’t know what people were saying to you down in Cosmetics but up in Haberdashery, I get the feeling people were actually a little bit disappointed that it was pretend.’

  Betty chewed her sandwich. Mrs Doherty’s pickle was vinegary and delicious and familiar and it made her think of Michael and his birthday all over again. She was tired after her night of wild dreams and her demanding customers, and she didn’t want to think about the day before or what might come the next day and especially what was going to happen when Michael turned eighteen.

  ‘Let’s talk about something else. What are you reading?’ Betty bumped Jean’s shoulder and Jean moved her magazine between them so they could share.

  ‘The Women’s Weekly but it’s such a bore. It’s all war, war, war.’ Jean flipped through the stories in the first few pages. ‘Look at this. “Service with a smile! That’s the spirit of those smart girls who are serving their country in the Australian Army, as members of the Australian Women’s Army Service.” The AWAS,’ Jean muttered. ‘Even the name is dreadful. Although I must admit, the uniforms do look smart.’

  A smiling young woman wearing a hat with a gold badge at its brim stared at Betty from the page, but before she could read the small print Jean had flipped the magazine closed and over so its back cover faced up.

  The full-colour advertisement caught her attention.

  By Day, she’s in the Land Army. By Night, she’s the Darling of the Forces, thanks to Pond’s Lips and Pond’s Powder. The illustration was striking: a Land Army girl driving a tractor in a field, then being glamorously twirled around a dance floor by a Gary Cooper look-alike in a khaki army uniform and another man who looked almost exactly like Tyrone Power in a navy one, gold braiding in a loop at his sleeve, looking as if she couldn’t decide whose invitation to accept first. Her white dress twirled and a beautiful rainbow-coloured wrap dangled from her elbow as she leant back to glance over her shoulder at Gary Cooper.

  Betty read on.

  Even if you are working harder than ever before for victory, there’s no reason why your extra wartime duties should stop you from looking attractive. You can look lovelier than ever … and without expensive beauty treatments. Pond’s Powder and Pond’s ‘Lips’ are inexpensive to buy, economical to use and definitely beauty-making. Pond’s Powder clings for hours and hours … it’s made with the softest, finest texture. Pond’s ‘Lips’ stay on and on and on—to the very last kiss.

  Jean laughed. ‘Look at that. “Six exquisite shades to choose from.” That’s a hoot. All any woman ever wants these days is red. Bright red. The Americans like that one best. I think it reminds them of that Betty Grable.’ Jean winked. Betty was sure her face was flushing as red as the lipstick in the advertisement.

  Her eyes drifted to the tractor and the plough. ‘What do you think of this?’

  ‘Pond’s Powder?’ Jean asked.

  ‘No. The Land Army.’

  Jean tried to keep her lips pulled tight as she giggled. ‘I’ve seen the posters. Hasn’t everyone? Girls milking cows. Girls ploughing fields, raking hay. Picking potatoes and all looking thrilled to be doing it. It looks awful. Give me Woolworths any day.’

  ‘Don’t you think it could be fun? Being out of Sydney, I mean. Working in the fresh air.’ Away from air-raid drills and Japanese bombs.

  ‘That’s not my idea of fun.’ Jean screwed up her face. ‘All that dirt. And the smells.’

  ‘It would be good to feel … useful.’

  ‘Seriously, Betty? The closest you’ve ever been to a cow is the milk in your tea.’ Jean nodded at her friend’s cup. ‘I would never have picked you for the country type.’

  Betty studied the magazine. Jean struck up a conversation with Daphne from Children’s Wear who was sitting on her other side.

  Betty’s thoughts wandered. Was this to be her life? Her best friend gone off to fight and her days filled with waiting for news and selling face powder to Sydney’s ladies? She’d never heard more complaints from customers than when supplies of lipstick had started to get tight. They could put up with tea and meat and sugar and butter rations, but it felt like the final straw to some when they couldn’t find their favourite Coty’s. Betty couldn’t fight the feeling that it all seemed rather frivolous. What had changed in her? She’d been proud as punch when she’d left school at sixteen and won a job at Woolworths. Her parents hadn’t been quite so proud. But the war had already begun. Sydney was different. She was different. Nothing was certa
in any more and a job was a job, after all. And she’d loved being a shopgirl.

  But now women were joining up to the army and the air force in droves. She’d seen them proudly walking through Sydney’s streets in their smart uniforms. She didn’t know anyone who’d joined the Land Army but the articles in the newspaper said how important it was, helping to harvest food, not just for the fighting forces and those who were at home, but for sending over the sea to England, to people who were suffering so much because of the war.

