The Land Girls

by Victoria Purman

  Flora grew slower and slower as the hours passed. Her back was shot through with muscle spasms and her arms throbbed. Her only relief came when Daisy and Violet ran through the vines to find their father, announcing that it was four o’clock and they were to stop for the day. When he saw them coming, he dropped his secateurs to the ground, spread his arms open wide and grabbed the girls up in his arms for smacking kisses. They giggled uproariously.

  Flora averted her eyes. It was another family moment that she should respect and keep her distance from.

  ‘Miss Hadkins,’ Daisy called.

  She looked up. All three Nettlefolds were watching her. ‘Yes, Daisy?’

  ‘It’s time for you to come home too.’

  The spasm in her lower back pinched as she took a step and Flora heard her own sharp intake of breath as she moved to slip the secateurs into the pocket of her overalls. She felt a mess. Her hair had come loose from the pins she’d used to keep it back under her hat. She’d sweated through her cotton shirt and she was certain she had blisters at the back of both heels from her new elastic-sided boots. She wanted nothing more than a hot bath and to wash her hair. And then to sleep for a week. Why on earth had she thought she was capable of such hard work? Perhaps Mr McInerney back in Melbourne and the crotchety old man at the train station had been right.

  ‘Righto,’ she called and, struggling to put on a brave face, she followed the family back to the house.

  The night before, her bed had seemed exceedingly comfortable. But that night it squeaked with every breath she took and her back complained with agonising stabs of pain every time she moved on the stone-hard mattress. It was going to be a long night.

  When they’d come back to the house, she’d bathed, changed into a skirt and a shirt, and had joined the family for dinner. She’d barely been able to keep her eyes open and, after apologising that she had no room for custard and stewed apples for dessert, had excused herself to her room where she crawled between the sheets and moaned.

  It was just seven o’clock. She’d drawn the curtains but the slanted louvres were open and the breeze drifted in, making the fabric float. Outside, Marjorie was softly mooing and the chickens were clucking lazily. Inside, two little girls were giggling and stomping up and down the hallway and a man’s voice was growling like a bear. Not long after, silence fell and then there were soft footsteps on the other side of her door and a little knock.

  ‘Yes?’ Flora called. She tried to sit up but her back spasmed and she lay back, trying to find a position that didn’t hurt.

  ‘Miss Hadkins?’ The door opened and Daisy’s little blonde head peeked around it.

  ‘Come in. Please.’

  ‘Daddy said I should give you this.’ The child tentatively walked towards her with her hands outstretched. ‘It’s a hot water bottle.’

  Flora wanted to weep with gratitude. It was just like hers at home, dark green rubber with a white stopper. ‘Thank you. That’s very considerate.’

  Daisy put it on the bed by Flora’s shoulder and then looked about the room as if she hadn’t ever seen it before. She took in Flora’s suitcase on the floor, the gumboots next to it, her straw hat hanging from the swivel mirror on the chest of drawers and then, with an innocent lack of restraint, ran to the dresser and picked up the wedding photo.

  ‘That wedding dress is very pretty,’ she said, turning back to Flora, her eyes wide.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Her mother’s dress had been Edwardian in style; high collared, lace trimmed, with puffed sleeves and a train. She hadn’t worn a veil but a ring of flowers threaded in her hair.

  Daisy carefully set down the silver frame and picked up the photograph of Frank. ‘Is he an army man?’

  ‘Yes,’ Flora replied. ‘He is.’

  Daisy propped the image in front of the vase of vine leaves and daisies. ‘Sweet dreams, Miss Hadkins.’

  ‘And to you, Daisy.’

  The door closed, but that didn’t prevent Flora from hearing every word of Daisy’s conversation. Daisy hadn’t quite got the knack of whispering, it seemed. ‘There’s a photograph of a soldier, Daddy. And another one with a wedding.’

  ‘Is there?’ Charles asked.

  ‘She looks like a princess. Just like Cinderella.’

  Cinderella? More like Sleeping Beauty, she thought.

  Flora tucked the hot water bottle under the curve of her lower back. The warmth brought instant relief, even if it did make her sweat.

