The Land Girls

by Victoria Purman

  ‘I expect they are missing their families,’ Lily said.

  ‘Yes. As I expect you have too, being so far away up here in the hills. It’s felt quite like a summer excursion coming up to see you today, but there’s no time for picnics or rowboats. Are you glad to be coming home, Lilian?’

  ‘Yes.’ Lily answered in the affirmative before she could even think. She was so practised at saying yes to her mother in every matter that counted.

  ‘Davina is very much looking forward to seeing you. Everything’s just as you left it.’

  ‘Is it?’ Lily said, her mind wandering. She remembered her room with the pretty floral curtains and the soft rug. Her freshly laundered sheets, always starched into stiffness by Davina. Her dressing table with her silver hairbrush and mirror. All her gowns and her sewing in the corner. Her books in a small pile on her writing desk.

  Lily watched the soaring gums rise into the sky on either side of the road. ‘I’ve been playing softball.’

  Her mother turned to her. ‘What is softball?’

  ‘It’s similar to baseball. You strike the ball with a long bat held over your shoulder.’

  ‘Was there no tennis?’

  ‘No, and you know I’m hopeless at it anyway.’

  ‘You are?’ David knew that Lily was hopeless at tennis. He’d laughed when she’d tripped over her feet on the court and had leapt over the net rather dramatically to sweep her up into his arms. Perhaps that’s what it meant to be married. To know each other’s secrets, each other’s strengths and weaknesses, and love them regardless. She would love him always, no matter what happened. She knew that in her heart.

  Lily was thankful for the bathroom in Buxton Street. For the hot water that sprayed from the shower; for the fact that she felt clean, really clean, for the first time in a month; for fluffy towels and clean clothes that weren’t her bib-and-brace overalls.

  But she wasn’t used to the elegant silence of the big house anymore. Her mother had dropped her off and shortly after left again for a fundraising meeting somewhere or other. Her father was at the office and Davina was in the kitchen preparing a feast for dinner. Lily lay on her bed with the heavy drapes pulled closed, revelling in the soft mattress and the darkness. The bedroom at the stone cottage in Norton Summit was bare of curtains and it had been bright until the sun went down.

  In the dark, she tried to sleep but it wouldn’t come. Her mind was in a million places and her thoughts in a million pieces. All she could think of was David. She couldn’t go downstairs into the sitting room because that was where he had proposed. How would she cope standing in the very same spot where they’d declared their love when he was so far away and his future so uncertain? It should have made her happy, shouldn’t it, to think of him and what that night had meant. But she couldn’t drag her thoughts from the darkness, and for the first time since they’d become husband and wife she let herself cry. In the dark of her room, she wept.

  ‘Isn’t it nice to be home?’

  Lily sipped the sherry her father had just poured for her. The overhead light caught the patterns on the cut-crystal glass and it sparkled. Davina had probably spent all afternoon polishing as well as cooking.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered politely. ‘Especially when the dining table looks like this.’ Lily feasted her eyes on the meal laid out before them. Glistening roast potatoes and carrots and peas. A lamb roast and mint jelly in a silver serving dish. There were fresh bread rolls on their side plates and Lily knew that stewed fruit and custard was for dessert, as Davina had asked earlier if Lily wanted her favourite now she was home and Lily had thanked her and said yes.

  ‘Now you’re home, with your adventure in the Land Army out of your system, the Red Cross committee could certainly do with another volunteer. Things are still looking quite dreadful abroad and we’re wrapping bandages next week. You’ll come along and help.’

  Lily wondered if her mother realised she hadn’t asked but instructed.

  ‘There’s an opening at the firm,’ her father said as he reached for another slice of roast lamb. ‘It’s a part-time position as a secretary to one of the other partners. Between those two things, you’ll surely have enough to fill your days, Lilian. Married women can work too these days, I understand.’

  Linen thread for parachutes.

  ‘Your little summer holiday is over and it’s time to be serious now, Mrs Hogarth,’ her father said with a wink. ‘Who would have thought. Susan is doing her best work tending to the troops abroad and Lilian is already on her way to fulfilling her destiny as a good Australian wife and mother.’

