Flora stared up the ceiling, closing her eyes with a deep sigh. First impressions counted for so much, she knew, and she couldn’t fight the distinct feeling that she had already failed with both of the Nettlefolds.
Too old for the mother and too lazy for the son.
She tucked in her shirt, straightened her tie and checked her hair, short and neat but somewhat misshapen from both the sweat of her hat on the car drive and the pillow that had provided her that welcome respite from her weariness. There was a brush somewhere in her suitcase but she made do with smoothing it into some kind of order and tucking it behind her ears. She ignored the flush in her cheeks as she checked her reflection in the mirror.
That’s when she noticed the opaque green vase was no longer empty. It had been filled with a spray of grape leaves and sunshine-yellow paper daisies.
After Flora had washed her face and hands in the bathroom on the opposite side of the lean-to, which seemed to have been lately renovated with an indoor dunny, she followed the enticing smell of freshly baked scones to the kitchen. There she was greeted by not two Nettlefolds but four.
Mrs Nettlefold sat at one end of the table, Charles at the other, and in between, on the side nearest the sink, were two little girls. Charles pushed back his chair and stood, motioning wordlessly to the empty chair.
‘Thank you,’ she said. The aroma of freshly brewed tea made her almost giddy.
Charles waited until Flora was seated and returned to his chair. The scones sat in the middle of the table, plump and steaming.
‘Miss Atkins,’ Charles said. ‘I’d like to introduce you to my daughters, Violet and Daisy. Girls, this is the lady I told you about from the Land Army who’s come to help me pick our fruit.’
The girls giggled and dropped their chins, sneaking sideways glances at each other.
‘Girls,’ Mrs Nettlefold said. ‘Manners.’
‘Yes, Nan,’ said Violet.
‘It’s very nice to meet you, Violet and Daisy.’
Violet’s hair was as dark as her father’s, almost black, and cut in a short bob quite similar to Flora’s own. She had her father’s eyes, too. Sky blue. Violet trained them on Flora and offered a friendly smile. The little girl’s checked shirt, puffed at the shoulders, looked clean and pressed, and skinny little arms poked out of the sleeves.
Flora guessed the younger girl, Daisy, must be six years old or so. Her hair, almost white-blonde, hung in two thin plaits over her shoulders. With a smear of freckles across her nose and cheeks, eyelashes of the palest blonde and big blue eyes, she was like something out of a Ginger Meggs cartoon strip. She beamed at Flora.
‘Miss Atkins?’ Mrs Nettlefold offered the plate of scones to Flora. Steam rose from them in a tantalising cloud. A small glass bowl filled with chunky apricot jam sat on the table next to the teapot, along with a matching jug full to the brim with cream so thick the spoon stood up in it.
‘They smell absolutely delicious, Mrs Nettlefold.’ Flora took one and passed the plate to Charles on her other side. He gave his daughters one each.
‘Dad,’ Daisy whispered loudly. ‘I’m so hungry. The lady took a long time to wake up and we’ve been waiting forever for afternoon tea.’
Flora felt hot all of a sudden. She studied her scone.
‘One is plenty. You have to leave some room for dinner, Daisy.’
From the corner of her eye, Flora saw Charles reach across and tug his youngest daughter’s ear.
Mrs Nettlefold poured the tea.
When Flora took that first bite of scone, loaded with glistening apricot jam and a dollop of cream, she decided the six-hour train journey from Melbourne had been entirely worth it.
‘Would you like to see the block, Miss Atkins?’
Flora had just crossed her cutlery over her empty dinner plate when Charles had pushed his chair back and asked her to join him. She had struggled to finish Mrs Nettlefold’s lamb chop, mashed potato, carrot and pea dinner, having earlier been urged to eat a second scone by Violet, and was glad of the offer so she could stretch her legs and help her stomach settle after all that food.
The girls looked up at her with wide eyes.
‘Can we come too, Daddy?’ Violet asked. ‘Please?’
‘We can show Miss Hadkins all the outside too,’ Daisy added. ‘Marjorie. And the chickens.’
‘Miss Atkins does not need to meet our cow,’ Charles replied with just the hint of a smile. ‘You may both come if you don’t get in the way. We have work to discuss.’
