The Land Girls

by Victoria Purman

Just a few lines to let you know that I’m still here in Mildura, safe and well. My training is going very well and I’m getting my flying hours up. A few more to go until I reach seventy-five, but I’m up in the skies over Mildura and the surrounding towns every day. Lord knows what they think when they hear the Kittyhawks and Mustangs flying overhead like giant blowflies.

  Training is focussed and quite intense but surprisingly fun, Lily. I’ve flown Spitfires and Wirraways so far, and I’ve spent quite some time taking off and landing, flying the skies of Mildura and the river. It really is like a snake, the Murray, as it loops and curves through the red earth here. The countryside is surprisingly green, filled with orange groves and grapevines for miles and miles and miles. I’m enjoying while I can the quiet and the blue skies. Last week I spotted a house and some sheds and I flew in quite low to have a look around and was surprised as anything to see a man and woman in the vines. I waved like mad so they knew I was having a little fun but I was in and out too quick for me to see if they waved back. I expect that people here would be used to us flying overhead by now, as familiar to them as the blowflies that are rather relentless at this time of year.

  I expect they know why we’re flying. I’ve joined up with some of the other fellas—terrific blokes all—and we’ve gone into Mildura for a meal and pictures at the Ozone. I can highly recommend This Gun For Hire with Veronica Lake. The boys came out and searched high and low up and down Langtree Avenue for a girl as pretty as her, but all I could do was think of you.

  Lil, I’ll be shipping out at the end of training, which I figure is the end of April. We have plenty of time to write letters before then, don’t we? For now, I console myself with the fact that, at least for the time being, I am close to you. When I’m flying, I sometimes imagine that I might one day keep going and not stop until I fly home to you.

  Please write to me as often as you can. I know you’ll make a go of the cherry picking. You’re a sensible girl. You married me, so you must be.

  Lil, I love you with all my heart and it will be a comfort to me to know that I’m in yours.

  You be brave and I’ll be safe, remember?

  Ever yours,

  David

  Chapter Seventeen

  Flora

  The trip into Mildura had been Charles’s idea. He mentioned it to Flora one Thursday evening at Two Rivers, in the living room after dinner. The girls were on the rug, drawing pictures on scraps of butcher’s paper. Mrs Nettlefold sat on the sofa embroidering a handkerchief, her needle threaded with cotton the colour of a Two Rivers bright orange sunset. Charles sat in one armchair skimming the pages of the latest edition of the Sunraysia Daily. The wireless was on in the background, Bing Crosby crooning and a smooth announcer’s voice drifting over them between the songs.

  Flora sat in the other armchair, a few feet away from him. She’d managed to find time in the evenings over the past week to read a little before sleep and was in the final few pages of her Agatha Christie novel. When the killer was revealed, she closed the book, laid it on her lap and sighed.

  ‘You’re finished?’ Charles asked, his newspaper rustling as he lowered it into his lap.

  ‘It’s taken me a while but yes.’

  ‘You like reading,’ he said.

  ‘Definitely,’ Flora replied. ‘It’s almost my favourite thing. Who doesn’t love a good book to carry you away into the thoughts and minds of other people? Their crimes and misdemeanours, their loves, their adventures?’

  ‘Was it good?’

  ‘Oh yes, Agatha Christie is my favourite author. She’s so clever and I never see the endings coming. I’ll have to find another, now I’ve finished this one.’

  ‘Our library has a good collection, but that won’t be much use to you, will it?’ He paused, dropped his gaze for a moment. Perhaps she wasn’t the only one who’d been thinking about her imminent departure. One more week and she would be gone.

  ‘No. I don’t believe I’d have enough time to finish it before I leave, unfortunately.’

  Charles glanced at the girls, colouring quietly, and his mother, silently stitching. He lifted the paper, as if he might be using it as a shield from his children and his mother, and leant towards her. She moved in close in response. He smelled of soap. For the first time she noticed the length of his eyelashes and the flecks of sapphire in his eyes.

  ‘There’s a bookshop in Mildura, on Hiscock’s corner. You might find something there you like. Perhaps we could go in on Saturday afternoon?’ he said quietly.

