The Land Girls

by Victoria Purman

  ‘I’m from Melbourne. You?’

  ‘Sydney. I’m billeted out at the Stocks’. On the other side of Mildura. It’s a huge fruit block. There’s twenty of us there. We sleep in this enormous corrugated-iron shed, which is hot as anything.’ Betty smiled weakly. ‘But it’s been fun, of course. Oh, and hard work.’

  ‘I’m boarding with the Nettlefolds. It’s a small place called Two Rivers. There’s only me there to help.’

  Betty’s eyes widened and she laid a hand on Flora’s arm. ‘Oh, how lonely for you.’

  ‘Not at all. The family has been very welcoming.’

  Over Betty’s shoulder, Flora saw Charles heading in her direction. He paused to tip his hat to a family, a young woman with a child and a matronly lady wearing a broad-brimmed hat with a garden of flowers on it, holding a plate draped with a tea towel. He glanced over and caught Flora’s eye.

  ‘Betty, will you excuse me for a minute? I’ll be right back.’ Betty’s hand on Flora’s arm became a tight grip. ‘You … you are coming to the CWA morning tea, aren’t you?’

  ‘Of course I am,’ Flora said. ‘You?’

  ‘I wouldn’t miss it,’ Betty said, lowering her head.

  Flora heard a sniff. ‘I’ll be right back.’

  She quickly walked to Charles. She spotted Mrs Nettlefold talking to Mr Henwood, and Daisy and Violet were playing skip rope with three other little girls on the dry grass.

  ‘Mr Nettlefold, I’ve met a girl from Sydney. A Land Army girl. She’s rather homesick, so I think I’ll take her in to the morning tea, if that’s all right with you. Give her some company.’

  ‘Of course,’ Charles said. Flora turned to walk away, but looked back over her shoulder, and saw him stride away from the crowd of people towards the wrought-iron gate in the stone fence.

  Chapter Twelve

  The church hall was decorated with Australian flags and festooned with streamers cut from newspapers. Trestle tables arranged along opposite walls were laden with cakes and biscuits and sandwiches. As people crowded in away from the heat, they gravitated towards the display and eagerly began to sample the wares of the members of the local Country Women’s Association branch.

  Flora stood with Betty. They sipped tea from delicate china cups on matching saucers. Betty seemed rather nervous and her teacup rattled as she spoke.

  ‘There’s lots of girls at Stocks’ and they’re all lovely. It was such a long trip from Sydney but I chose Mildura because I didn’t want to pick potatoes in Batlow. I don’t even know where that is. Imagine what that’s like? Digging in the dirt all day long. Did you know that some Land Army girls have gone to work in shearing sheds? I can’t imagine how they put up with the language. You know what they say about shearers.’ Betty seemed to shiver. ‘Grape picking sounded more like my cup of tea.’ She looked down at her cup and giggled. ‘Look at me. Making funny jokes when I really am tremendously nervous about all this. Everyone’s looking at us, don’t you think?’

  Flora’s heart ached for this young woman, so young and clearly homesick and lonely. ‘Have you found friends?’ Flora asked, laying a comforting hand on her arm.

  Betty’s lower lip quivered. Flora was suddenly grateful for her maturity and her own nature. She was accustomed to her own company. She hadn’t had the companionship of a best girlfriend or anyone close, really, other than her brothers and her father. Jack had once described her as a hermit crab. All the times he’d urged her to go out on the town, to see the latest Hollywood picture or to go to a dance, she’d had trouble convincing him that she’d rather stay at home. In Melbourne, she’d regarded that urge for quiet and solitude as a failure on her part, a hint of a chronic lack of some personality trait. In hindsight, perhaps it was a benefit, after all. Having never been the kind of woman to be out on the town, she could hardly miss it.

  ‘Please don’t misunderstand me, Flora. They’re just … it’s not the same as the friends I had back in Sydney. The girls from Woolworths and my best friend next door.’

  ‘How lucky to have your best friend living next door to you. What’s her name? Tell me all about her.’