  Canvas for field hospitals.

  ‘Have you heard from Susan?’ Lily asked.

  ‘Not since the last time I wrote to you,’ her mother answered, suddenly quiet.

  ‘And even then, that letter was two months old.’ Mr Thomas crossed his cutlery on his plate and the clatter of steel against china echoed in the room.

  ‘She must have seen some terrible things,’ Lily said quietly.

  ‘Our Susan is smart and capable. She’ll be fine. She’ll come home and have a distinguished career in medicine.’

  ‘Of course she will, Mum.’

  And Lily would become a wife and mother. When David came home. If David came home.

  Linen thread for parachutes. Canvas for field hospitals.

  Lily ate in silence while her parents discussed the affairs of their neighbours and the fine people of Adelaide, trying not to feel that the walls were closing in on her. She was already a wife. What was she doing here back in her parents’ home in her schoolgirl bedroom? She thought of playing softball and the faith the other Land Army girls had shown in her, even when she was filled with trepidation and the horror of potential embarrassment. They had become her friends, those girls. They had shown her what she was capable of.

  Lily breathed deep. She pushed her plate aside, lifted her glass, threw her head back and swallowed her sherry in one gulp.

  ‘Lilian, some decorum please,’ her mother chastised.

  ‘I’ve made a decision.’

  ‘You can do both, dear, the Red Cross and working in your father’s firm.’

  ‘Thank you for the kind offers of assistance. I do appreciate you thinking me capable of being useful in your charity fundraising and Red Cross events. They’re very important. But what I’ve been doing is important, too. I signed up for a year to the Women’s Land Army and I’m going to see that commitment through.’

  Her father chuckled. ‘You don’t have to worry about that, Lilian. I can ensure you’re eased out of it, no questions asked. All it will take is a phone call.’

  Lily steeled herself. ‘I don’t want to be eased out of that commitment. I’m going to head down to Port Noarlunga for my next posting.’

  ‘Port Noarlunga? Why, that’s in the middle of nowhere,’ her mother exclaimed. ‘Whatever is going on there that they need labourers for?’ She flinched at even saying the word.

  ‘Flax production. My new friend Kit is going to work there and I’m joining her.’

  ‘Flax?’ Mrs Thomas leant forward in her chair, intrigued.

  ‘Flax makes thread, dear,’ Mr Thomas explained.

  ‘And the canvas used for field hospitals,’ Lily told them.

  Her mother’s face drained of all colour.

  Her father cleared his throat. ‘The government can’t source it from Russia or Belgium any more, obviously, so the Brits sent stocks of flax seeds over here for agricultural production. There are big quotas to meet. I’ve done some work at the firm for one of the fellows here in Adelaide who’s investing in the industry and we discussed it in great detail over lunch at the club, as a matter of fact. It’s growing so well here that he’s exporting tonnes and tonnes of it back to England and there are mills now in three other states. When it’s spun, the flax fibres are turned into linen thread for uniforms and boots and parachute harnesses. Canvas ropes for the navy. Hose pipes for the fire brigade. And tents and tarpaulins for all the s
ervices. I have to say I had no idea before having lunch with that chap just how important it was to the war.’

  Mrs Thomas pressed her linen serviette to her mouth. ‘You’re leaving again, Lilian?’

  Lily reached across the corner of the table to cover her mother’s hand with her own. ‘I must, Mum. Imagine if the flax I help harvest helped keep Susan and David safe?’

  Mrs Thomas pulled her hand away from her daughter’s and burst into tears as she ran from the room.

  Lily blinked and sat frozen in her chair. She had never seen her mother cry. Not once. Not even when Susan had left.

  ‘Dad?’ Lily asked softly. ‘Is there something I don’t know? Has something happened to Susan?’