  Why had the idea so flirtatiously grabbed hold of her imagination? She’d never been to the country. She’d seen a pig once at the Royal Easter Show, a sow with enormous udders and ten perfect pink piglets nestling against her in fresh straw. Jean was right. She’d never even seen a cow up close, or a chicken, although the Gullisons four doors down had ten hens and a rooster that woke them all every morning with its boastful cock-a-doodle-dos.

  Betty checked the time. She had five minutes until she was due back at her counter. She slurped the dregs of her tea, tucked Jean’s magazine under her arm and went back to work.

  ‘I’m home.’ Betty turned the key in the front door of her house on King Street just after six-thirty that Friday night. She went first into her bedroom to toe off her court shoes. She slipped her relieved feet into her green felt slippers with the feather trim that moved like a wave when she took a step and padded into the kitchen. Not only had it been a long day, but it had been a long week and she still had work tomorrow before the week was over. Everyone worked six days a week now because of the war and even though she didn’t do anything particularly useful for the war at Woolworths, lots of people had more money than they’d had for a long time and were determined to spend it.

  Her father, Walter, sat at the kitchen table with the newspaper spread out before him, smoking a Capstan. Her mother, Alma, stood at the stove, wearing a floral apron, turning three lamb cutlets in a frying pan.

  ‘I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, Mum, but lamb again?’ Betty asked with a frown.

  ‘Yes, lamb again, Betty, although I think mutton might be the more accurate term for these chops. There’s no beef to be found anywhere at the moment. Remember what the government keeps telling us? Buying lamb will help us win the war.’

  ‘I suppose I could get used to it.’ Betty smiled. ‘Please at least promise me you’ve made mashed potatoes, Mum?’ Betty went to her father, kissed him on the cheek and then crossed the kitchen to her mother, squeezing her arm.

  ‘Of course. And we have tinned peas and some carrots from the garden. You sit down. I’m almost done here.’

  Betty pulled up a chair. Salt and pepper cellars sat in the middle of the table along with a small crystal bowl of mint jelly. Betty knew it was Mrs Doherty’s. Their neighbour cooked for everyone in the street: jams and pickles and spreads and sauces. Cakes and biscuits were her specialty, too. Betty’s mother told her once that Mrs Doherty did it to distract herself.

  ‘How was your day, Betty?’ Walter asked.

  ‘Fine,’ she said. She jiggled a little in her chair and tried to still herself by holding her fingers together in her lap. ‘After the excitement of yesterday and the drill, it seemed a little … ordinary, I must admit.’

  Her stomach somersaulted. Nerves. Yes, that’s what they were. Should she tell them after dinner? She hoped her courage hadn’t deserted her on the long walk home.

  She couldn’t guess what they might say. After all, she was only seventeen. The lady in uniform at the Land Army office in Martin Place had stressed to Betty that any girl under twenty-one needed her parents’ permission to sign up.

  She felt once again their twinge of disappointment that she hadn’t followed in their footsteps and become a teacher. Her father was proud of being a headmaster and her mother had recently been directed out of retirement to go back into the classroom, as so many young men were away and, war or not, children still needed to learn. Perhaps growing up around teachers had helped dissuade her from becoming one.

  As she sat, twisting her fingers into knots, she wondered if her decision to join the Land Army proved they’d been right after all. If she’d been as happy as she’d claimed to be serving customers at Woolworths, she might not be entertaining the idea of throwing it all in to go to the country to pick potatoes. Or milk cows. Or drive tractors. The possibilities all seemed so thrillingly exciting.

  The sizzling sounds from the stovetop ceased and a moment later Alma had placed plates before Walter and Betty. How many more times would she sit with her parents for dinner like this on a Friday night? How many more evenings would she spend the evening with them, listening to Pepsodent Presents on Sunday nights at eight?

  Alma patted her daughter’s shoulder. ‘You all right, Betty? You’ve barely said a word.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, there is something I need to talk to you about. Both of you.’

  Walter regarded Betty over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses. ‘What is it, Betty?’

  She pushed her chair back. ‘Wait here. I have something to show you.’ She dashed to her bedroom, swept up her handbag and rushed back to the kitchen table. She opened the clasp and reached inside for the papers she’d been given at the Manpower Directorate: form A to enrol and an information booklet detailing everything else she needed to know. She laid them on the table.

  ‘What’s all this?’ Alma asked.

