Betty had lived a life untouched by death, until the war. Both sets of her grandparents were still alive and she had three girl cousins on both sides of the family from aunts and uncles she saw a few times a year. What would she say to Mrs Doherty? She tried to think back. What had she said to Gwen?
‘Mrs Doherty? It’s me, Betty.’ When she reached the kitchen door, Betty found her, sitting at the table, her shoulders slumped, a creased handkerchief in her fist.
She looked up. Her eyes were red raw, her cheeks flushed, her lips trembling. ‘Betty?’
There was nothing to say. Betty pulled up a chair next to her neighbour, opened her arms wide, and they cried in each other’s arms.
‘Here are all his letters.’ An hour later, after three cups of tea and some fresh scones, Mrs Doherty slid a shoebox across the table to Betty. ‘Michael’s, I mean. Not Patrick’s. I thought you might like to read them. I know he’s been writing to you as well, but here they are. We share him, Betty. We always have.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Doherty.’ Betty understood her need to feel close to her only living son. By studying his handwriting, by reading his words, his stories, they could bring him back for just a moment. Betty wanted nothing more than to feel his presence in this house. Simply sitting in the kitchen, it was easy to imagine the sound of his footsteps, the way he devoured his mother’s cakes, his sheer physical presence in every room.
‘How long are you back for?’
‘The Land Army has given me four weeks’ leave.’
‘Four weeks?’ Mrs Doherty sniffed, and Betty suddenly felt guilty for having the luxury of a holiday.
‘Mum and Dad have promised to pamper me while I’m home. I’m quite looking forward to it, to be honest. I’ve worked hard this year.’
‘So I hear. They played a newsreel about you Land Army girls at the pictures. I can’t remember what the film was, but there they all were in their overalls just like those ones you have, Betty. I think they were growing potatoes, I can’t be sure. There was a girl on a tractor, driving it just like a man. Imagine that, I said to myself. When your mum told me you were in Batlow for the apples, I thought of you every time I went to the greengrocer’s. Good on you, I thought. What a good girl you are for helping all those people out in the country. And our boys.’
She clasped Betty’s hand.
Perhaps talk of her adventures might distract Mrs Doherty for just a moment from her grief. ‘I’ve met girls who’ve worked in shearing sheds.’
Mrs Doherty gasped and smiled sadly. ‘I can’t believe that’s true.’
‘It’s true. They told me themselves.’
‘My goodness me.’
‘And the farmers everywhere are saying we’ve worked just as hard and done just as good a job as the boys. How about that?’
‘You’re a good girl, Betty. I’m so pleased that Michael … well, it’s all in his letters.’ Mrs Doherty nodded at the shoebox and wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. ‘You go ahead and read them. Take the box home. Just bring them back when you’re done.’
Betty reached for the box, hesitating. ‘Why don’t you come home with me, instead of being here on your own? You know you’re more than welcome.’
Mrs Doherty’s lips trembled once more. ‘Thank you, dear girl. My sister’s coming from Lismore to stay with me. You go home and see your parents. They’ve missed you terribly.’
Betty rose from her seat. She lifted the box, heard Michael’s letters rustle inside it.
‘I’ll pop in tomorrow for a cup of tea. See if there’s anything you need.’
Mrs Doherty nodded and as Betty closed the front door behind her and walked home, the unmistakable sound of weeping followed her for every one of those thirty-five steps.
Chapter Thirty-One
Betty woke to a sunny and perfect Sydney spring morning, the sweet scent of jasmine wafting through her open bedroom window and the tweets of the New Holland honeyeaters reminding her she was home. She gave in to the luxury of lying in bed for as long as she wanted.
She needed time to figure out everything that had happened in the past week. Gwen’s Reggie dead in Germany. Patrick in New Guinea. Death had come too close, as if it were stalking her. The weight of that terrible news was counterbalanced with the things she’d read in Michael’s letters to his mother. She’d been a little perplexed when Mrs Doherty had insisted she read his letters home. She couldn’t imagine what things he might have told his mother that he hadn’t told her.
