The Land Girls

by Victoria Purman

  Daisy piped up. ‘I’m going to walk there in my new shoes.’

  ‘That … that sounds delicious.’ Flora’s voice faltered

  ‘Is something the matter, Flora?’ Charles murmured, bringing a comforting hand to rest on her shoulder.

  She straightened. ‘Nothing that some ice-cream won’t remedy.’

  The week passed in a blur. Flora and Charles had begun to work seamlessly together. During the hot days, they picked bucket after bucket load of fruit, and he had taught her how to properly mix the emulsion for spraying on the grapes to aid the drying process and provide Two Rivers with plump, luscious sultanas and currants to sell to the co-op. Although she worked hard and she still ached at the end of every day, nothing had felt less like work to Flora in her life. She was out in the fresh air doing something useful. She could see for herself how much she was contributing to the operations of Two Rivers and its income, and she felt part of a family. She’d almost forgotten what it was like to have a mother fuss over her, and liked that Mrs Nettlefold did. She washed Flora’s clothes, although she wasn’t supposed to, and made it a point to include Flora in the activities of the household. When Mrs Nettlefold wrote her shopping lists, she asked Flora what she might like for dinner. And when she had discovered Flora’s favourite biscuits were melting moments, she’d baked a batch of them at least twice a week. Flora had devoured them with immense gratitude. She hadn’t been able to make them back home since rationing had been introduced. It was only in the country, with ready access to a cow to make one’s own butter, that a cook could even think of using six ounces of it on something for afternoon tea.

  And the girls?

  They were the sweetest, smartest little things. While Flora and Charles worked, Violet and Daisy carried glasses of freshly squeezed grape juice to them at all times of the day. They hid in the vines, imagining themselves to be pirates, and when Flora had turned some pages from an old newspaper into a buccaneer’s hat for her, Daisy had worn it for two days straight until the thin paper ripped. Of course, everywhere they went Frankie gambolled after them but he quite liked a rub behind the ears every now and then from Flora. In the afternoons, after a day’s worth of adventures, Violet, Daisy and Frankie collapsed from the heat and the exertion and slept peacefully on a blanket under the peppercorn tree.

  It seemed an idyllic life, and when Flora looked up the rows of vines leading in straight lines to the peppercorn tree, where the little ones slept, and the house, which had become such a welcome home, she thanked her lucky stars that she’d come to such a wonderful place.

  And then there was Charles. Their letters to each other had brought them closer, but the nearness of him now caused a physical ache. He was so close but she dared not reach for him, couldn’t make that leap into the unknown, not now, not with so much up in the air.

  Late on Friday afternoon, Charles and Flora strolled up to the house, satisfied with another day’s labours. He was by her side and she playfully copied his stride length, which she was sure made her look like a clown, and when he realised, he stopped, leant over and belly laughed. The sound of it sent a flash of heat through her, into every finger and toe. She loved that she could make him laugh and feel joy at such a simple thing.

  ‘Flora,’ he managed through his laughter.

  ‘I’m glad you have the energy to laugh.’ She chuckled. ‘I’m exhausted. All I want is to strip out of these filthy clothes and soak in a hot bath until I wrinkle up like one of your sultanas.’

  His eyes flared wide and he grinned. ‘I’m sure that can be arranged.’

  ‘Good. I’ll feel like a new woman,’ she sighed.

  ‘I quite like the one you are now.’ Charles moved next to her and peered at her face. ‘You’ve got freckles.’ He lifted a hand and slowly stroked a gentle finger across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Her heart beat faster at his touch.

  ‘When I was a child, Daisy’s age, I used to wish them away and took to scrubbing my face with Lux soap to get rid of them.’

  He tugged at her earlobe and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, studying every inch of her face. Flora swallowed hard. She tightened her fingers into fists to stop herself reaching out to splay her hands across his chest. Or run them down his muscular arms.

  ‘I don’t want you to change a thing.’ His voice was little more than a murmur.

