‘I know what you’re thinking,’ her father said.
‘She’s too young, Walter. Too light-hearted.’
‘Naive, you mean?’
‘Yes. She doesn’t know the ways of the world, much less about horses or tractors or picking fruit. I’m scared for her, Walter.’
There was a long silence and Betty wondered if they’d guessed she was listening.
‘We’re lucky, you know, not having any sons. So many boys I’ve taught are off in Africa or Malaya or New Guinea. I think of those parents and what they’re going through. What some of them have already been through.’
‘You know the reason she’s doing this.’
‘What’s that, Alma?’
‘It’s Michael. Can’t you see?’
Betty leant in as close as she could to the edge of the doorway.
‘It’s his birthday next week. He’s turning eighteen.’
‘Oh, of course. You think she’s …’
‘Yes, of course she is and has been for the longest time.’
The clock on the mantelpiece above the stove ticked. Alma and Walter finished their dinner in silence. Betty tiptoed up the hallway runner and quietly closed the front door behind her.
‘You’ve gone and done what?’
Betty and Michael stood under one of the Moreton Bay figs in the blackout darkness. The tip of Michael’s cigarette danced like a firefly as he smoked.
Betty stood her ground. She didn’t like his incredulous tone. ‘You heard me. I’m joining the Land Army.’
‘I did hear you, I just didn’t believe you. What do you think you’re doing with this ladies’ army business?’
‘What did you think? That I’d wait around here for you to come back or something?’
‘No, I …’
‘Farmers are crying out for girls to go to the country and help, to do the work the men used to do.’ Betty shook her head, feeling suddenly silly. Of course Michael knew that so many young men were away. ‘I’m young and strong enough to do my bit. And those WRANS and AWAS and WAAAFs, they’re not for me. I’m not that glamorous. I’m just a shopgirl from Rozelle but I can help out on the farms. I’m taking the forms back tomorrow. Dad’s signed them. I’ll be off to the country pretty soon, I expect.’
‘The country?’
She huffed. ‘Not you too. Why does no one think I can do farm work?’
‘It’s not that. It’s just … well, you sell ladies’ cosmetics, Betty.’ And when he laughed out loud, Betty felt silly and small.
‘And it’s boring me bloody senseless,’ she shouted into the evening air.
‘Are you absolutely sure?’ In the glow of his cigarette, Michael’s forehead creased in a question.
She nodded vigorously. ‘Yes. Definitely. It’s thirty shillings a week, plus a uniform and board. Better than what I’m earning selling ladies’ cosmetics.’
‘Well, who would have thought. Betty in the ladies’ army.’
‘The Women’s Land Army. Get the name right, if you please.’
‘So. I’ll be off fighting the Japs and the Germans and you’ll be milking cows.’ Michael took a drag from his cigarette and blew the smoke over his shoulder.
This was belittling. She wouldn’t take it. ‘You really are infuriating, you know that, Michael Doherty?’ She turned and walked away from her best friend. Within a moment, his hand was on her shoulder urging her to stop.
‘Betty Boop, wait.’
She crossed her arms over her chest. Why was he the only one who was allowed to grow up? Just because he was a few months older than her. He urged her around to face him and bobbed down to meet her eyes.
‘King Street won’t be the same, will it, with both of us gone?’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘It won’t.’
‘I’m going to miss you, Betty Boop. You know that.’
She knew if she were to open her mouth to speak she would burst into tears, so she nodded instead.
‘Here.’ Michael moved to her, his arms wide, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world to lean into him, to rest there, to feel his heart beating fast under her cheek. She held him tight and his strong arms squeezed her right back.
They held each other for a long while in the dark silent evening. Finally they loosened their hold on each other, but Michael’s hand trailed down Betty’s arm to her hand and they locked fingers. She held on tight.
‘It’ll be over soon. The tide’s already turned in the war,’ he said cheerily. ‘That’s what my dad says. I’ll be home and back in King Street before you know it, Betty. And then I’ll be buying you the chocolates, I promise.’