Now she knew, and she could barely put into words how she felt.
Mum, I can tell you because I know you’ll keep it a secret, but when the war is over and I’m home, I’m going to ask Betty to marry me. Yes, that’s right. Betty Brower. Now I know what you’re going to say about that, that you were right all along. And, gee, were you ever. When I left for my training back in ’43, you were right when you said that I was in love with Betty. I don’t think I knew it really myself at the time, but all this time away and I haven’t thought of any other girl but my dearest Betty Boop. Thoughts of her have helped me get through the days when things are a bit tough around here. I can’t say much more than that but I’m sure you know what I mean. Why did it take the war for me to realise that the girl for me was the one living thirty-five steps away?
Betty pressed her head back into her pillow. How was it possible to feel so heartbroken and so happy all at once? Death was close but happiness was close too, and Michael was still alive and, with that awareness, there was hope for Betty’s dreams for the future. He wanted to marry her. How on earth could she keep that a secret until he was home?
Sydney had changed while Betty had been away. The buildings seemed taller, the ups and downs of the streetscapes from Circular Quay were more undulating, and there were so many people everywhere that she felt the need to duck into shops whenever she could to escape the crush. She was on her way to Woolworths to see the girls she’d worked with, after having spent the morning with Mrs Doherty. Michael’s mother had alternated between sobs of despair and elation at the realisation that she had lost a son but would be gaining a daughter-in-law. The war was full of such paradoxes, Betty was beginning to learn. She only had a job she loved because there was a war. She had made perhaps the best girlfriend she’d ever had because of the war.
She shook off the thought as she walked into her old workplace. At her old counter, she discovered new girls she didn’t recognise. When she introduced herself, they stared at her blankly, and told her, no, they had never heard of the Betty Brower who’d left to join the Land Army.
Betty ambled to the bus stop, watching people as they passed her in the streets. Uniforms everywhere. Children in school uniform laughing and licking ice blocks. Mothers with their babies in perambulators clogging the footpaths. Businessmen scurrying from place to place. Office girls clutching bundles of papers and files. She wished the years back to 1939 when she was innocent about the damage the war would inflict and the changes it would bring.
Betty’s mind whirred. She’d been a part of this world but now felt a stranger. The noise of the streets was an assault. She didn’t like the way people bustled up beside her and scowled at her when she didn’t move out of the way. By the time she stepped off the bus at the end of King Street, she had a throbbing headache.
When she turned her key in the front door and walked into an empty house, she was glad of the silence and the peace. She boiled the kettle, made a cup of tea, and took it out into the back yard. The blooms on the jasmine at the side of the house perfumed the whole garden, which comprised a strip of lawn, a clothesline, and lemon, plum and nectarine trees. Two pink hibiscus bloomed by one of the side fences, their branches long and spindly from a lack of attention. She sat on the back step, sipping her tea, thinking about the garden and the war and Patrick and Reggie and her dear Michael. She thought about Jean off with an American and Mary in Batlow whose husband had been gone for four years.
She found a pair of garden clippers in the small shed b
y the water tank. They weren’t as sharp as those she’d used for all those months in Batlow, shaping the apple trees as she pruned them, but they would do. She changed into her Land Army overalls and rolled up her sleeves to let her arms feel the sun. And she got started.
By the end of her first week home, she’d transformed her parents’ back yard. She’d not only pruned all the trees and bushes into manageable shapes but she’d dug out a square of grass and planted potatoes, carrots and war cabbage. She’d fashioned a sign from an old fencing pale and painted Victory Garden on it in wonky lettering. She would be home for three more weeks before she was assigned to her next posting, which would be more than enough time to see the seeds germinate, take hold and send their roots deep into the soil, to encourage her parents to come out into the garden and dig the earth and tend to it, just as their daughter was doing so far away.