  Not quietly enough, it seemed. On the floor, the girls erupted. ‘Can we come too, Daddy?’

  Charles rolled his eyes and pulled his lips together in a frown, before transforming his features into a happy, fatherly smile. ‘Of course. Maybe we can see what’s screening at the Ozone.’

  Flora felt her cheeks warm and blush. Is that what he would have had in mind for them? A little shopping and a picture? Perhaps dinner too. She thought the world of the girls but let herself feel a flare of disappointment in that moment, at the chance that she and Charles might have had some time alone. She blinked the thought away as the girls squealed their delight and climbed up into their father’s lap. The newspaper was crushed in the commotion and Charles’s laughter echoed around the room.

  A tut-tutting Mrs Nettlefold interrupted. ‘Girls, don’t go and get all excited when it’s so close to bedtime. Speaking of which, I think it’s time for you both to go to bed.’

  ‘Come on, Daddy,’ Violet said, tugging on Charles’s little finger. ‘Time for stories.’

  Charles flicked a glance at Flora.

  Mrs Nettlefold watched them both. ‘I’ll do the stories tonight.’

  The girls knew better than to protest, so after quick kisses for their father, and goodnights and sleep-tights from Flora, Violet and Daisy went to bed.

  Daisy whispered loudly to Violet behind her grandmother’s back. ‘Do you think we’ll get to have a soda from the soda fountain?’

  ‘Sssh,’ Violet replied, holding a finger to her lips. ‘Don’t jinx it.’

  Flora and Charles sat together in the peaceful quiet. A warm breeze danced in the lace curtains and another song started on the wireless. Flora thought it might be Glenn Miller. She turned to Charles to mention it only to find him staring her.

  He had such a handsome face. She’d grown to know it during the past weeks; the sky blue of his eyes, the fullness of his lips, the messy thatch of his black-and-grey hair and how it stuck up in all directions after it had been pressed down under his straw hat. She was familiar with the sound of his footsteps, the long loping stride of his boots in the dirt. When he lifted four buckets full of grapes he breathed out as if he was bracing himself, and when he was about to begin ‘Clancy of the Overflow’ he always cleared his throat. Twice. He murmured his appreciation at the end of every meal and nodded his head in time to the music on the radio, especially if it was jazz.

  Was it any surprise, given how closely they’d been working together, side by side in the grapevines, that they’d created a routine which now flowed seamlessly like the river beyond the block?

  Flora had also come to understand things about herself. She understood that she had made a difference at Two Rivers, that she had helped them continue making a living from their land. She’d taken a leap of faith in herself when she’d enlisted and her confidence in herself had grown, buoyed by the swell of pride she felt every morning when she walked down the back steps of the Nettlefolds’ house with Charles to head out into the vines. She could comment with some authority now about how hot it might be in the mid-afternoon, and knew exactly which row of vines she had to return to after leaving the afternoon before. Under Charles’s patient and expert tuition, she’d even been trusted with the task of spraying the drying sultanas with the emulsion of potash and olive oil, and could pick out the drying stages of the fruit by its colour, from greenish to gold to amber to light brown to brown and blackish.

  ‘Flora.’

&nbs
p; She would always remember the way he said her name. ‘Yes, Charles?’

  He stood and came to her, lowered himself on the wide armrest. His calf brushed against her knee and she looked up into his eyes.

  ‘I had hoped that you and I …’ He shook his head and chuckled. ‘But the girls have other ideas, clearly.’

  ‘I’ll miss them terribly,’ Flora said, her voice catching in her throat.

  ‘And they will miss you. Having you here has been …’ The door to the sitting room swung open. Charles stood abruptly.

  ‘Daddy.’ It was Daisy, tears welling, a brown teddy bear under her arm. ‘I want you to tell me my story.’

  The muscles in Charles’s jaw flinched. ‘I’m coming.’ He strode across the room, swept Daisy up into his arms and left.

  Charles pulled the dusty Dodge to a stop in the middle of Langtree Avenue in Mildura. The wide street meant that there was room for parking in a strip in the middle, if you were lucky to get there in time before all the spaces were full.

