‘Why do you think Lily didn’t tell us about her husband being missing in action?’ he asked, puzzled.
Flora shivered at the thought of it, of being told and of having to cope with the dread of not knowing. ‘I don’t know for sure. Perhaps it might not feel so real if you keep it a secret. All I can say is that I’m so grateful Betty told me about it yesterday. She swore me to secrecy and I promised her I wouldn’t say a word.’
‘And of course I won’t either, but it’s a dreadful burden to bear on your own, isn’t it?’
Flora observed Charles, with his watchful eyes on the river, his squealing daughters and two young women who were so far away from home. She had been curious for so long about his wife. His loss. His widowhood. Perhaps it might shine a light on why he had fallen in love with her. Flora needed to know. Did she still need convincing that it was indeed love that had drawn him to her, not loneliness?
‘Did you have to bear such loss on your own?’ she finally asked.
He glanced at Flora, his mouth a line, his eyes narrowed. ‘You’re talking about Harriet.’
She waited a moment, glanced over to the girls. ‘Yes. I’d like to know about Violet and Daisy’s mother. About you and Harriet and your marriage. I know that might sound strange to you, but I want to know about her. I look at the girls and wonder how much of her is in them. Daisy must be like her, in her easy manner and her vivacity. But Violet is like you, I think, and not just because she has your black hair and blue eyes.’
‘No?’
‘She frowns like you do. She’s quiet. She’s smart and she thinks a lot. She doesn’t need the company of others in that secret little world of hers.’
‘Is that what I’m like?’
‘Oh, most definitely. And you’re proving my point right now. How is it that I’m doing all the talking when I was the one who asked you the question about your wife?’
Charles grew silent. Violet and Daisy splashed in the shallows of the river. Betty and Lily were up to their necks, swimming away from the edge.
‘You want me to talk about Harriet,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ Flora replied. Did he understand why she was so curious?
‘What do you want to know, Flora?’
She was careful, her words considered. ‘How did you cope, Charles? You said before how dreadful a burden it is to bear on your own, but you bore it. Who comforted you when you lost her?’
Charles’s gaze met hers. His voice was low and she had to concentrate to hear it. ‘My mother helped with the girls, has done ever since … you know that.’
‘Of course. And she’s wonderful with them. But what of Harriet’s parents? They’re not a part of the girls’ lives?’ Mrs Nettlefold had told Flora about the brutally cold manner in which his parents-in-law had blamed Charles for his wife’s death, about how they had crossed the street to avoid him and any reminder of the grief they believed he had wrought on their family.
‘Harriet was their only daughter. Perhaps that’s why. I don’t know. Some people carry their grief around like a prize, as if they were the only winners in that god-awful competition. It marks them, defines who they are. To see the girls would mean them having to admit that life goes on.’
‘How did you keep going after she died?’
‘Day by day. What choice did I have? And then the months and years pass, and it gets a little easier.’ He sat up, pulled his knees to his chest and rested his elbows on them, his eyes on the river. ‘I’ll always love her, Flora, if that’s what you’re asking me.’
‘I would expect nothing less of you. She was your wife. She’s the girls’ mother. I suppose I want you to know that. She must have been a wonderful woman to win your heart because you are the best of men, Charles.’
He angled his head to her, his blue eyes bright. ‘Do you know how lucky I feel to be in love again? You’re my miracle, Flora.’
They wouldn’t hold hands in front of the girls, they’d decided that. But Flora’s fingers itched to touch him.
‘Do you mind if I ask … why are there no photographs of Harriet in the house?’
Charles sounded perplexed. ‘There are.’
‘I haven’t seen them.’
‘Our wedding portrait hangs on the wall in our … my bedroom. There’s another of Harriet in a wooden frame on my chest of drawers.’
‘Not in the sitting room where the girls can see them?’
Charles was quiet. ‘They don’t remember her at all. I don’t want them to be confused. Or sad about not having a mother.’
‘I’ve never heard them talk about her.’
