The Land Girls

by Victoria Purman

  As they rushed back to their quarters, Dorothy elbowed Betty playfully in her side and whipped off her straw hat to fan her face.

  ‘You know what dancing means, baby Betty?’

  Betty felt a little too flummoxed to answer. What else could it mean besides music and dancing?

  Dorothy threw her hat into the air and whooped. ‘It means men, baby Betty! Men! Real men!’

  ‘It does?’

  Dorothy ran ahead of her, her tanned brown legs long and slim, and looked back over her shoulder with a laugh. ‘Didn’t you know there’s an RAAF training unit right here in Mildura? And that means pilots, baby Betty. Pilots!’

  They’d all learnt quickly that twenty women, one copper full of hot water and one outside dunny meant patience, just the tiniest bit of sniping, and a long time waiting in line. Oh, and the occasional red-back spider. Gwen always shrieked the loudest, but not as loud as Helen had when she’d been convinced she’d seen a snake among the vines. Peggy had assured her it was most likely a blue-tongue lizard and that she needn’t worry unless it bit her, because once a blue-tongue got hold of you it never let go. Helen had gone white at the thought.

  Betty stood fifth and watched with good humour as the other girls lingered by the copper outside under the dappled shade of a copse of straggly gum trees. Each girl sudsed her hair with soap, washing away a week’s worth of dirt and sweat, and bent over while another girl tipped a saucepan full of cold water over her hair for a rinse. Mrs Stock had brought her iron out to the shed so the girls could press their uniforms, and Betty took longer than everyone said she should, which caused some good-natured ribbing about her homemaking skills.

  ‘Steady on. I was a shopgirl, not a laundress,’ she’d tossed back at them with a grin.

  At their induction, they’d been reminded that every woman privileged to wear the Women’s Land Army uniform should respect it. For social occasions such as the one they would attend that night, they were to wear full dress uniform, including their hat, at all times. Betty, and all the girls, had taken those instructions very seriously.

  On two flatbed trucks, twenty hats bobbed up and down as the rutted and bumpy roads created a rough journey. Betty felt herself buck up a little when she looked around at her new chums, dressed so neatly and proudly. While they were full of laughs after hours, they were hard workers in the vineyards and, right now, they looked smart and proud. She had to pinch herself to believe she was really one of them.

  A Land Army girl.

  She wished there was a camera to record this moment. Her mother and father had made sure to take her to a photographic studio in Sydney’s Strand Arcade before she left for Mildura. She’d waited in line with, it seemed, half of Sydney, so many of them in uniform, the other half weeping. She hadn’t yet seen that photograph but was certain that her expression had been one of stricken panic. She’d asked her mother to send her a copy so she could put it in her next letter to Michael, but only if she looked pretty in it and not fearful. She didn’t want Michael to think she was scared when she was right here at home in Australia doing farm work. He would have been facing much worse, she knew.

  Perhaps it was getting used to her work or perhaps it was being around the other girls, but their attitude and energy had rubbed off on her, and Betty was glad of it. She thought back to her meeting with that older Land Army girl at the church-hall reception.

  ‘Remember what we were told,’ Flora had advised her, a reassuring hand on her arm. ‘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.’

  Betty let herself feel proud as they pulled up to the hall in Deakin Avenue. Would Flora be there tonight? Betty hoped she would be, so she could tell her new friend in person how much those words of comfort had helped her. Would Flora be able to see in the set of Betty’s shoulders and her confident smile how much had changed in just a few short weeks?

  ‘Here we are, girls,’ Enid called out. She was the first to jump from the flatbed, then she reached up to help the shorter girls jump down. The hall was a hive of excitement and the twilight made everything look more glamorous. From inside the hall, lights gleamed, spotlighting bosomy ladies wearing elegant gowns and hats adorned with feathers and flowers. There were a few older gentlemen in dark three-piece suits and white bow ties, wearing sprigs of flowers in their boutonnieres. Some were escorting the older ladies and others were gathered in small groups, smoking and talking earnestly through their thick grey moustaches. Younger local ladies stood in clutches, talking effusively with their friends, every so often casting glances up and down the street. Betty quickly understood that Dorothy wasn’t the only girl there eagerly awaiting the arrival of the RAAF pilots. School-aged boys in suits that were too short for them talked loudly and cheered when one boy acted out, with waving hands, a plane crashing and an explosion, complete with sound effects.