  ‘Saturday afternoons get pretty busy,’ he’d explained on the bumpy journey to town and now Flora understood the rush of the morning’s work in the vineyard, the quick wash, the hurried lunch and Mrs Nettlefold fussing over the girls to get properly dressed. They were in the back seat, their hair neatly brushed, and in Daisy’s case twisted into two plaits. They wore the same cotton sleeveless dresses they’d worn to church the weekend before, and were fizzing with excitement about their outing. The whole journey had been filled with a discussion about which sweets they were going to buy at Coles.

  Flora was just the slightest bit excited herself. She looked out at the footpaths groaning with people jostling for space, cars hustling for parking spaces, and shop doors opening and closing like swinging doors in a cowboy picture with customers coming and going with parcels and bags.

  Charles was out of the car quickly to open Flora’s door. She took his hand and stepped out, feeling slightly anonymous in her civilian clothes. This was her free time, and the rules were that she was able to wear whatever she liked. Her trusty floral dress and a pair of tan sandals saw her blending in with all the other shoppers.

  ‘I’ll see you in half an hour?’ she asked Charles. ‘I’m off to the bookshop and you’re off to the Coles sweets counter, is that right?’

  The girls giggled and took their father’s hands to drag him towards their bounty.

  Flora quickly found the Agatha Christie novel she wanted, Evil Under the Sun, and after purchasing the book and some stamps and envelopes, she sauntered down Langtree Avenue, past the Hit Cafe and Smiths Dry Cleaning Laundry, which seemed to be doing a roaring trade, and then the window display at Lapin and Blass caught her attention. The drapery store was crowded with ladies and Flora resisted the urge to go in. She didn’t want to spend what little money she had left on something new, and anyway, she wouldn’t have any room in her suitcase to lug it to her next posting. But that didn’t stop Flora pressing her nose up against the glass and imagining that she might indeed spend ten shillings on one of the floral linen frocks so prettily displayed on the mannequin in the window.

  Wishing she could walk away with a new straw hat trimmed with ribbon, lace and flowers.

  Wishing she had the courage to buy a silk princess slip and silk hose and that Charles might one day caress his fingers up and under the sleek fabric on her thigh.

  She closed her eyes. Her most fervent wish was that there had never been a war and she’d wouldn’t have had to come to Two Rivers in the first place.

  But she was there now, and she didn’t want to leave.

  ‘Flora.’ Charles was by her side, his girls bouncing on the spot on either side of him. She swallowed hard, a sudden thirst drying her mouth. The girls were a useful distraction.

  ‘Did you get your sweets?’ she asked them.

  Violet and Daisy held out white paper bags tied with string.

  ‘Bullets,’ said Violet.

  ‘Jaffas,’ announced Daisy. ‘But Daddy says I’m not allowed to roll them down the aisle at the pictures.’

  He tugged one of her plaits. ‘All I said was that if you do, you won’t have any left to eat.’

  Flora looked into the shop window, trying to distract herself by concentrating on the display of tea towels and white pillowcases.

  ‘Flora?’ Charles asked. He reached for her, a gentle touch on her arm. The gesture created an ache deep in the pit of her stomach.

  ‘Is everything all right?’

  She found a smile. ‘I’m all done. I have my new book. Did someone say something about a banana and cream sundae?’

  Their table at the Spot Sundae Parlour was pushed up against one wall on the left of the long narrow space, to leave an aisle for customers in front of the wooden counter on the right. Behind it, shelves of sparklingly clean soda glasses were in neat rows and above them was a stained-glass window with the words soda fountain etched in a glass panel.

  Charles had given his order to a waitress in a white uniform and cap and it wasn’t long before Violet and Daisy were spooning ice-cream into their mouths. Flora’s chocolate malted milkshake and Charles’s banana ice-cream soda sat untouched. Their shoulders pressed up against the dark wood panelling as they gazed at each other.

  ‘You don’t like it?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ He was distracted.

  ‘Your soda.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ He stirred it around in its tall glass and then took a long sip. Beside them, the girls were deep in conversation.