‘They used to ask when they were younger, Violet especially. They know she loved them and that she died. They have me. They have their grandmother. And I hope, Flora, that soon they will have you too.’
‘Soon, you know that.’
Flora lay back and gazed up at the grey-green leaves of the gum trees, watched them sway like two drunken lovers.
‘My brother, Frank, wrote to me when I first came to Two Rivers back in ’43. He said that Dad and Jack should learn to look after themselves and that I should strike out for myself and find someone who is worthy of me.’ She remembered at the time how she’d felt about this piece of unsolicited advice from her brother, that the notion of finding someone for herself seemed like a plan for someone else’s life, not hers.
‘I hope you think I’m worthy of you,’ he said, his voice husky with emotion.
‘More than I deserve,’ she replied as she met his gaze, blinking back happy tears.
‘Daddy, Daddy!’ The girls ran up the bank, laughing, red dirt flicking around their feet. ‘Please come and swim,’ Daisy shouted.
‘Betty and Lily are in the water and we want to go in, too,’ Violet chimed in. ‘Can we?’
Charles flicked Flora a wide smile as he sprang to his feet. She watched him move, the way his strong shoulders flexed and his long lean legs unfurled. He slowly unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it at her. She had kissed that skin. In that moment, she could taste it again.
‘Watch out for the crocodiles!’ Charles shouted and the girls shrieked as he chased them to the river. Betty and Lily were out of the water so fast Flora imagined they might have sprouted wings and flown to her side.
‘Did Mr Nettlefold say crocodiles?’ Lily gasped, water dripping from her blonde hair onto her pale shoulders.
‘He’s teasing,’ Betty laughed. ‘There are no crocodiles in the Murray.’ She turned to Flora. ‘Are there?’
On Sunday morning, it was quiet at the Nettlefolds’. It was a mild, late-January morning. Lily and Betty slept. Violet and Daisy had risen early, despite the excitement of swimming having sent them straight to bed, drowsy and exhausted, as soon as they’d returned home the night before. They were playing skip rope outside under the peppercorn tree, one end tied to the trunk, Violet looping the rope up and over, Daisy trying not to catch her feet. Inside, Flora sat with Charles and his mother at the kitchen table. A pot of tea brewed and their bellies were full of boiled eggs and toast.
Flora had spent so many happy meals around this plain wooden table. She knew that underneath the crisp white tablecloth, set with plates and china and a crystal bowl of rationed sugar, its top was scratched and stained, the legacy of cooking and chopping and drawing and children’s games. The table told the story of this family, of Mrs Nettlefold and her husband, of their only son and his dead wife, of two little girls who might look back on these years with fond memories instead of stories about what had been lost in the war. How lucky they were to be so young now. Lily and Betty were perhaps ten years older than Charles’s children, and often that realisation struck Flora in the heart. They were too young to bear the burdens of a husband and a sweetheart away fighting, to have to face the possibility of such a loss.
Flora sipped her tea and let herself imagine, not for the first time, what a life in this family would be like. To wake up every morning and sit at this table. To be more than a visitor in the house. To shar
e Charles’s bed. Her cheeks heated and she looked down into her cup, watched the tiny leaves that had escaped through the strainer swirl and settle. Was it wrong to want it so much?
Charles folded the newspaper and passed it to Flora. ‘You might want to have a look.’ he said. ‘We’re getting there.’
Flora unfolded the page and read it. There was progress in Burma. Where was Burma, she wondered? More headlines: a truce in Greece; the Germans collapsing in France; the Russians moving through Hungary; and the Yanks only ninety miles from Manila. Could this be the good news everyone was wishing for? An image caught her attention. Right there on the page, a photograph of Australian artillerymen, bare-chested, using ropes and a jeep to haul a gun into position at Little George Ridge in Bougainville. She looked closely, her heart suddenly thudding. Was this where Frank was? Little George Ridge? She peered close, but the official photograph disguised any trace of their identity, only showing the backs of the soldiers’ heads, their bare backs and baggy trousers. They were all anonymous.
