The Land Girls

by Victoria Purman

  ‘A little, yes. Keep rolling it.’

  Flora did as she was instructed. The radio played in the background as they worked. Mrs Nettlefold had just finished listening to When A Girl Marries. The serial was dedicated ‘to all those who are in love and all those who can remember’. Flora had never enjoyed it when she was at home before the war. She’d thought herself to be in love once, but in the end it had been nothing more than a silly girlish crush, and she would rather not remember anything about it. Joan Field’s romantic adventures only served to remind her of that fact. But now, things were so very different.

  A song began to play on the radio and Flora was distracted by it as the crooning voice of Frank Sinatra dragged her head back to thoughts of Charles and the night before.

  ‘He’s very fond of you, you know, Flora.’ Mrs Nettlefold stopped kneading. She rubbed her hands together and a drift of flour fell into her pottery mixing bowl. ‘I’ve always been a plain speaker, dear, and I’m going to speak plainly to you now. I don’t know what happened between the two of you last night and it’s none of my business.’

  ‘No, Mrs Nettlefold,’ Flora stammered. ‘Please don’t …’ Flora’s thoughts flashed back to the two women in the shoe shop and the unkind things they’d said about her and all the Land Army girls. Flora shuddered at the thought that Charles’s mother might think the same about her.

  ‘Charles is a grown man and you are a mature woman. But I have to say this. My son lost his wife in the most tragic of circumstances. I can’t see him go through any such heartbreak again.’

  Flora rolled her patch of dough, up and down, forward and back, blinking back her tears.

  ‘I know you and Charles have been writing to each other. And now, well, I’ve noticed what’s going on between you two. You’d have to be blind not to see it.’

  ‘Please don’t think that I came here to … I know what people are saying. I’ve heard them. That’s not why I joined the Land Army, Mrs Nettlefold.’

  She huffed. ‘I take no notice of what those busybodies in Mildura say. I, and many others, have seen how hard you all work. Flora, I don’t disapprove of you and Charles. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him so happy. He hasn’t been this cheery since … well, since Harriet was alive.’

  Flora dropped into the chair next to her, clutching the rolling pin. She needed to hear every word.

  ‘They were so excited about having another baby, you know. Violet was such a sweet little thing, just walking. They talked of a big family and, of course, Charles wanted a boy, like every father does. Harriet was a lovely girl. They went to school together. High-school sweethearts, is what everyone said. Her parents blamed Charles, you know, for a long time. They’d cross Langtree Avenue rather than talk to him. At Harriet’s funeral, they walked right over to me and told me that Charles should have waited, that Harriet hadn’t recovered from having Violet.’ Mrs Nettlefold sniffed and wiped a flour-streaked forearm across her face.

  ‘He took it to heart, how could he not? None of it was true but it was cruel. Sometimes mothers are lost in childbirth. It used to happen much more than it does now. But it still happens.’

  Flora found her voice. ‘He’s had to be so very strong for his girls.’

  ‘They’re the light in his eyes,’ Mrs Nettlefold replied. ‘If it wasn’t for them, I don’t know where he’d be.’

  Flora reached a hand across the table and held Mrs Nettlefold’s in her grasp. ‘And if it wasn’t for you. I know you lost your husband young. I saw what that did to my father. It broke his heart and he never loved again. You’ve been a grandmother and a mother to Violet and Daisy. I know a little of what you’ve gone through, too.’

  Mrs Nettlefold met her eyes and a new understanding passed between them.

  ‘Please believe me when I say that I would never hurt Charles. You’re right. I’m a mature woman. And I’m a sensible one. Whatever I feel for your son, it’s impossible to imagine a future at the moment. Until Frank comes home from the war, I can’t make any plans. I helped raise him after our mother died. And Jack, too. We’re a very close family ourselves. In that respect, I see similarities with yours, Mrs Nettlefold. When there is grief over the loss of a loved one, the natural thing to do is to turn in, to shut out the world. That’s what we did when my mother died. But the world came to us anyway. I couldn’t protect Jack from losing the hearing in his ear when he was fourteen. I couldn’t stop the taunts he received about not going to war. And I couldn’t stop Frank from wanting to do his duty for the country. But I will be there when he comes home, to see to it that the Atkins family will endure, that we won’t lose each other. We’re all we have left now.’

