The Land Girls

by Victoria Purman

  It seemed to take him forever to answer. ‘No,’ he rasped, but any sense of relief she felt flickered and died in an instant. ‘It’s for Lily.’

  Lily knew.

  As soon as she saw Flora’s red eyes and quivering mouth, as soon as Charles took off his hat and held it against his chest. She knew. Her secateurs dropped from her hand into the dirt with a soft thud. A bunch of grapes slipped from her grasp and dropped onto the red earth.

  Charles handed her the small grey envelope and she took it, looked at her name, handwritten on it. Mrs David Hogarth. Through the window, she could see the telegram was pink. The words Urgent Telegram told her all she needed to know.

  She blinked away the tears but more came.

  Thudding footsteps in the dirt. Betty by her side. A choking gasp. ‘Oh, no, Lily.’

  Lily turned and walked away, slowly, her feet seeming to sink deep into the dirt, or had they become suddenly heavy? She walked until she couldn’t breathe and then stopped to look up at the sky.

  Was it David? Was it from her parents in Adelaide telling her that Susan was dead? Had either of them drawn their last breath somewhere far from home?

  She’d come here to be close to David, to look at the same sky he’d flown in during his training, to breathe the same air he might have. She stared at the small grey thing in her hands. And finally, she found the courage to open it, slipping her little finger under the fold, ripping it slowly. The pink telegram inside was thin and it was stamped Mildura and the words Received Telegram ran across the top in blue ink. And then, typed underneath, Lily’s name.

  IT IS WITH DEEP REGRET THAT I HAVE TO INFORM YOU THAT FLYING OFFICER DAVID HOGARTH, PREVIOUSLY LISTED MISSING, WAS KILLED IN ACTION ON TENTH JUNE 1944 AND DESIRE TO CONVEY TO YOU THE PROFOUND SYMPATHY OF THE MINISTER FOR DEFENCE AND OF THE MILITARY BOARD.

  Betty quietly closed the door of the bedroom she shared with Lily and went to the sitting room. As she stepped inside, Charles shot to his feet, closely followed by Flora and Mrs Nettlefold.

  Each of them wore grief on their faces in different ways. Charles was pale, his fists clenched. Flora’s eyes were red-rimmed and she sniffed into a handkerchief. Mrs Nettlefold wobbled on her feet.

  ‘She’s asleep,’ Betty said, barely able to form the words on her lips before the sobs broke, welling and choking her, and then Flora’s arms were around her and she held on tight, burrowing into the comfort of her friend’s embrace.

  Lily packed her suitcase the next morning. She folded her overalls and tucked them inside, along with her gumboots, her elastic-sided boots, her dress shoes, an overall dress, two khaki shirts, one pair of gloves, a tie, two pairs of stockings, her summer uniform, bathing costume, shorts and two floral cotton shirts.

  She also packed the bright blue Mildura sky, the sound of a plane flying overhead, the smell of the red earth, the taste of warm sultana grapes on her tongue, the squeals of two little girls, the love and kindness she’d found at Two Rivers and her friendship with Betty and Flora. She placed her hat on her head, her metal AWLA badge on the brim freshly polished, and closed her suitcase. Mr Nettlefold had bought her a train ticket and she was going home to Adelaide.

  Her time in the Land Army was over.

  She would be taking more than her memories home in her suitcase. She would be carrying an agony that had settled inside her like a stone, as painful as any physical scar, as constant as the northern star.

  David had been dead for more than six months. He’d died two days after D-day. How could she have not known it? How was it that she had continued living when he was dead? She’d never met his family and now they were linked by this tragedy. She would have to visit them, tell them how much she loved their son, how much she would always love and miss him. But they’d had him for so much longer than she had. Six months as a smitten friend. Three times as his lover. A lifetime now as his widow and she was only twenty years old. The war had torn apart more families than hers but why did none of that matter in this moment, when her grief was so raw and her future now unimaginable? Why would time not stop? If it could, she wouldn’t have to experience another day of this torment. But Lily knew she had as much power over the sun and the moon as she did over the men with guns and bombs who had killed her husband.