His daughters giggled.
‘Off you go, then. I’ll clean up here.’ Mrs Nettlefold reached for the plates and Flora had to stop her automatic impulse to dash to the sink and help with the dishes. The rules were clear and had been repeated often: Land Army girls were to work, not to undertake domestic chores. Still, Flora felt a pang of guilt and sympathy for Mrs Nettlefold at having to keep her hands in the sink on such a lovely evening as this.
‘This way, Miss Hadkins,’ Daisy said as she tugged on Flora’s hand. Charles led the little party to the back door and outside into the twilight. The sun was low and the sting had gone out of the heat. Charles led the way along the stone path, the girls chattering behind him. To the left of the house a loose rope was strung between two wooden posts that leant towards each other like lovers with outstretched arms. The clothesline. They passed under the huge peppercorn tree and Flora felt the temperature change under its boughs.
The girls insisted Flora pat Marjorie, which she dutifully did, even though she’d never been that close to a cow in her life, and tried not to appear hesitant. The chickens had names, Daisy told her, including Dick and Dora and so many others Flora couldn’t keep up. And then they were standing in the vines, the leaves flickering and dancing in the breeze as if they were waving to her.
Daisy hopped up and down on the spot. ‘These make sultanas and Nan puts them in cakes and biscuits and they’re scrumptious.’
Flora smiled at her. ‘I can vouch for the fact that your grandmother is an excellent baker.’
The little girl pressed the flat of her hand on her stomach and rubbed. ‘Yes, she jolly well is.’
‘Are these all sultana grapes, Mr Nettlefold?’ Flora turned back to Charles, who’d been lingering behind her. He’d slipped his hat back on before they’d come outside and his face was in shadow.
‘Sultanas and currants. Here.’ He reached right in among the leaves and with a tug pulled out a bunch that Flora hadn’t even noticed was there. He plucked a single grape from the bunch and held it out to her. She cupped her palm and he dropped it there. When she bit into the tiny green orb, the taut skin exploded and sweetness flooded her mouth. ‘Oh, goodness,’ she sighed. ‘I’ve never tasted anything like that from the corner grocer in Camberwell.’
Charles smiled proudly. ‘It’s difficult to get them to market when they’re ripe, with us being so far away. That’s why we dry them. Once they’re picked, they’re dried in the sheds over there on racks, or out in the sun, and then they’re off to the local co-op for packing.’
Flora looked over to the drying sheds. A tractor was parked close by, its red canopy visible above the green. The branches of a few straggly gums hung over the sheds.
‘Every wife and mother and sweetheart in the country seems to be baking fruit cakes to send off to the troops,’ he said. ‘Demand has never been greater.’
Flora smiled at the memory of her own hours in the kitchen doing the exact thing for Frank. ‘Yes. In the Willow soldier’s cake tin. They’re not quite as tasty these days without so much butter, but we’ve learnt to make do. I’m sure our boys don’t mind.’
Charles walked on ahead of her and looked back, and she followed.
‘We’re not a very big property, but there are just a few too many vines for me to do on my own. And the girls are far too young to help. That’s why we need you, Miss Atkins.’
Flora straightened her shoulders. ‘I’m pleased to be here to help you.’ Flora hoped she sounded
confident. Be proud of your wartime calling. It will be hard and sometimes you’ll want to quit, she remembered being told at the induction session back in Melbourne, but keep on smiling and carry on regardless, no matter how hard the work. Our troops and our country are depending on you.
‘Daddy, Daddy! We’re hiding. Come find us.’
A small chuckle escaped Charles’s lips. He slipped his hands into the pockets of his overalls and rocked back on his heels. ‘It’s the girls’ favourite game.’ He lowered his voice. ‘They don’t know it but I’ve twigged that they only ever hide in the same spot, right there behind that row.’ He pointed towards the drying sheds and Flora followed his finger. She saw a flash of blonde hair and heard giggles in the distance.
When she was their age, Flora had loved to play hide and seek with her father but she’d never had a backyard this big to hide in. Their small house in Camberwell afforded only a few places to disappear: down the narrow side of the house, behind the water tank, or hidden in the leaves of the plum tree. Out here, Flora could easily believe that Charles’s girls could disappear in one of a million spots all the way to the horizon and not be found for hours.