  The sun was lowering in the west and there were shadows in the vines. A cooling breeze swept over them and Flora’s shirt fluttered against her body. Charles’s eyes dipped to the curve of her breasts and he took in a deep breath as he moved closer, a whisper away, and his lips parted on a word. She could almost taste him, he was that close.

  ‘Daddy!’

  Charles turned away and cleared his throat. Frankie was suddenly at Flora’s feet, a black smudge, jumping up at her, barking, scratching her bare legs, his tail wagging wildly.

  ‘Daisy.’ Charles reached down and scooped his daughter up in his arms. She kissed him three times on his forehead and he laughed. ‘Only three kisses?’

  She giggled and gave him two more.

  ‘That’s better. Where’s your sister?’

  ‘She’s in the kitchen. Are you finished working for today, Daddy?’

  Charles met Flora’s gaze. ‘Yes. We were just on our way up to the house. Miss Atkins wants to have a bath. She’s been working so hard all week and I think she deserves it, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. I like baths. C’mon Frankie.’

  Charles headed back to the house, Daisy in his arms, their dog trotting at their feet.

  Flora turned in the opposite direction, striding fast over the red earth, walking deeper into the vines. She needed time to think about what had just almost happened. Charles had been about to kiss her and she had wanted him to.

  She was thirty-two years old and no man had ever kissed her. The idea that Charles wanted to was so hard to fathom. Flora wrapped her arms around her waist and felt the hot pricklings of frustration shimmer up her spine. She bit her lip and stomped along the grass, thinking, thinking, thinking.

  When she returned to the house, her head a rumble of contradictions and confusion, she opened the back door to the sound of the bath running.

  ‘That you, Flora?’ Mrs Nettlefold called from the kitchen.

  ‘Yes,’ Flora cleared her throat. ‘It’s me.’

  ‘The bath’s all yours. Charles said you were looking forward to a soak. He put the taps on a while ago, so you’d better check if it’s full enough for you.’

  Flora ducked her head inside the small and practical bathroom. The water was steaming and the claw-footed bath was already half full. She quickly fetched her robe and a fresh bar of soap from her room, and when she closed the bathroom door behind her, she pressed her back to it with a contented sigh.

  After dinner, the family retired to the sitting room. The girls were bathed and in their pyjamas, lying on the rug playing a fiercely contested game of snakes and ladders. Frankie, despite Mrs Nettlefold’s objections about him being in the house, was curled up on one of Charles’s old jumpers in the corner of the room. The girls had fashioned it into a bed of sorts by tying off the arms and stuffing the body with rags. Charles was reading the newspaper, freshly shaved, smelling clean and crisp from a cologne Flora hadn’t noticed before, and Mrs Nettlefold sat in her favourite armchair, knitting. She’d pulled apart a couple of the girls’ old jumpers to make a bigger one for Violet for the coming winter.

  Flora had a book in her lap, but truth be told she hadn’t absorbed a word. She and Charles were a playing a silent game, exchanging surreptitious glances at each other when they were sure his mother and the girls were too distracted to notice. When Charles put the paper down to turn on the radio, she watched him walk, studied his broad back as he leant over to twiddle the dial on the radiogram, the fabric stretching across the muscles in his legs, his tanned forearms revealed by the turned-up cuffs of his shirt.

  She had never been a nail biter in her life but sh
e nibbled on a thumbnail now in frustration.

  ‘Miss Hadkins.’

  She hadn’t noticed Daisy in front of her, clutching a book. Flora recognised the cover. It was a book of Banjo Paterson’s poems. Flora closed her Agatha Christie and put it on the side table next to her. She smoothed down the skirt on her cotton dress.

  ‘Daisy.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Hadkins?’

  ‘I’m wondering if you might do something special for me.’

  The girl looked up in awe.

  ‘If it’s all right with your father, perhaps you might like to call me Flora.’

  Daisy’s head spun to her father. ‘Can I, Daddy?’

  Charles’s soft eyes creased in a smile. ‘That’s fine with me, if Miss Atkins approves.’

  ‘I do. When you call me …’ she said, pausing and stifling a smile, ‘Miss Hadkins, I feel like your teacher.’