  Mrs Nettlefold looked up suddenly and her lips drew together in a tight line. Flora turned to see what had startled her so and saw Charles in the doorway, a paper bag filled with groceries in each arm. She hadn’t heard his footsteps. Hadn’t heard the back door slam.

  How long had he been standing there? How much had he heard? He put the groceries on the sink and strode out of the room without saying a word.

  Flora spent her Sunday reading in the dim light of her room, avoiding everyone. She’d pulled the curtains closed to keep out the heat but because the windows beyond were open, the fabric floated and swooped as the north winds outside tried to reach their tentacles inside. It was almost impossible to feel cool when the harsh winds were whipping up dust on the block and swirling it around the house.

  She couldn’t read, couldn’t think, felt unable to string a coherent thought together. Where was Charles? Flora cocked her head, listening, hoping to hear the girls’ giggles or the sounds of play. There was nothing but silence. Perhaps the Nettlefolds had driven off somewhere, for a picnic, or perhaps a swim in the river. Would they have done so without inviting her? Of course they would have, especially after she’d made it clear the night before at dinner that she’d planned to stay in on Sunday and rest. It had all been a ruse. Her conversation with Mrs Nettlefold—and knowing Charles had overhead her—had deeply upset her. Had he heard her say that she had feelings for him but that she couldn’t do anything about them until the war was over? Is that why he’d been so taciturn the night before, and why they’d left her to her own devices that day?

  She had barely been able to think of anything else since Friday night after what had happened between them. Charles’s attentions had stirred something deep inside her. For the first time, she ached with a heat, hotter than any north wind.

  Why could she think of nothing but him? What was she supposed to do out on the block the next day when they were working side by side, their well-oiled process familiar and fast now. Would they speak of it? And what would they say to each other?

  Flora turned on her side, closed her eyes and let sleep overcome her.

  Sunday-night supper was egg sandwiches, thanks to a fresh loaf baked that morning by Mrs Nettlefold and the chooks’ bountiful supply. Violet and Daisy chatted away about their visit to the Stewarts in Mildura. The mystery of their absence that day was solved. Charles had bought another sprayer from Mr Stewart and the rest of the family had gone along for a ride to see their old friends whose daughters went to school with the Nettlefold girls.

  After slices of fruit cake for dessert, Mrs Nettlefold began clearing the table. Violet went one way down the hallway to her room and the slam of the back door revealed Daisy had run outside.

  Flora sat at the table sipping her tea. Charles had unfurled the local newspaper and seemed intent on page three. She watched him as he read. His brow furrowed and there were two vertical lines right there above his nose. At one point, he rubbed his hand over his jaw and then sighed as he turned a page. There was a hint of growth on his chin, white like the grey hair at his temples.

  Mrs Nettlefold dropped a plate in the sink and apologised for it with a dramatic mutter. The clatter made Flora look over at the sink for a moment and when she turned her attention back to Charles, she found to her embarrassment that he was watching her int
ently. Discovered, he lowered his eyes to the newsprint.

  Mrs Nettlefold walked over to the table for the jug of milk and put it back it in the Coolgardie safe to keep it cool in the heat.

  Flora felt the awkward tension in the room and she wasn’t sure what to do or what to say to dispel it. Before she could decide, the back door slammed and there were running footsteps into the kitchen.

  ‘Daddy, I can’t find Frankie.’ Daisy tugged insistently at her father’s turned-up sleeve.

  Charles lowered the newspaper, his attention firmly on his youngest daughter. ‘Did you call him, Daisy?’

  ‘Yes. Ten times,’ she insisted. ‘I counted. I called and called and he didn’t come.’

  Flora leant her elbows onto the table. Watching the tears welling in Daisy’s eyes tore at her.

  ‘He’ll come back,’ Charles said reassuringly. ‘He’s probably found something delicious to eat. Like a blue-tongue lizard.’ Charles pulled his daughter close and flicked his tongue in and out.

