The shame and humiliation of her affections had been a heavy weight she’d borne in all the years since. She had long been resigned to her status as a confirmed spinster. A girl unmarried at twenty-one was suspect, at twenty-five unfortunate, and at thirty just sad. She had tried to reconcile herself to the fact that she would never know the joy of a family of her own, the satisfaction of comforting a sad child with a mother’s warm affection, the love of a husband who loved her as much as her father had adored her mother. She’d seen the best of what marriage could be between two people. She wished it for Frank when, God willing, he returned home, and for Jack, who had the kind of friendly demeanour that women were attracted to.
She would have to be a devoted aunt to all their children. She might knit them some socks. At least she was able to do that. And anyway, she had the Land Army now. A boss who appreciated her instead of overlooking her work, and a workplace that was definitely an improvement on her old office with its view over a dank laneway.
She sniffed, rummaged inside her dress for the handkerchief she always tucked inside the cup of her bra and blew her runny nose.
She heard him before she saw him, clearing his throat. She would know the timbre of his voice anywhere. Ignoring the prickle under her skin, she hurriedly tucked the handkerchief away.
‘My apologies for interrupting,’ Charles said quietly. ‘If you’d rather …’ His voice trailed off.
‘No, you’re not interrupting at all.’ Flora looked up. His eyes were shaded by the brim of his hat. She wished she could see them, see what was in them when he looked at her. Had he been observing her from afar? How long had he stood there waiting before he finally spoke? Had he seen her tears?
Frank’s letter was loose on her lap and she clumsily stuffed it back in its envelope, her fingers fumbling.
‘I hope there’s no difficult news from home.’ The kindness in his voice rumbled right through her.
‘No. It’s happy news, Mr Nettlefold. Everything and everyone is fine.’
‘Well. That is something to celebrate then.’ She hadn’t noticed he was holding a wooden tray, the type with fold-out legs that a patient might have if they were ill in bed, and he hovered for a moment, as if he was looking for a place to set it on the ground. He glanced over his shoulder at Marjorie, busy chewing, and then he turned back to look out to the vines and beyond to the river. He’d changed out of his suit into cotton work trousers and a shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbow as always.
‘I was wondering, Miss Atkins, if you might like some company? The girls are about to have a lie-down after their adventures with their friends at church this morning. My mother has squeezed some fresh juice and baked a batch of honey drops. She thought you might like one.’
‘How thoughtful of her.’
Charles lowered the tray onto the rug by Flora’s legs and sat down on the other side of it. The peppercorn tree threw enough shade that they were both protected from the sun, and Charles slipped off his hat, tossing it at his feet. He poured two glasses of juice, almost overfilling one of them, and passed one to Flora. She took a sip of the cold and sweet liquid and licked her lips to savour the taste and the coolness.
‘It’s thirsty work reading your letters, I see.’
‘Yes,’ Flora smiled. The heat wasn’t the only thing causing her throat to feel parched. ‘That and the heat.’
‘It’s hotter here than Melbourne in the summer, I expect. Doesn’t rain as much, either.’
‘No?’
Charles lifted the plate of biscuits and held it towards her. She took a honey drop and bit into it, slowly, luxuriating in its buttery taste. How she missed the creamy taste of real butter. Having Marjorie certainly had its advantages, even if one had to wake at sparrow’s to milk her. Luckily for them all, Mrs Nettlefold was the early riser.
‘This whole area was desert before irrigation. The vines wouldn’t survive without water from the river.’
Charles took two biscuits for himself and settled on the rug, leaning to the side on an elbow, one knee propped up. Flora swallowed hard. She’d never seem him this relaxed and comfortable. There was a reserve to him that she respected. She was a Land Army girl and he was her employer. Thirty shillings a week and board for her labour, and a polite distance between them.
But something was on the verge of changing. Flora leant back against the rough trunk of the peppercorn, let her eyes drift closed, and tasted the honey drop still on her tongue. She didn’t feel like a Land Army girl in this moment, the hot breeze in her hair, her cotton dress cool on her legs, her feet bare. She breathed deep and wiggled her toes. She felt like a version of herself she had perhaps never been. This felt a little like freedom.