  The door to the bedroom opened and Betty came in, dressed in her neatly pressed Land Army uniform. ‘You ready to go? Mrs Nettlefold’s waiting outside. She’s determined to drive you to the station.’

  ‘There’s really no need …’

  ‘She’s fixed on it. And Flora and I are coming too, of course. To say goodbye properly.’

  ‘Really?’

  Betty picked up Lily’s suitcase. ‘You deserve a Land Army send-off, Lily.’

  In the kitchen, Violet and Daisy looked solemn and they gave Lily a posy of flowers picked from the front garden. Mr Nettlefold cleared his throat and passed her a brown paper bag.

  ‘Some sandwiches and fruit cake for the journey.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Lily said quietly. ‘That’s very kind.’

  ‘Please accept once again our sincerest condolences, Lily. Our hearts go with you.’

  As she stepped out into the back yard, in the small stretch between the house and the vines, Lily took one last look around at the place that would be her final stop in her Land Army journey. She was glad it had been this one, a small property in a home filled with love and a family who understood loss. She had relished the peace and the haven this place had provided her. She had come to Mildura to find a piece of David but he wasn’t in the sky or in the air. She would have to find him in her dreams and keep him in her heart, no matter where she was.

  The car horn sounded. Mrs Nettlefold sat behind the wheel.

  ‘Don’t think she’s being impatient,’ Betty said quietly, leaning in close, her warm hand on Lily’s arm. ‘She knows you need to be with your family now and she’s worried you’ll miss the train.’

  The back door slammed behind them and Lily looked back. Mr Nettlefold stood with Violet on one side and Daisy on the other, his arms around them, their little bodies close. She gave them a final wave before walking towards the car.

  Flora was in her Land Army uniform too and as Lily approached, she opened the front passenger door seat and stepped back.

  ‘All yours, Lily.’

  Betty and Flora didn’t let Lily do a thing. At the station, Betty checked her luggage and Flora collected her ticket and bought her a bottle of lemonade. While they waited under the hot shade of the verandah, Mrs Nettlefold moved close.

  ‘Lily, dear?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Nettlefold?’

  ‘I’m a widow, have been for a long time. In my day, it meant your life was over. Some people wear black the rest of their lives, when their husbands die, as if they have died too. Did you know that?’

  Lily listened.

  ‘That wasn’t for me. I had a block to work and a boy to raise. And then I saw my own son become a widower, far too young. Life is cruel sometimes. Unfair. You’re young. People will judge you, try to tell you what you should be thinking and doing and feeling. Don’t let them.’ She squeezed Lily’s hand, her fingers strong, her grip tight. ‘Don’t forget to keep living.’

  Lily stilled, repeating the words in her head, hoping they would stick and sprout and give her strength when she needed it. ‘You’ve shown me great kindness and sympathy. I’ll never forget it.’

  ‘Here’s your ticket.’ Betty passed it to Lily.

  ‘And your lemonade,’ Flora said. ‘All set?’

  Billowing white smoke wafted over the platform and the train’s horn sounded. Lily felt tears welling and she wiped them away with the back of her hand. Mrs Nettlefold, Flora and Betty stood in a row, wearing sad smiles and tears. Lily quickly hugged them all in turn, before shuffling through the crowd of people to step up onto the train. When she found her seat by the window, she looked out. The women were still there, waving furiously. Betty blew her a kiss which made Lily laugh. Flora saluted he
r and Lily’s heart swelled.

  Her last glance was for the wise Mrs Nettlefold.

  Don’t forget to keep living.

  Chapter Forty

  Flora

  Flora was spraying in the drying shed when the telegram arrived. She was up on the ladder, as high as she could climb without toppling over into the dirt, spraying the fruit with oil emulsion. The day was pleasant and warm. A cool change had swept through the evening before and Mrs Nettlefold had thrown open all the windows in the house to cool it down while the respite lasted. It had felt like a novelty to pull on a blanket at night time instead of kicking off the sheets.

  Flora’s stomach grumbled. She wondered what Mrs Nettlefold had whipped up for morning tea and then laughed at how jealous Jack had sounded in his latest letter that she feasted on scones with cream and honey biscuits and that there was always fresh milk and real butter and cream out there on the block.

  ‘Flora!’