  ‘Oh, no. It’s not a girl. It’s Michael Doherty. He’s been my best friend since we were little ones. He’s in the army. So is his brother.’

  Flora breathed deep. ‘My brother is in the army too.’

  Betty blinked and tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘Is that why you’re in the Land Army?’

  Flora nodded. ‘Yes, it’s exactly why. Tell me, Betty. How long have you been at the Stocks?’

  ‘Three weeks.’ Betty’s tone made it sound as if it had been three months. The expression on her face hinted that it felt like three years.

  Flora felt the urge to throw an arm around young Betty for a comforting hug, but she didn’t want to draw attention to the girl being upset in case it might inadvertently support the theories of the Mr Henwoods of the community and their scepticism about the Land girls.

  Instead, she leant in close and spoke quietly behind her teacup so she wouldn’t be overheard. ‘Buck up, Betty. If you’ve had the same experience as me, you’ll have been working your fingers to the bone. When you’re tired, things can seem a little out of proportion. Did your back ache when you first started?’

  Betty nodded, clearly afraid that if she opened her mouth to speak a sob might blurt out instead.

  ‘And did every muscle in your body groan at you as you slept?’

  Betty’s lip curled a little. ‘Yes. It was agony.’

  ‘Welcome to the Land Army then. Remember what we were told. We’ll be hot and uncomfortable and yes, we’ll get blisters and our backs will ache. But all those adversities will make us proper Land Army girls. You’re one of us, Betty. Be proud. You’ll be right, I know you will.’

  Betty smiled and drew in a breath. ‘Thank you, Flora.’

  A bell rang and all around them the chatter quietened. A woman walked onto the stage at the front of the hall. It was the same person Charles had been talking to after the service, the owner of the immense floral hat.

  She welcomed everyone and there was polite applause.

  ‘The Country Women’s Association takes a very special interest in the Australian Women’s Land Army and both organisations welcome you all here today.’

  The crowd burst into exuberant applause. ‘I’m Mrs Turner, branch president of the CWA. With so many girls out in the country helping with agricultural production, we’ve been charged with ensuring every one of them who comes to our district is looked after. Girls, you may have left your own families, but you are part of our family now.’

  Betty seemed to have recovered some confidence. She looked back at Flora and shrugged with a reluctant smile.

  ‘Appreciation and self-esteem are among the more pleasant things in life and I hope you are all feeling it. You should take stock and enjoy the sensation of knowing you are pulling your weight on the vital food front. Even those farmers who were not in favour of the employment of women have had their minds changed by your endeavour and your adaptability in all the work that you do.’

  There was a loud snort behind her and Flora didn’t have to turn around to know it was Mr Henwood.

  ‘And now,’ Mrs Turner continued, ‘those same people continually express their amazement at how well you have taken to farm work.’

  Flora searched the crowd for Charles. There he was, twenty feet away, Daisy in his arms, his eyes on her. She felt a tug behind her breastbone. Perhaps she’d pulled a muscle the day before. She pressed a palm to her chest and felt her heart thudding.

  ‘So, we thank you and we salute you. Moreover, our troops thank you too. You are standing by your sisters in the other services. You are standing by our troops. And you are standing by your country.’

  This time the applause was thunderous and every head seemed to turn towards Flora and Betty to show their appreciation. This was so new to Flora, so overwhelming, that she swallowed the lump in her throat and laughed so she wouldn’t sob.
>
  Charles nodded at her and smiled and she didn’t want to feel what she was feeling but it rose up in her, unstoppable and indescribable. He had noticed her, defended her, seen her. It was intoxicating.

  A moment later, a group of young ladies in their Land Army uniforms surrounded Betty, tugging at her hat, patting her on the shoulder, joking and laughing with her. Betty was swept up with them and they moved off towards the refreshments.

  Flora was overwhelmed. Mr McInerney had never once shown one-tenth of this appreciation for the work she’d done in his office and she’d worked for him for a decade. The praise she’d received for just two weeks of grape picking was almost incomprehensible to her.

  Charles appeared at her side. Daisy smiled at Flora. She was tucked up in her father’s arms, safe and so clearly loved. ‘You look very nice in your special uniform,’ the little girl said.