She looked across at Charles. Who was this man, out here at Two Rivers, living in a house full of women? There was no sign of what had happened to his wife or any mention of a sweetheart. He didn’t seem to go into Mildura much, except to pick up supplies and the post. He had dinner with his family every night and hadn’t once missed reading his daughters their favourite stories before they went to bed. It was Flora’s favourite part of the evening. Once the girls had washed and were in their pyjamas, they would race to Charles sitting in the armchair and each claim a knee. Charles would pretend they were getting too big for his lap and they would both plead that no, they weren’t. Flora always managed to be in the sitting room to witness this scene, with her cup of tea and whatever biscuit Mrs Nettlefold had baked that day.
She knew that Daisy liked ‘Clancy of the Overflow’ while Violet preferred The Magic Pudding. She’d listened in so many nights that she was sure she knew them by heart.
‘He had written him a letter …’ Charles always began, his deep voice undulating with the rhythm of the poem, and Flora found it mesmerising. She stared at his mouth as he recited. As he turned the pages, he always twirled a lock of Daisy’s hair around his left index finger, or brought his hand to rest on Violet’s hand.
He was a loving father and a dutiful son.
But who had loved him?
‘Would you like another?’
Flora’s eyes sprung wide open.
‘If you don’t, I might eat them all myself. They’re my favourite, I have to admit. And with the girls asleep I don’t have to share them.’ His eyes, so blue, were trained on her, the smile in them creating wrinkles in the smooth skin just above his cheekbones. ‘Except with you, of course.’
‘Perhaps just one. Your mother’s baking …’ Flora sighed.
‘I know what you mean.’ Charles left the plate on the tray this time. He picked up another honey drop and passed it to her.
It tasted even better than the first one. ‘I know there are sacrifices to be made for the war but doing without butter has been the hardest,’ Flora told him. ‘Back home, I mean. Lots of people have chooks so we always had eggs, but you can’t make a really lovely cake or a batch of biscuits without butter.’
‘Enjoy them while you can, Miss … Hadkins.’ He laughed, and she laughed too.
‘Your mother does look after you all very well. She’s absolutely devoted.’
‘To all of us, don’t you mean?’
She paused, thinking over the implications of what that simple word meant. Us. ‘Why, yes. She’s been very kind to me. More than I could have expected.’
‘She’s always loved baking,’ Charles said. ‘When I’m in Mildura, I often pick up a copy of the Women’s Weekly in case she’s of a mind to try out some new recipes or see what the latest fashions are. But she sticks to what she knows. And what she does best.’
Flora crunched on her biscuit, and swept crumbs from her dress. ‘The whole of Melbourne has gone mad for apple pie,’ she murmured, gazing out over the vines, a wave of calm sleepiness washing over her. ‘It’s the Americans. They want things to feel like home, at least that’s what some people say. So we now have hot apple pie and Coca-Cola and hamburgers everywhere.’
‘I’ve never had a hamburger,’ Charles said.
> ‘I have. It was all right. Did you know that the Yanks prefer their apple pie with ice-cream but not on top, on the side? Apple Pie a la Mode, they call it.’
‘I’ve tasted that.’
‘You have?’ Flora asked, surprised.
‘At the milk bar in the Astor Theatre, in Mildura. The Spot Sundae Parlour, it’s called.’
‘Well,’ Flora stammered. ‘I didn’t think …’
Charles laughed loud and deep. He dropped his elbow and flopped flat on his back. He propped his hands under his head and stared up into the drooping branches of the peppercorn. ‘You didn’t think we had all the latest things up here in the country, Miss Atkins?’
Flora shrugged. ‘Well, yes. I am a little surprised.’
‘Who needs Melbourne when we have it all here? Sodas. Sundaes. Milkshakes. I took my mother and the girls there for Daisy’s sixth birthday in August. Mr Raftopoulos is quite the milk-bar entrepreneur in Mildura.’
‘Daisy would have loved that, I’m sure.’