‘You’d better.’
‘When have I ever broken a promise to you?’
‘Never,’ she whispered into the night.
They walked home slowly, holding hands, bumping into each other clumsily as if they’d both just learnt how to walk. In the distance, a dog barked and the tinny sounds of a radio bled out into the street from someone’s living room. When they reached Betty’s house, they slowed. Things felt different between them somehow. Holding his hand made her feel nervous deep down in the pit of her stomach. In the moonlight, she noticed that his eyes, as brown as the chocolate on his favourite Cherry Ripe, seemed to be almost the exact same colour as his hair. How had she never realised that before?
Michael looked at his shoes and shuffled his foot along the footpath.
Betty smelled jasmine in the night air.
‘Well,’ he said.
‘Well,’ she replied.
‘Betty … I don’t want to say goodbye. When I leave, I mean.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I don’t want you to come to Circular Quay with my parents to wave me off.’
‘You don’t?’
‘I know we’ve got my birthday party next week and all, but can this be our goodbye? Right here? Right now? And then we won’t have to speak about it again. We won’t have to say the word.’
‘All right,’ she whispered.
‘You’ll write to me, won’t you?’
Her voice caught in her throat. ‘Of course. No doubt there’ll be lots of adventures with cows and pigs that I’ll be bursting to share.’
He stepped in closer. ‘Betty.’
Her arms goosebumped.
‘Don’t get too lonely,’ he whispered.
‘Stay safe,’ she implored.
‘I promise.’
And when Michael leant down and pressed his lips to hers, they were kissing and his arms were around her waist and she grabbed his shoulders and he lifted her off her feet and suddenly she was flying.
Chapter Five
Flora
While her father and her brother sat in the kitchen listening to Dad and Dave and eating the last of the Christmas pudding, Flora Atkins was packing her suitcase.
She’d done something with all the rage she had felt about Jack’s feather. She’d marched into the Manchester Unity Building on Swanston Street and lodged her application to join the Women’s Land Army.
There was perhaps no one in her family more surprised than she was herself.
She’d provided all the paperwork she’d needed, including a medical certificate from the family doctor. Dr Carmichael had attested to her general health—if noting that she was a little on the thin side—and she’d been readily accepted. She’d ticked every box on the application form. Was she willing to cook? Tick. Ride? Tick. Drive? Tick. And on and on it went for the rest of the list: grooming and harnessing horses, milking, doing running repairs and poultry raising. Did she have any special experience in rural work? No. Did she have a particular preference for any type of rural work or any particular district she would be willing to go to? No, no and no. And did she have a companion desirous of being employed with her?
No.
She put two ticks next to the boxes marked amateur gardening and poultry raising, for extra emphasis. Since Prime Minister Curtin had urged all Australians to grow a Victory Ga
rden to feed themselves, she’d attempted and successfully grown cabbage, potatoes and carrots. A small crop of tomatoes was coming along well too, although it would be up to her father and Jack now to tend to the fruit as it ripened over the summer months. She made a note to remind them that if they didn’t watch carefully, the birds would eat them all. And as for poultry, she regularly sent leftover food scraps to Mrs Jones next door for her hens, for which they were repaid in fresh eggs, a good deal by any measure.
When she’d told her father and Jack what she’d done, they’d leapt up from their seats at the kitchen table, laughing and surprised. Her father had pumped her hand heartily and Jack had pulled her to him for an enormous hug.
‘Your mother would be proud of you,’ John had said, teary. ‘She was from a farming family, you know. In the Wimmera.’
Flora knew that and also remembered that her mother’s family had lost everything during the Depression.
‘Well done, you,’ Jack had said. ‘Bloody marvellous, Flor. You can stick it to old man McInerney now, can’t you?’
‘Jack!’ she’d gasped. ‘I would do no such thing, even if I really wanted to.’