  He rubbed his eyes and leant forward on the table. ‘We don’t know, Lily. Your mother finds that very difficult, not knowing from one moment to the next if she is alive or dead.’ His shoulders sagged and he found a sad smile for his youngest daughter. ‘I think it’s a wonderful thing you’re doing. It will help, I know it.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Betty

  On Sunday morning, each of the girls at Stocks’ rose at their leisure. It was a free day and the dry summer heat and a hard working week made most of them feel languid and lazy. After a breakfast of soft-boiled eggs, toast and tea, some of the girls tried to find a cool spot outside under the gum trees to lie in the grass and read new magazines sent from home. A couple of girls rode bicycles into Mildura to go to church. Nancy had her nose in a book and Dorothy pored over all the latest news from Hollywood, which she then relayed to the other girls. Betty was lying by her side, watching the grey-green gum leaves dance in the breeze.

  ‘Mickey Rooney and his new wife are off on their honeymoon,’ Dorothy announced.

  ‘Who did he marry?’ Helen perked up at the news. ‘Was it Judy Garland?’

  ‘They’ve never been sweethearts.’ Dorothy spoke with such an air of authority about all things Hollywood that no one doubted her.

  Except Helen. ‘They were so. You can see it in their faces in all the Andy Hardy movies. Mickey and Judy were made for each other.’

  Nancy rose up from the grass, sunglasses covering her eyes, waving her Ponds cream in one hand. ‘Don’t forget Babes on Broadway. I saw it last year at the Tivoli with a fella called Rex. He kissed like a lizard.’ She grimaced and wiped her mouth.

  ‘Oh, and look at this.’ Dorothy splayed a hand to her heart and held her trembling lips together. ‘Clark Gable is “crushed by grief” about Carole Lombard. Even President Roosevelt sent a condolence message. A plane crash in the mountains with her mother. Can you imagine? What a terrible thing for a husband to have to bear. She was flying all over the country getting people to buy war bonds when she died. She was so beautiful. It says here that Zeppo Marx was one of the pallbearers.’

  ‘Which one’s Zeppo?’

  Betty closed her eyes and let the rest of the conversation flow over her. She didn’t want to think about plane crashes and Clark Gable’s grief because all it did was remind her of Michael and the sad man she’d danced with at the Red Cross ball. The pilot, David from Adelaide. She would never forget the way his face lit up when he mentioned his girl. He seemed so in love with her.

  What would it feel like to be truly in love?

  Betty opened her eyes to the blue skies, squinting into the brightness and the heat. Was she in love with Michael? She wasn’t sure and if she wasn’t sure, didn’t that mean no? Was he somewhere thinking about her, mentioning her name to a complete stranger with a sigh and a crooked smile? It was hard for a girl to know and she couldn’t ask her mother what love felt like because her mother would ask who the boy was and she didn’t want to say Michael’s name in case she wasn’t and he wasn’t. Perhaps he’d kissed her because he wanted to kiss a girl one last time before he left for the army and she was the one who had happened to be standing right there, next door. It was all so very confusing.

  Thinking of King Street brought a kaleidoscope of memories flickering behind her closed eyes. Her mum and dad who’d looked at her with a patronising disbelief when she’d told them she’d signed up for the Land Army. She would never tell them how much she’d cried and missed them, how much her confidence had faltered, how close she had been to coming home. If it hadn’t been for the girls she’d met, she might have. Flora’s kind advice, Peggy’s leadership and Gwen’s friendship and, yes, even Dorothy’s endless reports about the movie stars had kept her going. And even poor Clark Gable had played a part in her turnaround. Betty found it strangely comforting that being rich and famous was no protection from loss and sacrifice.

  She stretched and got to her feet. It was still hot and she felt lazy but she wanted to write some letters that afternoon. She sauntered past two of the girls washing their smalls and pegging them up on a line strung from their quarters to a post dug into the ground. She passed some of the girls on their beds, dozing in the heat, or lying quietly listening to the wireless.

  Betty retrieved her notepad and pencil from her suitcase. She sat cross-legged on her mattress, her pencil poised over her new notebook, thinking about what to tell her mother and father. How could she put into words all that had happened since she’d arrived in Mildura, what she’d learnt about picking grapes, about living with nineteen other girls and, most importantly, what she had learnt about herself?

  Dear Mum and Dad

  She stopped, sucked the end of her new pencil.

  Where to begin?