Charles turned his head to her. ‘She did.’ He paused, frowned a little. ‘Perhaps you might like to come along next time I go to Mildura. Taste a banana and cream sundae for yourself.’
‘Oh,’ Flora said. ‘That sounds quite delicious.’
‘It’s my favourite,’ he smiled.
There was so much she wanted to know about Charles Nettlefold and she found the courage to begin to ask.
‘Mr Nettlefold, has Two Rivers been in your family for a very long time?’
Charles breathed deep. He moved his hands to the flat of his belly, the stretch of his long body untucking his shirt from his trousers. There was a sliver of skin exposed near his belt and she found it impossible to look away.
‘My father was a soldier settler, after the first war. My parents met in Melbourne but mum’s from Wentworth. They compromised and ended up here. That’s where the name comes from. Two rivers. The Murray and the Darling meet at Wentworth. My father surprised her one day with the sign out by the main road. He painted it himself.’ A small chuckle escaped his lips.
‘It’s C and A Nettlefold. What was his name?’
Charles smiled sadly. ‘Charles was his name, but everyone called him Charlie.’
The only child, the only son, carrying on his father’s name and his legacy.
‘That’s why I’m Charles, not Charlie. And my mother is Alice.’
Flora considered it and decided that Charlie wouldn’t suit him. ‘When did your father …?’
‘Twenty-three years ago, coming up in June. In 1920. He never really recovered from the mustard gas from the first war. It damaged his lungs. The winters here were just too cold.’
Flora struggled to find the right words to say and when she spoke, she almost whispered her condolences. ‘How dreadful for you and your mother. You must have been just a boy.’ If she had been closer she might have placed her hand on his as an act of comfort. Instead, she twisted her fingers together in a knot in her lap.
‘I was thirteen,’ Charles said quietly. ‘My mother didn’t want to leave this place, even though we hadn’t been here all that long. We’ve done our best to muddle along, the two of us. It’s not a huge block and we’ve usually hired some local men over the years to help with the picking but they’ve been hard to find lately. The Italians are interned and every other young man in the district has up and left for the war.’
What losses Charles had borne in his life. When she’d seen him walking towards the gravestones earlier that morning after the church service, had he been intent on visiting his father’s grave? Or his wife’s? Or both?
The vines seemed to speak to Flora. Their rustle was like a love song, the summer breeze intoxicating. Or perhaps it was something else entirely, but the thought of leaving Two Rivers when the harvest was over suddenly tore at her. She could understand why his mother loved it so. The air, the sky, the river, the smell of the red earth and even the heat. Flora had never felt so alive in her life. And soon it would all come to an end. When the vines were bare of fruit, she would be assigned somewhere else.
‘I apologise for mentioning the war if it makes you upset,’ he said.
‘No, it’s all right. It’s all everyone talks about these days, isn’t it?’
‘I hope you don’t mind if I … I’ve been wanting to know,’ he said then stopped, his forehead creasing in a frown. ‘I hope you don’t think it rude of me to ask but is your sweetheart serving, Miss Atkins?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Your letters.’ He sat up, his frown hardened now. ‘Are they from someone very dear to you?’
Flora blinked. ‘Oh, yes, but no. I don’t have … no, I don’t have a sweetheart.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Charles said, looking startled. ‘Daisy mentioned the photographs in your room. The wedding. The soldier.’
She exhaled deeply, feeling skittish and hot. ‘The wedding was my parents’ and the soldier is my youngest brother, Frank. He’s in the AIF. I was reading his letter when you walked over.’
‘Your brother,’ Charles repeated slowly.
‘I have two. Frank and Jack. Frank’s the baby and Jack’s in the middle.’ Then the story tumbled from her lips, much to her surprise. She’d gone so long without saying their names that she needed her words to bring them back to life. ‘Frank’s a charmer. Everyone loves him. He’s younger than me by four and a bit years, so that’s twenty-six at his next birthday. Then there’s Jack, who’s twenty-eight. He’s exceptionally kind and considerate. When he was fourteen years old he contracted meningitis and he lost the hearing in his right ear. Medically unfit for the war, he was told.’ Flora held her breath, wondering if this was too much of a story to tell, but it felt so wonderful to be talking about her beloved brothers that she kept on going. A glance at Charles revealed she had his rapt attention.