‘We start early,’ he told her. ‘Before the heat of the day hits.’
Flora nodded, slipping her hands behind her back. ‘Certainly.’
‘Six o’clock. Will you need waking?’
‘I’d appreciate a knock on my door,’ she said.
‘That’s easily done,’ Charles replied with a nod. ‘Do you have a hat? I mean, something with a wider brim than your Land Army hat?’
Her hand went to the top of her hair without her planning it. His eyes followed. ‘Oh yes, I brought a straw hat with me.’
‘Good. Best not to get sunburnt on the first day.’
Practical. That’s how Charles Nettlefold struck Flora. A practical, no-nonsense kind of a man. Her father was such a man. The fewer words they were able to use in a conversation, the better. That suited her just fine.
The girls continued to call after their father and the sound of it was playful and lovely. Magpies called from the gum tree by the drying shed, and a light breeze flicked and danced in the vine leaves. Flora stole a glance at Charles. His eyes were off somewhere in the distance.
‘Mr Nettlefold, I’m not afraid of hard work. I’ll be ready bright and early tomorrow. You have my word.’
He turned to her and smiled. ‘Good to know. Now, Miss Atkins,’ he said, and then he raised his voice in a dramatic fashion. ‘I have to go and find my girls.’
There was more squealing and a lion’s roar emerged from Charles’s throat as he playfully loped off to chase his daughters. Flora’s thoughts drifted to her own father. It was past dinnertime now. He would be settled in his favourite armchair in the living room, filling his ashtray with ash, listening to the latest news of the fighting before falling asleep in his chair, Frank in his uniform keeping watch from the wooden frame on the mantel.
Flora yawned and quickly covered her mouth. The setting sun, oranges and reds and purples in the sky, reminded her that the evening was almost gone. She turned to walk back to the house, but at the sound of a squeal looked back over her shoulder to see Charles striding after her, a little girl under each arm.
Chapter Nine
‘Here are your secateurs, Miss Atkins.’
At six o’clock the next morning, the sun was almost up. The earthy smell of the red soil was fecund and Flora’s early-morning hunger had been sated by boiled eggs on toast and a cup of sweet tea. Mrs Nettlefold had provided the hearty breakfast after rising early to milk Marjorie and collect the eggs from the chook house.
She and Charles were in the vines and Flora gripped her new tool in her right hand and squeezed the handles together, flexing her fingers, feeling their strength. The blades moved easily. On close inspection in the early-morning light, she noticed a shine on the curve of each blade, an indication they’d recently been sharpened. She’d pruned the roses at home and the plum tree in the back yard when it was bare-leafed, so this wasn’t altogether unfamiliar to her.
‘Righto,’ she said. She adjusted her wide-brimmed straw hat.
‘I see you have gloves,’ Charles said. ‘And … overalls.’
Flora waved a hand in the air. ‘Part of the uniform, Mr Nettlefold. It was all supplied by the Land Army.’
‘Here are the buckets. We’ll cut the grapes, put the bunches in there, and then I’ll carry them over to the drying sheds and load them onto the racks. We’ll keep going until about four.’
Flora looked down at the buckets on the flattened grass by her scuff-less boots. They were sheet-metal containers, about knee height, with a thin wire bowed from one side to the other. ‘They’ve got holes in them,’ she observed.
‘That’s so I can cold dip them in the buckets before the fruit is spread out for drying.’
‘They need to be washed?’
Charles shook his head patiently. ‘In an emulsion made from carbonate of potash, cold water and olive oil. The Greek method, we call it.’
‘Is that because of the olive oil?’ Flora had never tasted it herself but knew that some people in Melbourne bought it from the chemist.
‘It’s because the man who showed us all around here how to create world-class sultanas and currants is Greek. Kolios. Before him, all we had was shrivelled-up fruit. Now, they’re plump and golden and in high demand. We have a lot to thank him for.’
‘How fascinating,’ Flora said. ‘I don’t mean to take up your time with so many questions. They’re not important.’ She waved her hand as if to bat her question away.