‘He’s got no idea what he’s lost in you. Some farmer will be bloody lucky to have you on his farm. I know that much.’
Jack’s faith in her was reassuring and she’d felt her cheeks flush with pride.
‘Now, while I’m gone, you two had better pitch in and keep this house in order. Jack, you’ll have to use the washing machine.’ His eyes had widened slightly before he chuckled. She remembered how scared of it he’d been when he was a child, fearing his flingers would be pressed flat like the bed sheets if he got too close to the wringer above the boiler.
‘And Dad,’ Flora had continued, mentally ticking off all the tasks they would have to pick up now that she was leaving. ‘Think you can manage supper and sweeping the floors every now and then?’
John had huffed good-naturedly. ‘We’ll be right, Flor. We’ll survive on bread and dripping if we have to. Stop your fussing. You go and do what you’ve got to do. We’ll be fine back here in Camberwell.’ He’d wiped a tear from his eye. ‘What do you think Frank would say about this caper, hey?’ he’d asked.
‘I know exactly what he’d say,’ Jack had laughed. ‘“About bloody time you got out of the house and let those two blokes fend for themselves”.’
That’s exactly what he would say, and Flora could hear Frank’s teasing voice in her head. She missed him so much.
‘Think about it this way, Flor.’ Her father had wiped his eyes. ‘You could well be working on the farms that grow the spuds that make all those chipped potatoes for our lads abroad. You’ll be helping to feed the troops. You’ll be helping to feed our Frank.’
She’d held that thought close in the days since she’d signed up.
Mr McInerney had been near apoplectic when she’d given her notice. It was easy enough to get young girls to work for him, but replacing someone like Flora, with a decade of experience, who knew his business inside and out? ‘What am I going to do with all the girls now, Miss Atkins, with you off gallivanting on some fool’s errand? You think you can do a man’s job in the country?’ he’d spluttered. ‘You don’t have the strength for farm work, you know that. You’ve got office hands. You mark my words, Flora Atkins. You’ll be back here quick as a flash, begging for your job back. And if you do, I would have to think very seriously about giving you your old position, given how quickly you decided to up and go off to that silly girls’ army.’
Flora looked down at her bed, at her Land Army uniform, and pride swelled in her chest. There were gumboots, one pair of shoes, an overall dress, one pullover, a topcoat, one pair of gloves, a tie, two pairs of stockings and her hat, with a metal AWLA badge pinned to it, long socks, long work gloves and a black oilskin raincoat. She wasn’t sure where she would be needing that in Australia in January, but never mind. Who knew how long she would be away for, and during which seasons. She folded her khaki shirts and the two pairs of bib-and-brace overalls, and tucked them in her suitcase. Her summer uniform, a short-sleeved shirt and skirt, hung on a hanger from her wardrobe door, ready to wear on her journey the next day to her first assignment. After that, she’d been instructed, it was to be worn strictly for official occasions such as receptions and church services and meeting local dignitaries.
Just in case, she’d packed a few extra things. Underwear, extra socks and a pair of men’s elastic-sided boots, the kind her father wore to work at the council. She thought they’d be practical and not as difficult to walk in as the stiff and unwieldy gumboots. She made room for a notebook Jack had given her for Christmas, and the notepad, envelopes and stamps from her father.
‘Promise you’ll write every week,’ he’d asked her as they’d sipped sherry by the Christmas tree. ‘I’d love to know what you’re up to. If you have time, that is, to write to your father. I know you’ll be working hard. You put your work first. Always.’
Of course she would write. Her father would be lonely without her company and she vowed to keep her promise. The final items she put in her suitcase weren’t practical but sentimental: a framed wedding photograph of her parents, and one of Frank in full uniform, colourised, his pink-cheeked grin staring back at the photographer like a wicked challenge.