  ‘What about me, Miss Atkins? Can I call you Flora, too?’ Violet piped up from the rug, her hand poised in the air to roll her dice.

  ‘Of course you can.’

  ‘In that case, Flora …’ Daisy dragged out the name as if she was getting used to the sound of it in her mouth. ‘Can you please read me “Clancy of the Overflow”?’ Then she yawned. It was close to bedtime for the playful little thing.

  ‘I certainly can. Hop up on my lap here.’

  Daisy opened the book to the right page.

  Flora began.

  He had written him a letter which he had, for want of better Knowledge, sent to where he met him down the Lachlan years ago …

  And as she read, Flora saw Charles from the corner of her eye, sinking back into his armchair, looking on at the scene with hooded eyelids, his chin in his hand. And as Flora listened to the words of the poem she’d read so often, she had a new clarity about her time at Two Rivers. Just as Clancy loved the murmur of the breezes and the vision splendid of the sunlit plans extended, the red Mildura earth was as familiar now to her as the bitumen of dusty and dirty Melbourne’s streets. How on earth would she be able to go back to working for Mr McInerney in a stingy little office after the adventures she’d had?

  Was her voice jittery or was it the pounding in her ears that made it sound so?

  And I somehow rather fancy that I’d like to change with Clancy,

  Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go,

  While he faced the round eternal of the cash book and the journal—

  Daisy sat up for the last line, her little voice a sing-song,

  But I doubt he’d suit the office, Clancy, of The Overflow.

  Flora closed the pages and Daisy leant back into her. She smelled of soap and such pure, innocent loveliness that, without thinking, Flora nestled her nose in Daisy’s hair and inhaled, before planting a kiss on the top of her head. When she looked up, Mrs Nettlefold and Charles were staring at her, wide-eyed.

  ‘It’s probably bedtime,’ Flora said quickly, lifting Daisy from her lap. She must have been drowsy for the little girl already felt heavy.

  Charles stood. ‘Come on girls, I’ll tuck you in. Say goodnight to … Flora.’

  The girls waved and Flora waved back. ‘Sweet dreams,’ she called after them and sat back in her armchair. Had she crossed a line? It had felt so natural to snuggle with Daisy, to kiss her, but perhaps she had gone too far. She moved to the edge of her chair, her hands folded in her lap.

  ‘Mrs Nettlefold?’

  ‘Yes?’ Charles’s mother looked up from her knitting, her face inscrutable.

  ‘I apologise for cuddling Daisy the way I did just now. I saw how shocked you were. I shouldn’t have been … so familiar. Next time, I’ll remember my place here.’

  Mrs Nettlefold’s knitting needles stopped their clicking and her face softened. ‘You don’t need to apologise, dear girl. Someone else used to sit in that chair and read to Violet. That’s all it was.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘You don’t need to be. I promise.’ Mrs Nettlefold tucked her knitting in a quilted bag at her feet and then rose slowly from her chair. ‘I think I’m going to warm up some milk and then head to bed myself. Can I get you a cup?’

  ‘No, thank you all the same. Sleep well, Mrs Nettlefold.’

  ‘You too, Miss—’

  Flora held up a hand. ‘I’d like it if you called me Flora, too.’

  ‘Flora.’ And with a knowing smile, Mrs Nettlefold left the room and closed the door behind her.

  Flora picked up her book but couldn’t concentrate and slapped its pages closed. She nibbled at her thumbnail and then chided herself for it.

  When the door opened, she looked up.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Charles softly closed the sitting-room door and stood across the room. He slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers and watched as Flora stood and walked to him.

  ‘Charles,’ she whispered. ‘I shouldn’t have kissed Daisy. I’m so sorry.’

  His gaze dropped to her mouth before returning to her eyes. ‘Why shouldn’t you have?’

  ‘I’m here to work. This has become very confusing. I never expected to feel so welcome here in your home, with your family, and I forgot for a moment who I am.’

  ‘Flora.’ Charles rubbed the back of his neck. ‘The girls adore you, you must know that. Why would I want to get in the way of that affection?’

  ‘But I’ll be leaving soon for my next posting. I should have thought about it more. I should have been more careful not to get too close.’