‘They are, Miss Atkins. It’s important you understand the process. Now, the grapes.’ Charles leant down and reached into the vines. He gently cradled a bunch of sultanas in his hand. How did he know where they were hiding?
‘The other important thing to remember is to keep the fruit clean. Too much handling spoils the drying. We also have to rinse out the buckets when they’re emptied. We can’t have dirt contaminating the grapes.’
‘Righto.’ Flora nodded, sure she’d taken it all in.
Charles adjusted his hat and she could have sworn he was hiding a grin when he replied, ‘Righto, then.’
They got to work. As the sun rose higher in the sky, Flora worked the secateurs, searching and clipping. She’d managed to fill two buckets to every four of Charles’s, but kept up her pace, hoping to improve on the impression she’d made the day before when she’d fallen asleep in the mid-afternoon. She still felt a flush of mortification in her cheeks when she thought about having to be woken.
She lifted her straw hat, ruffled her hair to cool it, and stretched out her back. That’s when she heard it.
She looked up.
‘What on earth is that?’ she said to herself. Flora shielded her eyes from the bright sun but kept her eyes turned upwards. There was a buzz and a throaty, mechanical cough somewhere distant, but growing closer.
Charles walked over to her, tucking his secateurs in the pocket of his overalls. ‘They’re training pilots from the RAAF base at Mildura.’
‘There’s a base nearby?’
The plane was flying low in the distance, the engine roar getting louder and louder as it approached.
‘He’s coming in rather low, isn’t he?’ Flora took a step back into the vines, as if that might somehow protect her.
‘They’re young boys,’ Charlies replied, shaking his head. ‘Full of bravado. They like to have fun with us sometimes. They’ll be off somewhere soon where they’re going to need every bit of courage they can muster. I don’t mind if they take a practice run here.’
The craft was so low coming in to its approach that Flora and Charles instinctively ducked.
‘It’s a Wirraway,’ Charles said. ‘A bomber.’
Flora wondered what it must have been like for the people of Poland and France and Czechoslovakia and Belgium when the Nazis invaded. For the people of Singapore when it fell. For every soldier strafed by b
ullets. Those final few minutes must have been terror. The approach. The sound. The pain. The oblivion.
Weren’t they ripe for the picking, these pilots in their planes? How could one hide in the blue when even the clouds were no disguise for the noise? She and Charles followed the aircraft as it lifted, the sound of its engines fading, until it became a pinprick in the summer sky.
Three hours later, with the sun still high, Flora’s back was about to break. The vines were low to the ground and she had to almost bend in half to fossick among the leaves to find the bunches. She was trying to be extra careful to handle the grapes as little as possible and to cut them at the top of the stem as Charles had shown her. More than one bunch had tumbled from her gloved and unwieldy fingers and she seemed to be getting slower, not faster.
She stood, arched her back and lifted her chin to the sky. Her straw hat toppled off and she breathed deep.
‘Men to arms, women to farms,’ she reminded herself, trying to ignore the ache between her shoulder blades and the burn in her thighs from crouching.
‘Pardon?’ Charles’s low voice seemed to rumble.
She slowly straightened. Something in her lower back throbbed and she blew out a pained breath as she propped her hands on her hips. He held the handles of two empty buckets in one huge hand.
‘I was talking to myself, that’s all. It’s something I read back in Melbourne when I signed up to the Land Army. It’s something they say to encourage young women to join. Men to arms, women to farms.’
Charles suddenly seemed taller. His expression grew stony. ‘Not every man can go to war, Miss Atkins.’ He dropped the metal buckets at her feet and strode away.
They worked on in silence. Charles seemed to prefer it that way and Flora didn’t object.
At two, Mrs Nettlefold walked down from the house with a vacuum flask of hot tea and two slices of fruit cake. Flora gobbled hers down hungrily, even though lunch had only been two hours earlier. Charles thanked his mother and took a moment to sit on the grass between the vines for a rest, slowly savouring the fruit cake and sipping his tea. Flora desperately wanted to flop down on the grass to rest her back but didn’t want to create the impression that she was a shirker, so she stood, bending slowly from side to side to try to loosen her taut muscles.
The Land Girls Page 9