  She’d planned to write to her father that night, telling him all about the block and the Nettlefolds and her first day. She’d been composing it in her head as she’d cut and held the grapes carefully in her gloved hand, loading them into the buckets with great care.

  ‘Dear Dad. All is well here. It’s so invigorating being out in the open air, feeling so useful …’

  She wouldn’t tell him the truth. That she ached and she’d been slow. What did the children’s fable say? Slow and steady wins the race? That’s what she would have to do. Be patient, learn and try harder.

  As she waited for sleep to claim her, Flora thought about the Nettlefold family. Were Mrs Nettlefold and her son sitting in the living room right now, listening to the entertainment on the radio, laughing behind their hands about how feeble their Land Army girl was after just one day at work? They’d asked for a girl and were sent a woman. Perhaps a younger woman might not ache so much after just one day.

  The girls. Those playful and cheeky girls clearly adored their father. But where was their mother? Flora remembered that Mrs Nettlefold had hinted at something when she’d picked Flora up from the train station.

  ‘Who has a family untouched by sadness these days?’

  People had ways in which they hid their sadness and their grief. Flora knew that. Perhaps theirs was to remove any mention of Charles’s wife, the girls’ mother. And Charles—what grief had he endured? He’d shuttered himself after he’d overheard her going on about men bearing arms and women going to farms. She’d clearly offended him. She must learn not talk about herself and her family. That was safest. All in all, Flora had not made the best of starts to her career in the Land Army. The next day would be better, she resolved, as she drifted into a painful and exhausted sleep.

  Flora and Charles worked their way into a routine. Flora had resolved not to chat, and Charles worked alongside her in silence. As she grew used to the work, she became more adept at finding the stalks in the vines and clipping them in just the right spot to snip the stem. She was filling buckets with more speed and the racks in the drying sheds were filling fast. Flora felt a growing sense of satisfaction as well as discovering, every day, muscles she didn’t know she had. Her early back aches had eased as she grew used to the labour, but every night she’d fallen into bed early and exhausted with her hot water bottle almost directly after dinner.

  On the first Friday, she’d taken to her overalls with the secateurs. Each day had been hotter than the one before, hovering near one hundred and fifteen degrees judging by the blazing sun and the still air, and she simply couldn’t bear the stiff drill cotton of her overalls one minute longer. The sweat had been dripping down her back and down her legs since they’d begun work and she’d tossed her hat to the ground, clutched the stiff fabric in her fist and thrust the blades into the seam on the inside of her left leg. She squeezed hard and tight and tugged and in a couple of minutes, she was released from the constraints of the material in question. She tossed the secateurs on the grass, rolled the hems up to mid-thigh and stared at her handiwork. The relief from the heat was immediate and welcome

  When Charles had returned with the empty buckets, he let them go so quickly they tumbled to the ground and clattered against each other.

  ‘What have you done to your overalls?’ Charles stared at her bare legs. When she’d looked up at him, she noticed his Adam’s apple bob up and down under the growth of his salt-and-pepper beard. His gaze lingered on her legs before drifting to her face.

  ‘I know, I know, they�
��re a little pale. But it’s too damn hot for long trousers.’ The heat made her feel cross and frustrated and anyway, she didn’t need his permission to make herself more comfortable in the heat. She challenged him with a return glare. It didn’t escape her attention that his utterance was the first thing he’d said to her all week, other than ‘It’s time for a cuppa’ or ‘That bucket’s got room for more grapes’. She’d been working so hard, trying to prove something to him and to herself. She’d worked through her aching back and bleeding blisters and if he appreciated it, he hadn’t taken it upon himself to mention anything to her.

  ‘You’ll burn,’ he’d said and turned his back to her. He lifted four full steel buckets—two in each hand—and stomped off to the drying shed.

  On the second Monday, Flora was working her way down the vines and, stepping in close to clip a stem, she stepped on something that moved. She jumped and shrieked all at once and Charles was by her side in a moment.

  ‘What is it, Miss Atkins?’ He hunched to peer into her eyes. ‘You look white as a sheet.’

  ‘I think I stepped on a snake. It was soft and it wriggled and …’ She shivered at the thought of it.

  He dropped to his knees and his fingers gripped her legs above the edge of her work boots, pressing into the skin there and searching every inch. ‘Do you think you were bitten?’