She turned the page over. Another screaming headline. ‘Resettlement of millions, Gigantic Problem for Post-War Years.’
‘Can this be true, Charles?’ Flora asked, disbelieving it even thought she’d read the words herself.
‘What is it, Flora?’
‘This article here. It’s saying that fifty million people in Europe have either been called to arms or evacuated from their bombed towns. Or,’ she read on, ‘they’re being forced to work in war factories for the Reich. Fifty million people? That’s unfathomable.’
‘Hard to think otherwise. After all these years, so much of Europe bombed by one side or the other.’
She blinked, thought of Frank. Had he killed people? Was there much choice when someone was shooting at you too?
Her stomach roiled and gripped. She kept her eyes on the page so Charles and his mother wouldn’t see her tears. Another sentence caught her eyes and she stared at it, soaked in its meaning, held it close.
When the war is over and the men have settled down to a normal life …
It wasn’t just men who would settle down to a normal life.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Betty
‘Letters?’ Betty slapped her hands to her cheeks in sheer excitement. ‘Are there any for me?
‘These are yours, Betty,’ Flora said, sorting through the lot Charles had just deposited on the kitchen table.
‘Is there anything for Lily?’ Betty stopped to think about her friend. Some letters would cheer her up, wouldn’t they?
Flora sorted through the pile. ‘There’s one here for me, from my brother Jack.’ She put it aside. ‘And two here for Lily.’
Betty bit her lip. ‘They’re not from abroad, or telegrams?’
Flora shook her head. ‘These are both from Adelaide.’
‘Oh, well. I’m sure when she comes in, she’ll be just as excited as I am. A letter is a letter, after all.’
‘That’s true. And Betty,’ Charles said, then paused. ‘If a telegram ever did arrive, I would tell you.’
‘Thank you, Mr Nettlefold. Thank you, Flora. Is it all right if I have a morning-tea break and go and read these now?’
‘Of course,’ Charles replied with a nod. ‘Come out when you’re done.’
It had been months since she’d heard from Michael and Betty could barely contain the anticipation she felt at seeing his handwriting on the envelope. She slammed the back door on her way out and broke into a run until she reached the peppercorn tree and the bench positioned there. She sat, stopped to take a deep breath, and tugged at the string bundling her letters together. She quickly flicked through the envelopes. One from her parents, one from Mrs Doherty, one from an old school friend who she hadn’t heard of in positively ages, and three letters from Michael. The others could wait and, with a tremendous excitement thudding in her chest, she shuffled Michael’s letters so she would read the oldest one first. It was dated November 1944. She tore open the envelope and unfolded the pages.
Dearest Betty,
Before you worry, I’m very well and all is good here. I’m firing on all six and happy as larry. There’s plenty of food and I’m learning to love anything that comes in a tin. I’ve received all your letters, for which I am very grateful. How many of mine have you received? I don’t know what happens to them once they leave us here in so all I can do is keep writing. I’m sharing a tent with some great lads from Sydney, and one is from Balmain, can you believe that? It rains a lot and it’s impossible to keep our socks dry, but other than that, I can’t complain.
I hope you’re not working too hard in the Land Army, although when I told the lads that you had been working in the factory that dehydrates the spuds, they gave you three cheers.
I’ve been telling them how special you are and what a lucky so-and-so I am that you are waiting for me. Sometimes I think it’s the only thing keeping me going, to know that I’ll be coming home to you. One of the lads here, Dudley, is already married with two little ones, a boy and a girl. He’s been abroad two years now, not quite as long as me, and I know he gets the blues about how much they will have changed by the time he gets home. Have you changed? I hope that if you have, it’s only for the better.
Betty Boop, you’re in my dreams, did I tell you that before? I think about when we said goodbye out the front of your house and how much I liked kissing you. Your lips were sweet and one day you’ll let me kiss you again, I hope. I know I told you not to look back, but I sneaked a look at you that day, as you were walking back up your front path. You were smiling, and it was good to see.