  She looked back to the house, squinting into the sun. Mrs Nettlefold was rushing towards the drying shed, her apron flapping and her arms pumping, the panic in the old woman’s voice becoming more distinct as she drew nearer.

  Flora felt ice in her veins.

  Mrs Nettlefold gripped the ladder, steadying herself against it or from concern that Flora might tumble down. ‘Flora. You must come to the house.’

  ‘What is it? Tell me.’

  Tears welled in the older woman’s eyes. ‘A telegram.’

  The small grey envelope trembled in Flora’s hands. The bold word in blue, Telegram, on the top right left no doubt about its purpose. She stared at it, at her name, and the loops and strokes of the postmaster’s cursive.

  Miss Flora Atkins

  c/o Two Rivers

  Mildura

  A wave of nausea rolled over her.

  ‘A cup of tea,’ Mrs Nettlefold murmured. ‘We’ll need a cup of tea.’ She fussed with the kettle on the stove and Flora heard the china clatter of teacups on saucers but her attention was entirely focussed on the small grey envelope in her hands.

  The house was still. Where was Charles? He and Betty were working at the other end of the block and mustn’t have heard the shouts.

  Flora stared at her name. There was news inside of Frank. She closed her eyes for a moment. Whatever news was about to be revealed was now a fact she could do nothing to change. The straightforward act of reading it could not alter a thing about it.

  ‘Why don’t you sit, Flora?’ Mrs Nettlefold laid a hand on her arm. Flora couldn’t feel the gesture of comfort. She was numb.

  ‘Flora?’

  ‘No, I can’t. I need to go …’ Without even thinking about it, her feet carried her to the back door and then she heard it slam behind her, ten feet and a million miles away

  She ran to the bench under the peppercorn tree and sat, trying to focus and breathe. She slid an index finger along the flap and slowly ripped the envelope open. Inside, there was a folded pale yellow sheet of paper and she slowly eased it out.

  Yellow, not pink. The pounding in her chest became a dull thud.

  ‘Flora!’

  Charles was running towards her at such speed that his hat flew off into the air and every boot step on the red, dry ground created a cloud of dust. He came to a quick stop, his breaths loud and fast, his chest heaving inside his shirt. ‘Wait,’ he managed. ‘Don’t open it yet.’ He lowered his chin, propped his hands on his hips and tried to catch his breath.

  Flora looked up at him through her tears. ‘It’s Frank. It has to be.’

  How could thin sheets of paper be so dangerous?

  He came to her side, slipped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her in close. ‘You’re not alone, Flora. Whatever news it brings, I’m here to share it with you. Your sorrow is mine, too.’

  A magpie in the branches above warbled. Ahead of them, the vines were silent, their leaves waving in the hot northerly.

  Everything is about to change, Flora thought. The war had torn apart people’s families—Lily’s just the week before—so why should she be immune?

  Flora stiffened her spine and unfolded the telegram. It shook in her hands and she had trouble making out the words.

  ‘Do you want me to read it first?’ Charles asked tenderly.

  Flora shook her head. ‘No. I’ll do it.’ She sucked in a lungful of air, steadied herself.

  The telegram was stamped with the place and date: Mildura, 29 January 1945. There were two pages filled with navy ink, with a handwritten message.

  L/CPL ATKINS WOUNDED IN ACTION. I REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT L/CPL FRANK ATKINS 2/11TH FIELD REGIMENT HAS BEEN WOUNDED IN ACTION 2ND JANUARY. THE MINISTER FOR THE ARMY EXTENDS HIS SINCERE SYMPATHY.

  Flora dropped the pages into her lap. Charles reached for them, studying them in silence. Finally, he swore softly and let out a deep breath.

  Flora flopped forward, dizzy, and dropped her head between her knees. Charles rubbed circles in her back as she gulped for air.

  ‘He’s alive, Flora. Did you see that? He’s been wounded in action. He’s alive.’

  Flora covered her face with her hands and wept. Charles waited, his hand on her back. He had promised she wouldn’t have to bear this alone.

  She gasped for breath. ‘It doesn’t even say how badly injured he is. How can I know from that?’