Her garden was a piece of her new life that she’d brought to her old. She didn’t have to explain it to her mother and father that first day when they came home and found her tilling the soil.
It was her way of telling them, ‘This is who I am now.’
Chapter Thirty-Two
Flora
Melbourne
September 4th, 1944
Dearest Charles,
I write to you today with a heavy heart.
Frank has been home, having been granted two weeks leave on very short notice, but today we farewelled him again and I can hardly bear it. I’m so grateful to have been granted leave myself from the Land Army. I wasn’t quite due my holidays but my matron in Leeton put in a good word for me and I was able to hop on a train and head home as soon as I knew Frank was on his way.
It was so marvellous to have the three of us together again. Jack arranged a special dinner so Frank could meet Doreen and everyone got on like a house on fire, which was wonderful. We shared a toast to our father and then said nothing more about death and loss and grief.
Saying goodbye to Frank was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Jack and I stood on the docks at Port Melbourne, chilled by rain and a southerly wind, trying to be strong. Frank smiled and said, don’t worry, you two, I’ll be fine. Then he hugged Jack, kissed me on both cheeks and I clutched at him like a child might squeeze their favourite teddy bear. We’ve had so much luck keeping him safe and now all I feel is a growing dread that we might have run out of it. When it was time to board, he gave Jack and me a salute, his fingers tapping the side of his slouch hat, and then he threw his kit back over his shoulder and walked up the gangplank onto the ship. He didn’t look back and I’m glad he didn’t, because I was trying so hard not to cry but failed miserably.
I’ve felt rather low since he left and the monotony of work back here at Leeton has kept me in a sad daze. It’s only thoughts of being back at Two Rivers again that have kept me going. I want nothing more than to be sitting around the kitchen table with you and your mother and the girls, laughing at their stories and eating some of your mother’s scones. In a world that is unpredictable and full of sadness, that thought has been like a beacon to me.
Please wish your mother all my best for her continuing improvement from pneumonia. I’m relieved to know that the warmer weather and sunshine have helped.
Charles, your letters mean so much to me. Please keep them coming. I haven’t forgotten our promises to each other about the life we might have when the war is over. In my dreams, I see your face and I wake up happy.
With every best wish for Christmas and the New Year.
Your Flora
Two Rivers
November 1st, 1944
My dearest, Flora,
I was out among the vines today and saw the first signs of life, of new leaves on those gnarled old vines that my father planted so many years ago. Even in the drought somehow they survive and thrive. There must really be something in the water here at Two Rivers.
When I saw those new buds, my first thought was to share my excitement with you.
I can’t wait until you return.
Violet and Daisy have grown so much since you were last here that you might not recognise them and let me assure you that they will be thrilled to have you back, although not more than me.
My mother’s health took a long time to recover and the doctor believes her lungs still suffer. She has a cough that won’t seem to go away, but the warmer weather has helped. She’s able to sit outside in the sun and looks out to the view that she loves. I believe that’s made a big difference to her recovery.
I have some news I’ve been waiting to share with you. I’ve decided to expand Two Rivers. Mrs Northcott decided to sell up when her husband died in August and offered it to me at a good price. It makes sense being neighbouring blocks to consolidate. We shook on it and the deal is done, which means there will be more grapes to pick this summer.
I think of Frank often and I’m so happy for you and Jack that you were able to see him. I wish him godspeed and a safe return to Australia when the war is over. And for you, I wish you the courage and strength to keep going and serving your country in the way you do.
It won’t be long until you return to Two Rivers and I find myself counting down the days.
With fondest regards, Charles
Chapter Thirty-Three
January 1945
Flora wanted to run. She wanted to race down the platform like a puppy chasing a cat, not caring if she bowled over every other person in her path with her flailing arms and her flying suitcase. She had seen Charles and she wanted to throw herself at him, to be held and to feel his lips against hers. But she was a Land Army girl and she had a reputation to uphold and a job to do. And, in truth, she didn’t need grand displays of affection. She’d had his words, had held them in her hand these past eleven months. Every letter had been like a promise to her, she could see that now. She’d borne witness to a gentle unfurling of this man, all he thought and hoped and wished for.