  ‘Why, thank you.’

  ‘I second that,’ Charles added. ‘It’s quite a change from your overalls and boots.’

  ‘Why, thank you too, Mr Nettlefold.’

  ‘Daisy, would you like to go and fetch Miss Atkins and me a slice each of your grandmother’s jam roly-poly?’

  ‘Yes, Daddy.’ Charles set his daughter on her feet and she snaked her way through the crowd and out of sight.

  ‘Miss Atkins.’ Charles met her gaze. He lowered his voice and, deep and raspy, it rumbled through her like a freight train.

  ‘I can only echo the sentiments of Mrs Turner. I don’t know what we would have done without you these past weeks. We’ve got so much fruit picked. You’ve been a godsend.’

  ‘You and Mrs Nettlefold have welcomed me into your home and I couldn’t be more grateful. I’ve learnt so much.’

  ‘That’s good to hear.’ He paused and they shared a smile. ‘We’ll be leaving shortly, if that’s all right with you.’ Charles checked his watch.

  ‘Of course, yes.’

  ‘I’m sure we could both do with a restful Sunday afternoon.’

  Flora sighed. ‘That’s very true. I can’t wait to put my feet up and finally write my letters.’

  ‘Oh, I forgot to mention it. Mr and Mrs Griffin have given me a bundle of them for you. They have the post office in Mildura. They came to church especially today to deliver the post to you Land Army girls.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Flora held the letters in her hand. There were four of them, tied with a length of hessian twine. Above her, the dappled shade of the peppercorn tree in the Nettlefolds’ yard gave her protection from the sun; beneath her, a blanket protected her legs from the dirt.

  As soon as they’d arrived home from the CWA morning tea, Flora had politely excused herself to her room and changed out of her uniform. She’d slipped on her floral dress and her sun hat and hadn’t even heard the back door slam behind her as she’d raced outside to sit in the fresh air and the peace and quiet to read all the news from home.

  The letters were even more precious unread, she thought as she studied her father’s handwriting on the letter at the top of the bundle. What promise they held, what threat too, of news she might not want to hear. She took a moment to relish the idea that her world was exactly as it had been when she left Melbourne. Flora closed her eyes and listened to the rustle of the wind through the vine leaves; Daisy and Violet’s laughter drifting to her from inside the house; Marjorie mooing gently; the chooks cackling and scratching in the dirt; the call of a magpie in the peppercorn above her, seducing her with its trilling song. This really was a haven. This little property, so far from what she’d known, had already claimed a piece of her heart.

  Flora slipped off her shoes, leant back against the rough bark of the peppercorn and found the courage to untie the knot on the string.

  One of the letters was from her father, two were from Jack and—her heart almost burst out of her chest as she recognised his handwriting—there was one from Frank. She ripped the envelope open in such haste she took off a corner of the letter with it. She checked the date. It was from early December, before she’d left Melbourne.

  Her hands were shaking so much she could barely read it.

  2/11th Field Regiment

  8th Division

  December 12th, 1942

  Dear Flor,

  First up, let me apologise for not writing to you sooner. You know that letters aren’t my favourite thing in the world, although I do like to get them from home, especially yours, filled with all the news from Melbourne. I’m sure all the boys you’ve knitted socks for have warm toes, although to be honest, no one here in the jungle needs to worry about cold feet.

  I’ll miss Christmas at home this year, the second year running I won’t be there for your roast chicken with all the trimmings. I’ll truly miss that. If I was there on Christmas Day, I’d make sure you and Dad and Jack all had presents specially chosen for you.

  I think of you all every day and I hope you’re keeping well. I wanted to say a tremendous thank you for the fruit cake you sent. The tin kept it safe from being nibbled along the way. I shared it with the boys in the regiment and three of them made sure I let you know of their offers of marriage. You always were a tasty cook, Flor.

  You have spent too much time at home looking after ‘your boys’. It’s time you were getting married. You won’t always have Dad and Jack for company and who knows when I’ll be home. They say the tide is turning but we’re still here. You aren’t young but you’re a wonderful girl. I reckon you should strike out for yourself and get someone who is worthy of you.