  That made Flora shriek again and she took off, running so fast she didn’t stop until she was by Marjorie’s side, her lungs shrieking with effort and terror. That started up the chooks in a cacophony. Marjorie mooed and swished her tail. Flora leant over, her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath.

  The back door slammed and Mrs Nettlefold rushed to her. ‘I heard screams. What the devil’s going on out here?’

  Charles jogged towards them. ‘Miss Atkins saw a snake in the vines.’

  She bolted upright. ‘Saw a snake? I stepped on the bloody thing.’ She shivered involuntarily, goosebumps breaking out on every inch of her.

  ‘You’re not bitten?’ Mrs Nettlefold asked.

  ‘I would have felt that, wouldn’t I?’

  ‘You most certainly would have,’ Mrs Nettlefold said with a definitive nod. ‘Probably a lizard. No need to panic. I’ll go fetch you a cold drink. Sit there on the grass and calm your nerves.’

  Flora nervously looked around her. She walked to the tyre swing and sat in that instead.

  On the second Wednesday, Flora filled a bucket so quickly she decided to take it to the drying shed herself, where she could hear Charles spraying the fruit. She was keen to see the racks, how the grapes were draped over them, how the process worked. She wasn’t sure how it happened, but on the way over she tripped, the toe of one boot catching on the dirt, and she tumbled, falling on the bucket, its angular corner digging into her hip and scraping her shin as she met the trampled grass with a thud. It took her a moment to orient herself and when she opened her eyes, blinking against the blazing sun, Charles was looking down at her.

  ‘Miss Atkins, what the blazes …’ He lifted the bucket away and flicked squashed clumps of grapes from her legs and her stomach.

  Flora caught her breath, and went to speak, but what came out of her mouth weren’t words but laughter. Pure, joyous laughter. At the ridiculousness of tumbling like a clown, at the wide view of the sky above her, as azure as the ocean, and at the face staring down at her, frowning at her incompetence. It was all so ridiculous as to be hilarious.

  The waves of laughter made her stomach ache and she brought her knees up to her chest and clutched them there. And when Charles tumbled backwards onto the grass, he joined in, and it was one of the happiest times Flora could remember.

  On the next Saturday afternoon, the girls came down into the vines to call their father and Flora back to the house and Mrs Nettlefold greeted them at the back door.

  ‘Supper’s at six,’ she said, her hand held flat over her eyes to shield them from the sun.

  ‘Thank you,’ Flora said wearily.

  Charles was ahead of her, but he stopped and turned, his face serious. ‘You’ve got time for a bath if you’re inclined.’

  Flora almost skidded to a stop. All week she’d washed over the handbasin in the bathroom filled with cold water. The house relied on rainwater and she’d quickly learnt they conserved it where they could.

  ‘A bath?’ she repeated, not quite certain of what she’d heard. The sheer excitement of such a thing, after two weeks of aching muscles and hard work, performed some kind of magic on her. ‘Oh, yes, Mr Nettlefold. Thank you so much.’ And the grin on her face, crinkling up her heat-parched cheeks, made her feel like someone else for the briefest moment: the new person she had been becoming since arriving at Two Rivers. She caught up to Charles and smiled up at him.

  ‘A bath!’ she exclaimed and rushed past him to her room to grab her towel and her toiletries.

  When Flora sat down for supper, her hair was still wet. After soaking for an hour—such bliss—she’d washed her hair, scrubbing it so thoroughly the water looked pink afterwards from the red Mildura dirt. She’d towel dried it as well as she could though it still dripped on her floral dress. It was such a relief to feel so clean. After a week of sweat and dust, her hair had been so stiff it almost stood on end, as if she’d stuck her finger into an electric socket.

  Charles had showered and was dressed in fresh clothes, too: a plain pale-blue shirt turned up to his elbows, and tan trousers. He was finished in the bathroom in ten minutes, which clearly included a shave as his jaw was smooth and she could smell some sort of men’s cologne, nothing that she recognised from her father or brothers.