  ‘Line up then,’ Peggy said, and with a nod the others fell into two lines, just like Betty remembered doing at school assemblies. The crowd fell silent. At first there was a whisper and then a chatter and when people began to applaud, Betty’s heart swelled.

  There were calls of ‘hear, hear’ and ‘well done, girls’ and ‘welcome’ and ‘thank you’, so many that it sounded like a chorus.

  Gwen was at her side. ‘Buck up, baby Betty,’ she whispered in her ear. ‘We’re going to have a wonderful time.’

  They were stopped at the doorway by two women in Red Cross uniforms but they couldn’t resist looking past their shoulders. The room was festooned with streamers on each window and across the ceiling. The stage was set with vases of chrysanthemums, vine leave and sheaves of wheat. Behind them a poster was decorated with the letters AWLA in green and gold glitter, and beside it a wheelbarrow was filled with fruit and vegetables. Even at a distance, Betty could spot the bunches of pale green sultana grapes.

  She gasped and clutched at Gwen’s arm. ‘How terrific.’

  The special guests were guided through a guard of honour, made up of local children holding sheaves of wheat aloft, to a chorus of applause. The girls ducked enough to make it through the tunnel and out the other side, smiling proudly at the warm welcome.

  ‘Isn’t this grand?’ Gwen whispered.

  Betty was almost speechless. ‘Very grand.’

  ‘Wait until you taste the supper.’

  Gwen took Betty’s hand and led her through the appreciative crowd to an array of tables at either side of the theatre. They were groaning with cakes and biscuits and sandwiches, pitchers of cordials and lemonades. Before Betty and Gwen had a moment to wonder where to begin, they were surrounded.

  ‘Please allow us to thank you girls,’ a woman told them. ‘I don’t know what we’d have done without you all coming from the city to help.’

  ‘You’re very welcome,’ Gwen said with a dip of her chin.

  An older gentlemen hurried towards them, his jittery hand extended in greeting, and he wouldn’t rest until he’d heartily shaken Gwen’s and Betty’s hands until they were almost sore. ‘I’ve found you all very solid and conscientious workers. You little ladies have such a cheery disposition. You’ve brightened up the whole district. Well done.’

  ‘It’s never a chore to do our bit for the country,’ Gwen said.

  ‘No, indeed it isn’t,’ Betty added.

  ‘Hear, hear,’ the man replied before shuffling away.

  There were so many congratulations that Betty was overwhelmed. When she had the chance to peel away, she examined the trading table and bought herself a small notebook and a bar of Lux soap. She held it to her nose and sniffed its scent through its wrapping. She ate four lamingtons and the most delicious chicken sandwiches and, for a time, struck up a conversation with two young girls of the district who seemed quite keen to know about her life back in the city. When she told them she worked at Woolworths before joining the Land Army, their eyes widened.

/>   ‘What’s Sydney like?’ one asked, almost quivering with excitement.

  ‘It’s very exciting but …’ She paused, thought for a moment. These girls were perhaps fifteen years old. How protected had they been from the realities of the war? How much should she tell them about how Sydney had changed? ‘I’m very pleased to be out here in the fresh air and working hard. And I’m sure you are both doing your bit on your family’s properties, too.’

  ‘We are doing our best and—’ The young girl was suddenly silent and her mouth gaped. She leant in to whisper to her friend, ‘Here they are.’ Betty looked over her shoulder. Mrs Stock’s piano playing was suddenly lost as a raucous burst of spontaneous applause erupted to welcome the pilots into the hall. Betty glanced around. A couple of the older gentlemen wiped tears from their eyes. In a corner, a man comforted a woman as she buried her face into his suit, away from onlookers.

  They were smiling, confident young men. Uniforms could do that to you, Betty thought as she glanced down at her own. The pilots wore forage hats, all tipped at an identical jaunty angle, and their deep royal-blue jackets and trousers were smart and elegant, as handsome as anything Betty had seen at the pictures. Clark Gable didn’t have a patch on those blokes, she thought with a smile. They came in as a group, perhaps twenty of them, and began to mingle, politely nodding to the ladies and shaking hands with the gentlemen.