  Don’t worry about me. I’m safe and well. My best wishes for Christmas and a happy 1943.

  I’ll write again soon.

  Your ever-loving brother, Frank.

  Flora pressed her palm to her chest, breathed deep and tried not to cry. Frank was safe. At least he had been when he’d written back in December and that was enough.

  She quickly read her father’s letter and the two from Jack. Her father was becoming quite proficient at frying eggs, it seemed, and all was well with the tomatoes she’d left in his care. He seemed quite proud to tell her he’d managed to make himself a tomato and onion salad. She pictured him standing at the sink, a cutting board filled with juicy red tomatoes and thick slices of onion laid out in front of him. He’d probably scooped them all up with his calloused hands and put them directly onto his dinner plate. Another man of few words. She’d been around them her entire life.

  Her father hadn’t ever spoken of his loneliness, at least not to Flora or her brothers, but they all knew he suffered it. He’d been without their mother for so many years but had never looked at another woman. Flora wanted nothing more than for him to be happy, to perhaps find love again, but he’d not seemed inclined. She and her father were companions to each other, their loneliness a bond. Perhaps there was only one great love for each person in life, if you were very fortunate, and her father had had his in her mother. Now he had his work, his children and his house. And the war meant he had the wireless too.

  Jack’s letters were filled with humorous details about the pictures he’d seen and the dances he’d attended and there was more than one mention of a young lady called Jane, whose name she hadn’t heard before. Had he slipped it in by accident or was she already so important to him that he didn’t need to explain? Flora chuckled. Jack would never be lonely. She knew he would find someone who would love him for the kind and considerate man he was, and not judge him by his deafness or the fact that he wasn’t able to serve, not in a uniform anyway. It was a great comfort to Flora that the men in her life were thriving without her. The war had forced every Australian to make sacrifices and they were bearing theirs with good humour and their sleeves rolled up. If they missed her, they wouldn’t show it.

  Flora looked out into the vines and breathed in the scent. She shuffled her letters and read Frank’s again. One part in particular.

  You aren’t young but you’re a wonderful girl. I reckon you should strike out for yourself and get someone who is worth
y of you.

  Tears welled and tumbled down her cheeks, spilling onto the precious pages before she could catch them, smudging the loops and strokes of Frank’s handwriting. Mortified, she frantically waved the papers in the air, flicking them back and forth, hoping the motion and the heat would dry them, and then she felt for the hem of her dress, dipped her head and pressed the fabric to her cheeks. She felt sad and foolish all at once and hated herself for it. What point was there in feeling so melancholy about her situation? Time had passed her by. Water under the bridge, as her father would say when asked about something that had happened in the past and he couldn’t change. He didn’t like to look back but it was all Flora could think about after reading Frank’s imploring words.

  How on earth could she strike out for herself and find someone who was worthy of her? She couldn’t conjure love like Mandrake the Magician might conjure a rabbit out of a hat.

  She had never met a man who might look at her as a wife, as someone worth loving. Oh, but she had loved. Once. He was a clerk in Mr McInerney’s office. Jonathon Carmichael. He was a handsome devil and he knew it, and somehow Flora had let herself be carried away by his flirtatious behaviour and into thinking it was directed solely at her. One day he’d brought her a bunch of flowers and she’d convinced herself that he must have been taken with her. She’d believed herself to be in love with him. She’d prickled with anticipation before his arrival in the office each day. She’d made a habit of arriving at work early, even catching an earlier tram, so she could ensure she was already at her desk when he arrived. She knew the particular sound of his stride on the wooden steps and in the corridor outside the office, and when he would burst in like a jack-in-the-box she had melted. He always had a smile and a wink for her before he hung his hat and his suit jacket on the hat stand near the glass front door. But she discovered the hard way that it had only been some kind of manly pride at having a young girl so enamoured of him, after he turned his flirtations to a new girl in the office one day, a girl who giggled at his humour and batted her eyelids at him like a silent movie star.