  Daisy giggled. ‘Your tongue’s not blue, Daddy.’

  He ruffled her hair. ‘Why don’t you go and get Violet and see if she’ll help you find him. Perhaps you just need some help looking.’

  ‘Wait, Daisy.’ Flora tore a chunk of bread from the loaf on the table and passed it to her. ‘See if this helps.’

  ‘Thank you, Flora.’ Daisy ran outside with an excited smile.

  Charles waited until the back door slammed before he spoke low. ‘When did you last see the dog, Mum?’ Mrs Nettlefold came to the table, drying her hands on her apron.

  ‘He barked like a mad thing when we came back from the Stewarts’, didn’t he? Violet and Daisy hopped out of the car and chased him back to the house. I gave him a bone to chew and last time I saw him he was running off into the block with it in his mouth. To bury the thing, I expect. What kind of silly dog is he to bury it for later when he could chew the thing to bits right there and then?’

  ‘He’s never done this before, has he?’ Flora asked, fear skittering up her arms, goosebumping them. ‘Run away, I mean?’

  Charles shook his head. He folded the paper. ‘He stays close to the girls. And the house.’

  ‘Do you think he’s lost?’

  Charles pushed back his chair and stood, reaching for his hat on the nail on the back of the kitchen door. ‘I’ll go for a walk and have a look.’

  ‘Wait,’ Flora said without a second thought. ‘I’m coming with you.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  For two hours Charles and Flora listened to the echo of their calls, from the house to the drying sheds, until their throats were hoarse from shouting. Frankie was nowhere to be found. When twilight fell, Charles sent the girls and their grandmother back to the house—the girls’ sobs had been on the verge of hysterical—but still he and Flora searched, up and down each row of vines, searching under the leaf canopy, hoping the dog was hiding somewhere, playing with them or guarding his bone.

  They lost their battle against the light. It was pitch black now, with only the stars to guide them, and Flora couldn’t think straight any more. Every rustle in the leaves had filled her with hope and then heartbreak as exploration after exploration proved fruitless.

  ‘A rabbit trap?’ she asked desperately.

  ‘I don’t use them,’ Charles told her. ‘Not with the girls so young.’

  Flora peered into the darkness. Charles was by her side, and she didn’t need to see his face to feel the tension prickling his skin.

  Frankie couldn’t be missing. He was supposed to make the girls happy, not heartbroken. He was their good-luck charm, too. Frankie and Frank. The charming man and the lucky charm. During the past weeks, the two had become one in her mind. Each stroke of Frankie’s pitch black fur reminded her to say a silent prayer for her brother. From her lips to God’s ear.

  Hot tears welled in Flora’s eyes and she sniffed over and over, wiping her nose and her cheeks. She didn’t want Charles to see her cry. Not about Frankie. Not about Frank. But with each step, the little pieces of hope she was holding on to drained away, replaced by a sense of foreboding so ominous it choked her. And finally, when she could no longer hold in the sobs, panic and fear caught her like a vine leaf in a storm and she took off, her boots crushing the grass underfoot, running blindly; crashing into the corded and twisted vines, their soft leaves no protection, as she ran. She had to find him.

  ‘Frankie!’ she called. ‘Frankie. Frank … Frank … Frank.’ Her chest heaved and her throat burnt and she slowed, bending over to catch her breath, her hands on her knees to keep her from falling into the dirt. Her heart thudded, her sobs unbidden and uncontrolled. Two years of dread burst from her and she collapsed onto the grass, hot tears streaking and dripping into the collar of her shirt, chest burning, eyes scratching. Let me cry. Let it hurt. Let me feel it, finally, all of it, so when it happens I’ll be immune. Frank. My beloved brother. Where are you? Are you safe? Are you dead?

  ‘Flora!’ Charles crouched at her side on bended knee. His voice was close, panicked, his breath on her face. ‘Bloody hell, Flora.’

  ‘Frank,’ she cried out in a high-pitched wail. When Charles pulled her up into his arms, she clung to him. He pulled her into his lap and pressed her face into his chest and there, in the dark, in the dirt, among the vines, Charles comforted and whispered to Flora until she finally calmed.