She picked up the polished silver frame, admired her mother’s beautiful lace wedding gown and the three-piece suit her father had worn. The sepia photograph was faded now, but her parents’ faces still looked out, young and clear. They’d married young: her father was twenty-three and her mother just seventeen.
When Flora was seventeen, she’d imagined that by the age of thirty she would have been married for many years, looking after her husband and their children. She’d wanted three, two girls and a boy. But that had never come to pass. She’d never had a sweetheart and knew now that she never would. She’d been passed over and time had passed her by. She had never been beautiful, had been too easily looked over when prettier girls turned heads. She was always a little too tall for men, at five foot eight in her bare feet. Her hair was brown, just brown, and she knew that she was plain. With her hair cut short now, in the wartime style promoted by actresses and celebrities, she was even more so. Their neighbour Mrs Tilley never failed to be forthright about how plain Flora was, and it seemed that with every passing year she was unmarried, Flora grew plainer still.
She’d spent her teenage years mourning her mother and looking after everyone else. Perhaps that had changed her in a way that young men had noticed. And by the time the sadness had started to lift she was twenty-five years old and well over any starry-eyed expectations about being swept off her feet. She’d made a life for a decade there in Waterloo Street in Camberwell, putting the three men first, and she might have continued to if Jack hadn’t received the white feather and she hadn’t seen the poster for the Land Army one more time on the tram.
Keep the farms going while the men are fighting.
While Frank is fighting. While Jack can’t.
In an instant, she had found an outlet for her anger. If Jack couldn’t serve, she would. She’d serve her country, work her fingers to the bone if she had to, if it meant Frank came home safe. In that moment, she made a promise to herself. One day the war would be over and her family would be together again. And she would serve until that day, until all four of them were once again sitting around their kitchen table in Camberwell, sharing a sweet cup of tea and the stories that made them a family.
There was a soft knock at her bedroom door.
‘Flor?’
Flora tucked her parents’ wedding photograph under her overalls. ‘Come in, Dad.’ The door slowly opened and John peeked around it as if he might be expecting someone else to be in the room.
‘You right, love?’ he asked.
‘I’m almost packed.’ Then she chuckled. ‘Although I don’t seem to have very much and my suitcase is already full to bursting. It must be the gumboots.’ John glanced at the
pile of folded khaki clothes.
‘Boots,’ he noted with a raised eyebrow. ‘Like a real working man, hey?’
‘They’ll be practical. Although I haven’t had the chance to wear them in before I go. I hope I don’t rub blisters.’
‘Thick socks, Flor. That’s all you’ll need.’
‘I certainly know how to knit some if I ever get holes in these.’
John smiled and slipped an arm around his daughter’s shoulder, pulling her in for a quick sideways hug. He peered at the contents of her suitcase. ‘You’re forgetting one thing, Flor.’
‘What can that be? I’ve packed everything.’
‘Take a pretty frock with you.’
‘What for? You know I’m not one for dances or parties.’ She felt the heat in her cheeks and guessed she was blushing. That he was still hoping for happiness for her touched her. ‘And I have my uniform anyway.’
‘Love, you’ll be working as hard as any man. Take a pretty frock and some nice shoes. You’ll want to feel like a young lady every now and then.’ He smiled at her and Flora thought she would cherish this moment forever. ‘I still can’t come at the idea of you wearing those overalls.’
‘What do you expect me to wear when I’m working? That pretty frock you insist I pack?’
John laughed. She threw her arms around him for a hug.
‘We’ll see you off at the train tomorrow. Me and Jack.’
‘That’d be lovely, Dad.’ She breathed out, hoping it would release the vice that had suddenly clenched at her ribcage, pulling tighter and tighter at the idea of being away from her father, the memories of her mother, her brother, this house, Melbourne.
‘We’re proud of you. What you’re doing for the family. And your mother?’ John sniffed. ‘She’d be the proudest of all.’
Chapter Six
Lily
This would be their final party together before David left, and the knowledge of it weighed heavily on them both.
The Land Girls Page 6