  She no longer knew who she was talking about. Was it the girls or was it Charles?

  ‘It’s too late.’ He brought a hand to her cheek, cupping it, caressing her lips with a thumb. She fought the urge to open her mouth and take it inside her.

  ‘What are we going to do, Charles? About this?’ She moved close, pressed her hands across his chest, right where his heart was, and felt it beating.

  ‘I know what I want to do, Flora. Can’t you tell? I’ve been a lonely man for so long. I’d given up hope of happiness in my life. And then you turn up in your uniform, so beautiful and determined and serious.’

  Flora moved closer to him. ‘I wanted to make a good impression. But I was nervous, too.’

  ‘And you cut off the legs on your overalls.’ He exhaled. ‘And you were sad, too, I think. I recognised that in you because I carried it in me. But I don’t feel that way any more. I see a light at the end of the tunnel for me, when I used to see and feel nothing.’

  Flora held a breath and went up on tiptoe as he bowed his head and kissed her. His lips were unexpectedly soft and tender and he tasted like sherry. There was jazz on the radio and his shirt felt soft under her fingertips and she closed her eyes to remember it all.

  On Saturday, Charles took the girls with him into Mildura to pick up groceries and items from the agricultural store. It was part of Land Army rules that her food-rations booklet was passed over to the family hosting her so, along with eggs from the chooks and the supply of milk from Marjorie, which also meant butter and cream, there was plenty of food. While it was true that Flora missed chocolate, sometimes quite desperately, she ate sultanas for her fix of something sweet and relished Mrs Nettlefold’s fresh scones, which she was now learning to bake.

  Flora missed cooking. She wasn’t terribly accomplished in the kitchen, but it had felt like years now since she’d nourished her own family. Back in Camberwell, there had always been a Sunday roast and Frank and Jack knew never to miss it. Flora had worked hard to maintain their mother’s tradition. It was so important to gather together at the table, to share stories, to laugh, to learn about each other’s days. That was one of the things she treasured most about living in with the Nettlefolds.

  Although she wasn’t expected to help with household chores, that morning she’d asked Mrs Nettlefold for a refresher lesson in baking scones. Truth be told, she needed some distance from Charles, to think about what had happened the night before in the sitting room.

  A
fter that first kiss, and the second, he’d led her to the sofa and they’d kissed each other over and over. She’d been bolder than she’d ever imagined she could be. She taken Charles’s hand and covered a breast with it and, when she’d unbuttoned her blouse, Charles had kissed the swell of her flesh there before revealing a nipple and slowly drawing it into his mouth. He’d whispered intimacies to her, low and private, and the combination of his words and his touch and his body on hers had created new and overwhelming sensations in her.

  But they knew where they were, in his house with his daughters and his mother close, so they’d stopped and breathed and kissed again before Flora had stumbled to her room.

  That morning, they’d said quiet hellos to each other over breakfast and when Charles had excused himself, saying he had work to do in the drying shed, Frankie had galloped after him, with the girls hot on their puppy’s heels. Flora had taken a notepad and pencil outside to the bench Charles had made for her, and had written letters to her brothers.

  So much had happened yet there was so little she could say to them. She gave them each a quick update about the sultana picking and the weather. She playfully chided Frank for his tardiness in writing, suggesting he might be too busy pulling pranks to put pencil to paper. The idea had made her feel lighter for a moment.

  She’d signed off as she usually did, ‘With much love from Flora’, folded the flimsy pages and slipped them inside an envelope, on which she affixed a green four-penny stamp featuring a koala sitting in a gum tree.

  How important letters had become in the war years. Would she one day tell Charles that she had saved every one he’d written to her in the eleven months they’d been apart? Could she admit that she had read them over and over to herself at night, closing her eyes to take herself back to Two Rivers to hear his voice narrating them, instead of her own in her head?

  ‘Does this need to be thinner, Mrs Nettlefold? I can’t for the life of me remember what my mother used to do.’

  Flora pressed a rolling pin into the scone dough, which formed a ragged shape on the kitchen table. She blew a wisp of hair from her eyes.