  When she could open her eyes, Charles’s shirt was wet from her tears and her fingers ached from gripping the fabric so tight in her fists. His hand was stroking her hair. Her heart felt broken.

  ‘Flora.’ Charles’s voice was hoarse.

  It felt as if there were razor blades in her throat.

  ‘Sshh now. We’ll look for him in the morning. Maybe he’s back at the house already. Asleep on Daisy’s bed, just the way he likes it. He’ll be as exhausted as the girls are.’

  Flora knew that couldn’t be true. If it was, the girls would have shouted from the house and come running to find their father. She burrowed her face into Charles’s neck and his arms tightened around her. She inhaled the scent of him and her lips brushed his warm skin. She needed that comfort of his skin, his scent, his sure strength, to say what she was going to say.

  ‘What if Frank’s dead? What if he’s been killed and I don’t know it yet? What if he’s lying in the mud somewhere in a place I’ve never heard of and he’s already gone?’

  ‘Darling Flora,’ he murmured into her hair, into her heart.

  ‘I told my mother I’d look after them all. When she was sick, she made me promise that I’d keep the family together.’

  All she needed was to say it aloud, to have someone listen to her deepest fear. Charles kissed her forehead and held her. It was all he could do.

  Flora blinked her eyes open at the knock on her bedroom door. It was already light. She’d had a fitful night’s sleep, filled with dreams, snatches of horror from newsreels she’d seen at the pictures, mud and death. Had she slept late? What time was it?

  ‘Flora?’ Charles’s voice was so quiet she barely heard it.

  ‘Come in.’ She pulled the sheet up to her chin.

  He opened the door enough to poke his head through the gap. After a quick glance at her in bed, his attention shifted to the fluttering curtains. ‘Can you get dressed? I need your help.’

  ‘Give me a moment.’ Her morning voice was croaky. Her throat still felt ragged from the night before.

  Last night. She knew immediately what Charles would have to tell her. But she had no more tears. She was cried out, spent. She’d done all her grieving in the dark.

  ‘I’ll be out in the yard.’

  Flora wearily dropped her feet to the floor and stood on shaky legs. She dressed in a shirt and her overalls, tugged on her boots and went outside, taking care to hold the back door so it didn’t slam and wake everyone in the house.

  She stepped out into the day. The sun was just up in the sky in the east, casting long shadows over the block. The air was alre
ady prickly hot and smelled like dust. She sniffed against the dryness. Charles stood under the peppercorn tree, his hands clasped behind his back. As she approached, she spotted the mound of freshly dug red dirt. She pressed a hand to her chest and dread filled the pit of her stomach. When she was by his side, she slipped an arm through his. He shifted his weight, leant towards her a little to acknowledge her comforting touch.

  ‘A snake bite, I reckon.’ He paused, looked up to the cloudless sky through the wafting leaves of the tree. ‘I got up at sunrise to have another look. I swear I searched that same spot six times yesterday.’

  ‘Oh, Charles.’

  ‘I didn’t want the girls to see him like that.’

  ‘No,’ Flora said quietly. ‘Of course you didn’t.’

  ‘I thought … at least I was hoping you might help me tell them.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He sniffed. ‘What was I thinking, agreeing to let them have a puppy.’

  ‘You were being a good father who wanted to make his daughters happy.’

  His chest rose and fell. ‘They’ll be very upset. I’ll need you there with me.’

  Flora rested her head on his shoulder. ‘Whatever you need, Charles.’

  He reached for her hand. ‘About your brother.’

  How could she explain to him what had happened the night before? She barely understood it herself. ‘I apologise. I don’t know what came over me.’

  ‘I understand, Flora. More than you know. I also know that the only thing you can do is wait and hope.’ He turned towards her, made sure she was looking at him when he spoke. ‘And if the news is the worst, you will have me to comfort you. You won’t be alone. I promise you that.’

  He kissed the top of her head, gently pressing his lips to her hairline. She wanted to throw her arms around him. Instead, she gripped his forearm tight.

  ‘Family comes first,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’ He had heard her talking with his mother and he understood.

  ‘When the war is over …’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘When the war is over.’