Well, I’ll sign off now. Please write soon.
Your loving Michael
Betty looked up the blue sky, pressing the letter to her heart. ‘I miss you too, Michael. I think of you every night and I think of that kiss. Where are you?’ she whispered.
The second letter was dated the first of January.
Dear Betty,
I suppose I should start by saying happy New Year, but we’re not celebrating here today. I have sad news and I don’t know where to start so I’ll come right out with it. My mate, Dudley, was killed last night. A sniper got him. He was on patrol and I was right next to him when he fell. It’s hit us for six is all I can say.
I don’t know how much you hear back home about what’s going on here, but I wanted to let you know that I’m all right. I haven’t had a letter from you for a while, but I know you must be writing to me. You made a promise and I know in my heart you would never let me down.
My dearest Betty, I’ve been thinking about it a lot and I know this might not be the best way to do it, but when I get home, I’m going to ask you to marry me. People might say we’re too young, but I don’t feel like a young man anymore. I know in my heart that if you say yes, that thought will keep me safe.
Will you say yes?
Your loving Michael
In that moment, Betty’s whole life unfurled in front of her. Her happy reunion with Michael, him so handsome in his uniform, her with red lipstick and a new dress, perhaps a floral cotton with pretty muslin frills around the neck, the kind she’d seen in magazines. With the money he’d earned since he’d been away in the war, they would put a down payment on a home with a yard big enough for a vegetable garden, and she would take all her new-found Land Army skills and plant enough to feed them both and the whole street. And at night, when she rolled over in bed, it would be Michael’s face she would see and she would smile and reach for him.
‘When the war is over I’m going to marry Michael Doherty,’ she whispered to herself, giggling as she wiped tears from her eyes and laughed and sobbed all at once. She held out her left hand and cocked her head to one side. One day she would have pretty hands again, free from callouses created by gripping hoes and secateurs, and the dirt that seemed to find its way into every tiny line on her hands and remain there like a tattoo, no matter how hard she scrubbed. Her ring finger was bare now but it wouldn’t be for much longer. She s
hivered with excitement at the thought.
And just as she was about to leap to her feet to find Lily and Flora and tell them her wonderful news, she stilled. She would write back to Michael answering his question, and she would send letters to her parents and Mrs Doherty announcing the happy news, but here at Two Rivers, she would keep his proposal a secret for now. It would be wrong to shout it to the heavens when her joy would make others feel only sorrow. So she held the secret close in her heart and went back to the house to put her letters in her suitcase, buried deep under her clothes.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The Dodge pulled into the yard and stopped with a crunching lurch. Flora snipped the bunch of grapes from the vine in front of her and placed it in one of the buckets at her feet. They were full now, and she stood, gripped their handles and lifted them. She blew a strand of hair from her forehead. She really did need a haircut but wasn’t sure when she might find the time or energy. She’d snipped her fringe before when it had become long and unmanageable and made a mental note to do that again that night after she’d showered and washed her hair. She began walking towards the drying shed, trying not to let the buckets strike her calves, and made her way towards Charles. He was walking fast towards her with purposeful strides. The sun was so bright, she had to squint to make out what he was holding in his hand.
Something clenched in her chest. Thudded there, faster than her heartbeat.
The post. The combination of his urgent steps and the letters in his hand sent a shiver running up her back and it clenched her throat and shards of her breath caught there and hurt. She stilled, lowered the buckets slowly just before she lost all strength in her fingers, her hands, her arms, her legs.
‘Flora.’ The brim of his hat was pulled low and all she could see as he approached was his mouth pulled tight, his jaw clenched.
She reached for his hand, gripped her fingers around his fist and pulled it towards her. ‘Is it for me?’ The tension radiated from him and she almost needed to step back from it. ‘Tell me, Charles.’ Her voice choked in her throat. ‘Hurry up and tell me if it is.’
The Land Girls Page 33