  She’d learnt she could cry for two weeks straight and not run out of tears. She’d learnt that no matter how much your body ached, you got up again the next day to do it all over again because every girl around you was feeling the same aches and pains and smiled through it and did her best. She’d learnt that women had left happy homes and sad ones. Gwen missed her fiancé terribly but June never talked about home or her family, other than saying once, in a rather offhanded way, that she didn’t miss one single thing about it and she wouldn’t be going back when the war was over.

  And as she thought about how to describe all of this to her parents, Betty realised she had learnt something powerful. Sometimes, it’s not telling the truth that is kinder.

  She put her pencil to the page.

  I’m simply having the most marvellous time imaginable out here in the country among the grapevines with the finest girls you can imagine.

  On Monday, a north wind throttled the vines, sweeping up dust and topsoil and swirling it around like a dervish, trapping it in everyone’s ears and hair, inside the collars of their shirts and down into their underwear. It was a miserable day. Every time Betty opened her mouth, she tasted dry red earth. The sky wasn’t blue but a swirling dust storm full of reds and pinks. The buckets seemed heavier, the vines pricklier, and the heat scorched the girls as if it were trying to turn them into sultanas, too.

  By day’s end, there were choking sighs of relief and a weary tussle about who would get to the copper first for a wash. They’d all been getting on marvellously well until that day, when the dust and the heat seemed to sap every bit of their strength. For the first time since coming to Mildura, Betty felt cross. With the girls who’d complained, with the damn heat, with her secateurs that had become stiff with sticky moisture from the branches and clinging dust, with the sweat that drizzled from her like honey from a spoon, and other aggravations she couldn’t name as she stomped back up to the quarters. Gwen was back too, tugging off her boots and socks and thumping her clothes with her palms to get rid of the dust before dragging her feet up the steps into their quarters.

  Betty moved to the shade of the gum trees. She lifted her straw hat, bent over and shook out her hair, scrubbing her scalp with dirty fingers to flick the dust out of it. Then she moved to the tap, yanked it on and cupped her hands until they overflowed, splashing her face, gulping the warm water down, over and over, for what seemed like minutes, until she wasn’t tasting dust any more. It was a blessed relief. She turned off the water and stood, blinking
her eyes against the grit that still scratched under her lids. She couldn’t see more than fifty feet ahead of her.

  There was a scream.

  The hairs on Betty’s arms prickled.

  ‘Who’s that?’ It was Peggy, suddenly beside her, frantically looking around the group of girls to see who was missing. Betty did too, and realised with a sinking heart that it was Gwen.

  Peggy ran for the door of their quarters, Enid, Nancy and Betty running fast behind her. Their boots stomped on the wooden floor as they ran to reach Gwen, halfway up the room.

  She was clutching a telegram, shrieking and shaking, her eyes closed tight but tears falling anyway, streaking the red dust on her cheeks like stage make-up under hot lights. Betty was shaking too, so she wrapped her arms around herself, trying to be still.

  Not Gwen. Not her Reggie.

  Peggy took the lead, stepping forward to gently slip an arm around Gwen’s shoulder. Then Enid was by her side, too, prising the crumpled pink telegram from Gwen’s fist.

  They all watched Enid as her eyes skimmed from right to left, her lips moving almost imperceptibly as she read. Enid’s expression became grim. She exchanged a look with Peggy who seemed to know what it meant even though no one had said a word out loud

  Betty didn’t know what to do, what to say. I’m only seventeen, she wanted to explain. I’m just a shopgirl from Woolworths. She stepped backwards, away from the rest of the girls who’d gathered around to create a cocoon of comfort for Gwen. Their sobs and words of comfort were drowned out by the thunderous thudding of her pulse in her ears, as loud as the Spitfires that had flown low over the block the week before.

  The next thing Betty knew, she was running into the vines, the dirt kicking up behind her feet gritty against her bare calves, and she ran and ran until she couldn’t find a breath. She collapsed into the dirt, cowering in the vines. She pulled her knees up to her chest, crossed her arms on her knees and dropped her forehead. And when she was sure no one could hear, she sobbed.