  Dorothy was quickly by her side, with Nancy and Helen trailing behind.

  ‘Oh, my,’ Dorothy almost moaned. ‘I used to go dancing twice every week back home. I think I’m rather out of practice.’ She looked back at her friends with a sly wink.

  Mrs Stock resumed her playing with a renewed gusto and couples began to crowd the dance floor. Pilots with the Red Cross committee members. Elderly gentlemen with their wives. The young boys in the too-short trousers with older girls who rolled their eyes in embarrassment at having had to say yes to a local youth. Betty looked for Flora but could find no sign of her. Perhaps she hadn’t come along that night after all. Dorothy quickly found herself in the arms of a tall pilot with a wide grin, and when Betty saw a smudge of blue in her peripheral vision, she turned.

  ‘May I have this dance?’ A handsome man with a friendly smile and olive skin was at her side, his hands behind his back. He gave her a little sort of bow as he asked. Betty was still chewing a chocolate and coconut encrusted lamington and hurriedly set it on a plate. She brushed away any stray flakes on her mouth and cleared her throat. ‘Thank you.’ She let herself be led to the middle of the crowd and the pilot took her in his arms, his hand politely guiding her in the small of the back without pressing.

  ‘This is a lovely party, isn’t it?’ Betty asked. She could make small talk with anyone. It was her special skill, developed from all the years she’d spent with customers at Woolworths, answering questions, cajoling them into buying an extra lipstick, dealing with complaints and steering people away from their anger. She could find something to say about almost anything, and this man appeared as if he desperately needed distracting. Behind his smile, there was a sadness in his expression, in the dark shadows under his eyes, in the droop of his broad shoulders.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s quite a pleasant change from the base and being surrounded by all the other chaps, I have to admit.’

  ‘I’m Betty Brower. I’m very pleased to meet you.’

  He met her eyes with a distracted smile. ‘I’m David Hogarth. Or should I say, Flying Officer David Hogarth, 2nd Operational Training Unit, Mildura. At your service.’

  ‘We heard you RAAF boys were coming. Everyone was very excited about it.’

  David chuckled. ‘You Land Army girls have been the talk of the base for a good few days too.’

  ‘Yes, I expect so. Boys will be boys and girls will be girls, as they say.’

  ‘That is true.’

  They danced to the pounding piano for a while, David’s smooth rhythm making him an excellent dance partner. Betty knew that finding a partner with rhythm was not something to be taken for granted, wartime or not. Across the crowd, Betty saw Dorothy flirting outrageously with another of the trainee pilots and, if she wasn’t mistaken, he was flirting right back.

  ‘How are you finding it, working on the land?’

  ‘I’m loving it.’ This was not the time to tell the truth to a man in a uniform who would soon be facing far worse than a sore back and a few weeping blisters. ‘I’m working on a fruit block, picking sultana grapes. There’s a whole lot of girls, all of them here tonight, too. So, Flying Officer Hogarth, when you’re abroad and you receive a fruit cake from home, think of us. We’re the ones who picked the sultanas and currants.’

  David perked up. ‘Well, there you go. I hadn’t thought about it that way. That’s a cheery thought.’

  ‘We’re proud to be doing something for the war. For Australia. To support you boys.’

  ‘A man can’t fight a war on an empty stomach. So good for you, Betty. And all your girlfriends. We’ll all need to be fed when we’re assigned to our operational squadrons. Thank you.’

  ‘How’s your training going?’

  David smiled. ‘Very well, thank you. I expect you’ve heard us buzzing overhead as we get our hours up.’

  ‘Yes, we have. When we hear you coming we all stand and salute,’ Flora laughed.

  That made David laugh, too. ‘I’m halfway through. Only eight weeks to go. I’ve flown the Wirraway, the Kittyhawk and the Spitfire.’

  ‘I’ve heard of the Spitfire,’ Flora said. ‘They’re made in England, aren’t they? By women.’

  ‘I hear they are. They’re just as good as all the others.’

  ‘Do you know where you’ll be going? When you finish your training, I mean?’

  David shook his head, casting a quick glance down. Perhaps she shouldn’t have asked. It must be on their minds all the time, mustn’t it? Training in Mildura and dances and applause were one thing, but the idea of being sent abroad to fly in battle must have been terrifying. She decided to change the subject.