  ‘I’ve decided to …’ Betty swallowed then took a fortifying deep breath. ‘I’d like to sign up for the Women’s Land Army.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘It’s a vital war job. Lots of girls are enlisting.’

  Her mother reached for the forms and stared at them. Her father stared at his daughter.

  ‘I’m young and healthy. Well, in actual fact, a little too young. Dad, I’ll need your permission and I hope you’ll give it to me.’

  Alma passed the papers to Walter. He scanned them and sat back in his chair. ‘Betty, there’s a list here of all the jobs that need doing. I don’t know if you can do any of them.’ He passed them back to Betty.

  ‘Oh.’ She hadn’t studied the forms that closely. ‘Let me see.’ She scrambled to collect her thoughts as she read down the list. ‘I’ve been looking after our vegetable garden this year, since Mr Curtin’s austerity came in.’

  Alma searched her daughter’s face. ‘That’s not anything like real farm work. Like picking fruit or milking a cow. Or, what else does the form say? Driving a car or grooming and harnessing horses?’

  ‘I’m sure I can do all of those things and more,’ Betty replied, suddenly feeling nervous that her parents might not agree. Without her father’s permission on the enrolment form she wouldn’t be able to go.

  ‘You don’t need to do this, Betty. If you’re bored with being a shopgirl there are lots of other things a young girl like you can do. You could still be a teacher. You have the smarts for it, you know that.’ Walter took off his reading glasses and folded them. ‘Or if teaching’s not for you, I know the local bank manager. I’m sure he’d take you in as a teller. That’s a good steady job until you get married.’

  ‘Thank you, Dad, but I don’t want to be a bank teller.’ Betty glanced at her mother. ‘Or a teacher. As a matter of fact, I don’t really want to be a shopgirl any more either, if I’m being perfectly honest.’ She frowned. ‘I seem to spend half my day explaining why things are rationed and how coupons work. I don’t feel like I’m doing anything for the war. Not like others are. I know I can help by getting out into the country and working for our farmers. There’s a desperate labour shortage, you know, with all the boys off fighting.’

  She watched her parents exchange glances.

  She couldn’t be sure but it seemed her father was trying not to smile. ‘Yes, Betty. Crops still need harvesting and fruit still needs picking. Those of us in the cities need to eat and our troops abroad need food, too.’

  Betty was sure her mouth had fallen wide open. ‘You mean, you’ll give your permission?’


  ‘Are you absolutely sure this is what you want to do?’ Alma asked.

  Betty straightened her back and nodded in furious agreement with herself. ‘Yes, I am. All you need to do is sign your permission on Form A and I’ll be all set to go. I’ll be earning thirty shillings a week, which is more than I’m on at Woolworths.’

  ‘The work will be harder than serving at a counter,’ Alma noted.

  ‘I’m expecting it will be.’

  Her father’s gaze was direct and questioning. ‘It says here you have to sign up for the duration of the war, or twelve months. Which one is it?’

  Betty swallowed nervously. How could she explain to him how she was feeling? They didn’t have a son. She was the only child and a girl. What was her family doing for the war effort? The Dohertys would soon have both sons away fighting. How could she look Mrs Doherty in the eye knowing she wasn’t doing her bit, however small, when others were sacrificing so much?

  ‘The whole time. I won’t stop working until the end. It’s not just a man’s war, Dad. It can’t be.’

  Alma sniffed into her folded napkin.

  Walter put his glasses back on, slowly, thinking for a long moment. ‘All right. I’ll sign my name where I need to. We’re very proud of you, sweetheart, for wanting to do what you can.’

  Betty’s heart swelled. Being a shopgirl wasn’t half as glamorous as being a Land Army girl was going to be. She could feel it. Wait until she told Jean. Wait until she told Michael.

  ‘Thank you, Dad. Thank you, Mum. You won’t be sorry, you’ll see.’ She hopped up from her chair and kissed them in turn before turning towards the door.

  ‘Aren’t you going to eat your dinner?’ Alma called.

  ‘I’m going next door. I have to tell Michael the big news.’ She rounded the doorway into the hallway but stopped. She had a suspicion her parents’ conversation would continue without her. She stilled, pressed her back to the hallway wall, cocked her head towards the kitchen. It felt wrong to spy but she couldn’t help it.

  ‘Did you have to rush to give your permission so quickly, Walter?’ Alma whispered fiercely. ‘We could have let her think about it a little more. I simply don’t think she’s ready for this. To be away from home for so long …’