  ‘You can’t. Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to the post office in Mildura so you can send a telegram to Frank, letting him know you’ve heard the news, that you’re wishing him a speedy recovery. He’ll want to know that you know. He’ll want to know that you’re not worrying.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, dazed.

  ‘And they we’ll send one to Jack.’

  ‘Jack,’ she gasped. ‘Of course.’

  ‘And then we’ll wait for more news. We’ll find out if he’s coming home or if he’s in hospital and we’ll send him every good wish for a speedy recovery. And while that’s happening, you’re not going anywhere.’

  When Flora slowly sat up and opened her eyes, there was two of everything: two houses, two Marjories, two Charleses. ‘Can we just sit here a moment? I feel dizzy. I think I might be sick.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s alive,’ she said with a loud exhale, her thoughts jumbled and her head in a spin. ‘Is it wrong to be relieved, Charles? That he’s injured instead of dead, I mean? What if it’s enough to see him home for good? And what if that means it’s someone else’s brother or husband or fiancé or sweetheart who’s still there, in danger?’

  ‘You mustn’t feel guilty about being glad he’s alive, Flora.’

  Flora wiped the tears from her cheeks. ‘I’ll have to look after him. You know what that means for us, don’t you?’

  She pressed the palm of one hand to his cheek. His skin was warm, the bristles of his beard prickly, his jaw strong. He sighed, closed his eyes and leant in to her touch.

  ‘Frank is your family, Flora. And that means he’s mine too. He comes first.’ Charles got to his feet and held out a hand to her. ‘Let’s go send that telegram.’

  ‘Yes,’ Flora said, holding on tight to him.

  ‘And we should tell my mother the news. She’s worried sick for you.’

  It was a week before more news arrived, and when it came it was in the form of a field-service post card.

  Charles and Mrs Nettlefold were by her side when she flipped it over.

  Flora peered at the scribblings, trying to decipher them.

  ‘I am quite well,’ she read. ‘I have been admitted into hospital—he’s crossed out the word sick but left wounded there.’

  Charles studied the words. ‘He’s wounded and hopes to be discharged soon. I have received your letter dated January 29th. Letter follows at first opportunity.’

  ‘And he’s signed it!’ Flora exclaimed and threw her arms around Charles. She found herself laughing, almost hysterical, so delighted and relieved.

  At that moment, Betty joined them. She whipped off her hat and s
tammered, ‘Frank? He’s all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ Flora said and hugged Betty too. ‘He’s signed the card! In his own hand. I’d know it anywhere. He must be safe and well, and not too seriously hurt.’

  ‘Oh, Flora, that’s wonderful news.’

  That night Mrs Nettlefold made a special dinner of ham croquettes with salad and devilled eggs. They were Flora’s favourite and she loved that Mrs Nettlefold knew it. She ate up every morsel as if it were caviar and salmon from a feast fit for a king. Her world had been tilted on its axis for years now and finally, perhaps, it was settling again. Even though she knew he was injured, Frank was coming home. He had survived the war. She didn’t have to skim over the obituaries in the newspaper any more, wondering if she might have to craft one for Frank one day. That was all she and her dear departed father had wished for when he’d enlisted so many years ago, that he would come home. The only question now was when that might be.

  ‘Here’s to absent friends.’ Charles lifted his glass of sherry and Flora, Betty and Mrs Nettlefold did the same. Violet and Daisy lifted their glasses of milk.

  ‘And to those coming home just as soon as can be,’ Betty said with a wide smile.

  ‘To the end of the war,’ Mrs Nettlefold managed in a croaky voice, the emotion of the sentiment too much for her.

  ‘To peace,’ Charles added, and the table was quiet as they each said a silent prayer.

  That night, Charles came to Flora’s room and stayed until the sun came up. She craved his touch now, felt incomplete without it, and she committed every inch of his body to memory as he lay beside her, an arm under her neck, a leg draped across her. She stroked his cheek, brushed her palm against the stubble on his chin, tasted him on her lips as he absentmindedly ran his hand through her hair, twisting the short strands in his fingers.

  ‘One more week,’ Charles murmured, pressing his lips to the top of her head. ‘I can’t believe you’ll be gone and this room will be empty again.’