‘He would have enlisted. He honestly would have.’ She breathed deep. ‘Back in December, a woman handed him a white feather right in the middle of Swanston Street.’
Charles muttered something under his breath. ‘I thought that only happened to people in my parents’ years.’
Flora straightened the hem of her dress across her knees. ‘I was furious. The only thing I knew to do was to join the Land Army. I could do my patriotic duty in my family’s name even if Jack couldn’t.’
Charles studied her face. A smile crept up on him. ‘I find it hard to imagine you being furious with anyone. You have such an even temper.’
‘I fought back with my deeds, if not my words.’
‘I’ve wondered why you put your hand up to leave your life in Melbourne and your family and come out here to help us. I presume you worked, Miss Atkins, before you joined the Land Army?’
‘Yes, in an insurance office, typing invoices for Mr McInerney.’ She hesitated. ‘As a matter of fact, I did more than that. I ran the office. I trained up all the new girls. I made sure there was a pot of tea brewing every morning when he arrived for work and I was always the last to leave.’ An exhilarating feeling welled up inside of her. ‘And I was still paid less than the most junior male clerk. So I didn’t have much to leave behind in the way of work, Mr Nettlefold.’
She couldn’t read his expression but remembered what he’d said earlier to old Mr Henwood.
As hard a worker as I’ve ever seen.
These Land Army girls are worth their weight.
‘Good for you.’ His gaze softened. ‘My mother mentioned that you lost your own mother many years ago. I was very sorry to hear it.’
The ache rose up, still, after all these years. ‘She died of pneumonia when I was fifteen. And,’ she said, hesitating, ‘I’ve just realised it was fifteen years ago. She’s been gone half my life.’
‘That’s a terrible thing for a young girl to bear.’
‘It was. I do miss my family, my father and Jack. And Mrs Jones next door. But I didn’t really have any dear friends or anything like that. I answered the call, proud to be able to do my duty. I promised myse
lf that as long as Frank is serving, I’ll serve, too.’
Charles whispered something under his breath.
Flora looked at him quizzically.
‘Men to arms, women to farms. That’s what you said to me that first day we were out in the vines, picking.’
‘Oh yes, I remember,’ she replied. ‘I read it in the paper or a magazine, I’m not sure, and it stuck with me. Rhymes are meant to do that, aren’t they? Stick in your head until you believe you might have made them up yourself?’ And then, a jolt of awareness. ‘You must have thought I was aiming those words at you.’
Charles glanced down at the blanket. ‘I must admit I did. I was angry about it, at the slur I believed you’d sent my way. I apologise for that.’
‘You don’t have to, Mr Nettlefold. Honestly. You’re doing your duty here, too. The farm. Your girls and your mother. You’re responsible for so much here, for so many.’
He reached for the last honey drop, held it between his thumb and index finger and held it out to her.
When she took it, their fingers touched and held.
‘It’s yours, Miss Hadkins,’ he chuckled and Flora followed with a laugh that came freely and fully from deep in her belly.
Then, ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Of course.’
He paused, met her gaze. ‘Will you call me Charles?’
Something seemed to blossom inside her. ‘Only if you call me Flora.’
‘Flora,’ he said, and the sound of his voice, saying her name, was enchanting. ‘I’ve always thought it to be a beautiful name.’
She’d said his name in her head a thousand times. ‘Thank you, Charles.’
Chapter Fourteen
Betty
On Saturday evening, the girls from Stocks’ had been allowed an early knock-off as they’d been invited as special guests to a Red Cross ball in Mildura.
They were all beside themselves with excitement. The weeks they’d toiled picking fruit had seemed like an eternity and they were not going to miss the chance to powder their faces, slip on their stockings and go out for the evening. Nancy had had it confirmed by Mrs Stock that there was going to be dancing, and that caused a giggle of anticipation.
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