  They caught the pictures at a quarter to six. Later, Flora tried to remember what announcements had been made in the newsreels or the name of the film but all the details escaped her. All she remembered was that, in the dark, the lights flickering on the faces from the screen at the front of the theatre, she had been sitting next to Charles, their shoulders had touched and his leg had brushed against hers until the final credits rolled.

  The last of the grapes had been picked by the first week of February. The dried fruit had been boxed and delivered to the local co-op. Charles had come home with payment, a cheerful grin and some surprises for his family.

  For the girls, a bag of the sweets they liked. For his mother, a bottle of perfume from the pharmacy, which she insisted was far too frivolous, and a bottle of brown Muscat for the adults to share over dinner. He handed over Flora’s final pay—thirty shillings a week as agreed by the Manpower Directorate for a girl who boarded at a property—and over dinner, proposed a toast to her to thank her.

  ‘To Miss Atkins,’ he’d announced, holding a sherry glass in the air. ‘I don’t know what we would have done without you.’

  Mrs Nettlefold looked at her son and then at Flora. The girls whooped and they all ate their dinner hungrily.

  Their final week together had slipped by in the blink of an eye. Flora had taken every chance to watch Charles, to study the ropes of muscle on his arms, the breadth of his shoulders, the shape of his strong jaw and the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. She knew his scent, sweat and dust and, after he’d washed, soap and wet hair.

  On their last day, when they’d walked together deep into the block after lunch, he’d caught her by the arm, and said, ‘Taste this.’ He waited for her to open her mouth and when she met his gaze and parted her lips, he’d squeezed a sultana and rubbed it over her lips, its juice sweet. When it dribbling down her chin, he swiped it with a finger and then sucked on it. Her craving for him was so unfamiliar and so insistent, stronger and stronger every day they were together.

  She’d already received her instructions from the Land Army for her next posting and that night’s farewell dinner was to be her last with the family. There was an early train to catch in the morning, and she would have to leave before the girls were out of bed.

  After dessert, vanilla custard with stewed plums, the girls began to stir. Finally, Daisy whispered loudly, ‘Daddy, can we give it to Miss Hadkins now?’

  ‘Yes, you may.’

  The gi
rls scurried out of the room and returned a moment later, grinning from ear to ear. ‘We made you a gift. To say thank you,’ Violet announced confidently. She passed the present across the table to Flora. It was thin and light and wrapped in old newspaper.

  ‘That’s very kind of you. May I open it?’

  The girls nodded vigorously. Flora turned it over, untied the string that fastened it and the pages of the newspaper fell away to reveal a drawing on a piece of butcher’s paper. In one corner of the page, a sun with rays like sticks. There was a little house. And a cow. A chicken coop, grapevines and a shed. Two children, one with yellow hair and one with black. A woman with her hair in a bun holding a plate of biscuits and a man with a tractor.

  And there, in the middle of it all, was a lady with short brown hair and brown eyes wearing a khaki Land Army uniform.

  The next morning, in the early-morning light, Charles pulled the Dodge into a dusty parking area at the Mildura train station. It was a bustle of activity, with cargo and sacks of mail and parcels being offloaded and replaced, people milling about and fussing over their suitcases, soldiers embracing lovers, children waving grandparents goodbye.

  Wordlessly, Charles unloaded Flora’s suitcase from the car and they walked across the tracks and up onto the platform. Flora bought a ticket and tucked it inside her handbag. She checked her hat to ensure it was straight. Charles watched her.

  The train horn blew, signalling that it was time to board.

  ‘Thank you for everything,’ she said, holding out her hand.

  Charles gazed down at it.

  ‘You’re most welcome,’ he said, taking her hand. His touch sent tingles through her.

  He stepped closer. ‘I need to ask you something. Before you go,’ he said gruffly. He seemed to be fighting with some instinct about what he was going to say, and Flora waited.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’ve never asked about the girls’ mother.’

  She shook her head. ‘No. I haven’t.’

  ‘Why is that?’ Charles’s brow furrowed.

  ‘I can’t say I haven’t wondered, Charles, but I didn’t feel it was any of my business.’