  ‘I’m from Sydney,’ Betty said. ‘You?’

  ‘Adelaide.’

  ‘I shouldn’t be dancing with you. You stole Bradman.’

  David let out a belly laugh. ‘That was almost ten years ago! And anyway, we’re not giving him back.’ David seemed to relax a little and Betty let him go on. Talking about home was clearly what this young man needed. ‘I’ve missed the cricket. Used to go to Adelaide Oval every summer when I was at university. Saw Bradman score a century in the Sheffield Shield in the summer of ’38, ’39. Marvellous.’

  ‘Do you play cricket yourself?’ Betty enquired.

  ‘No, tennis.’ And she saw his focus shift. ‘I played it at school. I’m quite good, actually, but I never could quite get the hang of teaching Lily.’ His eyes gleamed at a memory.

  ‘Lily?’

  ‘Yes, my Lily.’

  ‘She sounds very special.’

  ‘She is special indeed. Do you have someone, Betty?’

  ‘Oh, I …’ She didn’t yet understand exactly what she was to Michael or exactly what he was to her now, other than her best friend in the whole world. That wouldn’t change. Not in a million years. But she had a feeling that one kiss had changed everything.

  ‘I have a good friend, a dear friend.’ She felt heat in her cheeks. ‘He lives next door. Michael. He’s in the AIF, 2/23rd Field Battalion, 9th Division.’

  They shared a long look for a moment, an unspoken acknowledgement of all that might be lost.

  ‘Godspeed to Michael,’ David said in her ear.

  ‘And to you,’ Betty replied.

  When the music stopped, David let her go. They nodded to each other and he drifted away into the crowd. Suddenly Gwen was at her side, cheeks ruddy, her smile wide and happy. She seemed a little out of breath.

  ‘May I have this dance, miss?’ Gwen bowed and held out a hand to Betty.

  Betty giggled behind her hand.

  ‘Do a girl a favou
r, will you? There are too many women here and not enough men. I saw you dancing more than one with that nice-looking young man. I think you might have sneakily stolen my turn.’

  ‘I did not! He seemed sad. We were just chatting, that’s all.’

  ‘We’ll be lucky to get a man to dance with us after tonight or anywhere else for that matter until the war is over. Let’s show them.’

  Betty and Gwen laughed and twirled around the dance floor, bumping pilots and Land Army girls; Enid and Daphne; the two young girls who’d asked Betty about Sydney; and an older gentlemen beaming as he guided Nancy who, by any measure, was the most beautiful one of the group, around the hall.

  The laughter and the music and the dancing made it easy for Betty to forget, for just a little while, her homesickness and her growing sense of dread about the war.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lily

  ‘I think I saw him.’

  Lily Thomas peered through the branches of a cherry tree at the girl with the white-blonde hair. She was as tall as any man Lily had ever met, which made her the perfect height for reaching the highest fruit on the Norton Summit trees. ‘Who did you see?’

  ‘The Premier. That Mr Playford. A big black car drove in yesterday and there he was driving it himself. Tom Playford!’

  ‘He owns this place,’ Lily said matter-of-factly.

  ‘I know. I heard the manager, Mr George, talking about it yesterday but I didn’t think we’d be seeing him right here, did you? I’ve only ever heard him on the radio. He seemed very tall, although I suppose it’s hard to tell since he was sitting down. Do you think he’s tall, Lily?’

  It was the kind of conversation two people had when they didn’t know each other and the work they were engaged in was repetitive and monotonous. At least Lily found it to be repetitive and monotonous. She hadn’t wanted to tell the young Amazonian that she knew full well that the Premier of South Australia was the owner of the orchard. If she’d wanted to she could have also confirmed that he was quite tall, not very tall, as she’d met him once. But she didn’t want such tittle-tattle to spread through the group of Land Army girls. She didn’t want them to know that she had what some might call connections. She hadn’t known any of the nineteen other girls when she’d arrived at the property for the cherry season. They most definitely weren’t from her set. They hadn’t gone to the best schools or played tennis in the clubs her family belonged to and they’d probably never holidayed in the cooler Adelaide Hills or even seaside Victor Harbor during South Australia’s stifling summers.