She didn’t need anything else at this moment. For now, his smile was enough. His handsome face was enough. So instead of running, she strolled and he ambled until they were close enough to touch.
‘Flora.’ He tipped his hat.
‘Hello, Charles.’
‘I have the car.’
‘I have my suitcase.’ She glanced around. ‘Where are the girls?’
‘At home.’
‘They didn’t want to come to meet me?’
He stepped in closer. ‘I wanted some time alone with you.’
‘You did?’
‘I wish you weren’t wearing that damn uniform.’ He looked Flora over, from the polished leather of her Land Army shoes to the top of her hat, her AWLA badge gleaming on its crest.
‘Why is that, Mr Nettlefold?’ Flora asked, cocking her head to the side as if she didn’t understand his meaning. The train sounded its horn and people shuffled and bustled all around them but all she could her was the deep timbre of his voice and her heart beating fast in her ears. It was so wonderful to see him. Without a photo, she’d had to recreate him anew each night in her dreams, but this was so much better.
He took a step closer. ‘Because people will be shocked and you’ll probably get into trouble if I kiss you when you’re on duty.’
Flora’s cheeks were suddenly hot and she fought the urge to reach out to him, to touch the tanned skin on his forearm exposed by his rolled sleeves.
‘Charles!’
Charles looked over Flora’s shoulder and tipped his hat politely. ‘Bert.’ A man about Charles’s age positioned himself in between Charles and Flora and held out a hand. ‘Good to see you. It’s been a long time,’ Bert said.
‘It sure has been. How are you?’ There was a tone in Charles’s voice that pricked Flora’s attention. When his eyes briefly flickered to Bert’s chest, Flora realised that the fabric on one sleeve of his white shirt had been sewn closed at the shoulder.
‘Can’t complain.’ There was a forced cheeriness in Bert’s voice that Flora immediately recognised. She’d heard it i
n Frank when he’d been home in September. A brittleness, a nervousness.
‘The missus sure is glad I’m home. I’m here to meet her sister. She’s come up from Melbourne to help with the kids for a bit. You?’
‘I’m here for Miss Atkins. Our Land Army girl out at Two Rivers.’ Charles raised his eyebrows in a question, extending a hand to encourage her to come forward. ‘Miss Atkins. This is Bert Williams. I went to school here in Mildura with his brother, Terry.’
Flora smiled warmly at him. ‘Pleased to meet you, Bert. My brother’s serving in the AIF.’
Bert’s ears pricked. ‘Good on him. Which division?’
‘The 8th. He’s in the 2/11th Field Regiment. He was just home in September on leave.’
‘I wish him all the best for a safe return,’ Bert said as he tipped his hat to Flora. ‘Well, Charles, it was good to see you. All my best to your mother.’
‘You too, Bert. Say hello to Sheila.’
Bert ducked into the crowd and Flora turned to watch him go. There was a limp in his step too, not enough to need a walking stick but obvious all the same. When she was sure he was out of earshot, Flora asked Charles, ‘Where was he?’
‘New Guinea. He came home six months ago. Medically discharged. As you can see.’
Flora followed Charles and they walked in silence to the car. Charles quickly put her suitcase in the back and guided her into the passenger seat, and they drove off.
The Dodge was covered in red dust, inside and out, but Charles had thoughtfully put a blanket on the seat for her to help keep her uniform clean. As soon as they were out of the streets of Mildura, she wound down her car window and leant her face into the wind. It played with her, tugging at her hat and teasing her ears, creating a little echoing whistle that she hoped might drown out the thumping behind her breastbone. She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, trying to hold this memory close, this precious moment in time. She could do nothing else about the war than endure it, work hard and imagine a life after it.
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