  ‘This looks delicious, Mrs Nettlefold,’ Flora declared as she looked over the spread of cold sliced ham, a green salad, a plate of hard-boiled eggs sliced in half and sprinkled with salt and pepper, a jar of homemade pickles and a loaf of freshly baked bread. Alongside the loaf was a china plate cradling a pat of butter an inch thick. It was the palest yellow and there were drops of condensation on it. Flora still marvelled at being able to have real butter, churned from Marjorie’s own milk no less.

  It seemed the perfect meal for a hot summer’s evening.

  ‘Eat up,’ Mrs Nettlefold chided as she reached for the salad.

  Charles poured their water glasses full. Violet and Daisy grinned at Flora across the table.

  ‘Your dress is pretty,’ Daisy whispered loudly.

  ‘Thank you,’ Flora replied. She was glad now she’d listened to her father. She was tired of her work clothes and the dress seemed just the right thing to wear for Saturday-night supper. It was short sleeved and knee length and had a matching belt. The V of the neckline and the blousy shape of the bodice were cool in the summer heat.

  They ate in companionable silence, interrupted by the occasional murmur of appreciation from Charles or giggles from the girls. When their plates were empty, they still managed to make room for peach cobbler with fresh cream, which was devoured with great delight. Mrs Nettlefold might have been a little on the taciturn side, but she showed her love for her family—and an interloper—with her cooking and housekeeping and her kind attention to detail.

  She worked harder than Charles and Flora put together, Flora was convinced. When Charles and Flora rose at five-thirty for breakfast, Mrs Nettlefold was already out with Marjorie, the sound of milk spurting against the sides of the milk tin now as familiar to Flora as the call of the magpies in the evenings. When they were out among the vines, the old woman was caring for and entertaining her two granddaughters. It seemed the only time there was a sparkle in her eye was when Violet and Daisy were in the room. Not for the first time, Flora envied them their closeness, for it made her miss her brothers even more.

  Charles groaned, leant back in his chair and patted his flat stomach. ‘That was just delicious, Mum.’

  Mrs Nettlefold gave her son a proud little nod.

  ‘Yes, it was,’ Flora added. ‘Thank you so much.’

  Violet jumped up from her chair and began g
athering bowls and spoons. ‘Can we play cards tonight, Daddy?’

  ‘I think we can. Who’s up for a game of snap before bed?’

  ‘I am!’ Violet called out.

  ‘I am, too,’ Daisy whispered.

  ‘You lot go and play cards,’ their grandmother said. ‘I’ll clean up here and then I might walk to the drying sheds to see how those sultanas are getting on.’

  Flora stood, too. ‘Thank you again for dinner, Mrs Nettlefold. I’ll excuse myself. I have some letters to write.’

  ‘You don’t play cards, Miss Atkins?’ Violet asked, crestfallen.

  ‘Oh, I—’ She glanced at Charles. She didn’t want to intrude.

  ‘You’d be most welcome,’ he said, his mouth a tight line. He didn’t seem to want to disappoint his girls.

  ‘Then yes, thank you. I’d enjoy that.’

  Charles and Flora followed the bouncing girls down the hallway to the sitting room. It wasn’t at all what she’d expected. A new three-seater lounge setting was positioned in front of a wide window with a lace curtain. Heavy burgundy drapes hung open on either side. It seemed strange suddenly to see open curtains in the twilight. She’d become so used to the blackouts, with darkened rooms and candles rather than lights. She glanced around for any photos and there seemed to be only one. Judging by the attire, it was Mrs Nettlefold’s wedding photo.

  The girls raced to the two matching armchairs that sat angled in the far corners of the room, their bare feet soft on the plush floral Axminster wall-to-wall carpet.

  ‘Shall we put the radio on?’ Charles asked, and when they clapped their enthusiasm he twiddled with the dial on the beautifully polished teak radio cabinet until he found something jazzy. He turned it up loud and Violet and Daisy jumped off their chairs and began practising what appeared to be ballet moves in the middle of the room.

  Flora observed Charles watch his girls and marvelled at the transformation. There was a softness in his eyes when he was with them. If she’d formed a judgement of his character by the way he’d treated her, she might have a very different impression of the man. But standing there, his hands in his pockets, his head nodding ever so slightly to the beat of the music, watching his girls delight in their freedom, she judged him to be a wonderful father.