The Land Girls

by Victoria Purman

  ‘The season’s over. You’ve delivered all the fruit to the co-op. The girls are back at school. You know, being out here reminds me, more than anywhere else, that the seasons change and the sun rises and sets in the sky, no matter what’s going on in the hearts of those who stare up at it. Life goes on, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Mine won’t without you here.’

  ‘It will,’ Flora replied. ‘You know your own strength, as do I.’

  He signed. ‘I would do the same for my daughters. It’s the blessing and the burden of being a parent. He’s your brother. He’s your family.’

  How had she been so fortunate to have found this man? ‘I love you, Charles Nettlefold.’

  ‘And I love you, Flora Atkins.’ He kissed her and she held on tight to him, her face burrowed into his neck.

  ‘When I come back, it won’t be to this room, will it?’ Flora asked.

  ‘I damn well hope not. This bed is too small.’

  They listened to the sounds of the early morning. The house creaking, the birds beginning their chorus. Then there were footsteps and the back door slammed. Flora tensed. Mrs Nettlefold was heading out to collect the eggs and milk Marjorie.

  Charles chuckled. ‘She knows.’

  ‘About this?’ Flora felt a flush of mortification creep up her neck and face. She remembered back two years earlier, in the shoe shop in Mildura, when she’d overheard two old busybodies suggesting that all the Land Army girls were interested in was a job in the country as a shortcut to finding a husband.

  As if this journey had been a shortcut.

  ‘I hope she doesn’t think less of me because of it. I couldn’t bear that, Charles.’

  ‘Less of you?’ Charles said, tracing a line from her shoulder to her elbow, to her wrist, to her fingertips. ‘She keeps asking me why I haven’t done more to make you stay. She’s made it quite plain to me that she wants to be your motherin-law one day.’

  ‘Wait …’

  ‘Where else did you think this was leading, Flora?’ Charles shifted so he could look directly at her. ‘I want you to marry me.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes. You have to know it.’

  Did she? ‘When were you going to ask me?’

  His gaze softened, and he dropped his forehead to hers. ‘When the war is over.’

  ‘Oh, Charles. When the war is over, I’ll say yes.’

  Heidelberg Rehabilitation Hospital

  May 2nd, 1945

  Dearest Charles,

  I write with the happiest of news: Frank is finally home. It took much longer than we expected—and longer than I outlined in my last letter to you—but he is in Melbourne, at the hospital listed above. I write this letter by his bedside while he sleeps. He is well and recovering, but it’s been a long journey.

  It’s only now that I’ve been able to get to the bottom of the extent of his injuries. He was shot on patrol in New Guinea. The bullet went through his shoulder and came out the other side. He was evacuated to Townsville, where they patched him up, but he had some setbacks with infection, so it’s only just now he’s been able to come home to Melbourne.

  I had been pacing the floor for months at home while we were waiting for him, sending Jack and Doreen a little stir crazy. Honestly, they should have had a honeymoon, even if it was a couple of nights in the Dandenongs. As it is, they’ve had to begin their married life with me in the house. I’m used to fussing over Jack, as you can imagine, but having one extra person in the house, and his wife no less, somewhat changes things. As it is, I’m away every day here at the hospital with Frank. He sends cheers to you, by the way. He’s heard a lot about you and the girls and my time spent in Two Rivers and has made me promise to take him there one day. It was a promise easily made.

  He’ll be here for a few months more at least. He has become dependent on the morphine used to ease the pain of his injuries and he also has malaria. The poor thing can’t take a trick. I find myself with plenty to do here, helping out with the other men in his ward, writing letters for them when they can’t and providing company when they are missing loved ones, and simply being a womanly presence to temper their frustrations and anger at their circumstances.

  Charles, this isn’t the only news I have to share with you. I hope you’ll forgive me for not mentioning this until now. I’m expecting. I wasn’t sure at first if I was too old for it to continue, but it seems I’m well enough to be nourishing this new life inside me, which is the most wonderful gift you will ever give me, after your love. I am perfectly well and healthy, and taking care to rest when I need to. I am in the care of a good doctor so you needn’t worry about anything.

  We made our promise to each other and I will keep it. When the war is over, I will marry you.

  With my fondest regards,

  Flora

  Chapter Forty-One

  Flora must have dozed off because she woke to the sound of insistent knocking on the front door of the house in Camberwell. She roused, looked down at her swollen ankles propped up on pillows at the other end of the settee and shifted her weight from one hip to another.

  ‘Don’t get up,’ Doreen told her. ‘Jack’s getting the door. Probably one of those encyclopaedia salesmen or something. Who else calls at this time of night?’

  Flora lay back on the pillow Jack had propped under her head an hour before. After supper they’d settled in the sitting room to listen to the radio. Jack liked Dad and Dave and it was about to start. Flora had had a tiring day. The trips to Heidelberg seemed to be getting longer and longer, the tram and bus more crowded and uncomfortable the bigger her belly grew.

  There was a mumble of voices and heavy footsteps in the hallway, long strides she would know anywhere. ‘Charles?’ she murmured.

  It was him. He wore his best suit, a heavy coat over it, and carried his hat in his hand. She knew him well enough to recognise the expression on his face was a mix of confusion and love. That was exactly how she’d felt since she’d discovered she was pregnant.

  It only took three steps for him to cross the room, kneel at her side, clasp her hands in his and kiss her until she was breathless.

  ‘Flora,’ he managed, his voice gruff.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  If he’d heard her, he didn’t answer. He released her hands and smoothed his own over her gently swelling belly, the span of his fingers almost covering her bump. When he kissed it through the fabric of her dress, she entangled her fingers in his hair.

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?’ Doreen scuttled from the room and closed the door behind her.

  ‘That’s Doreen,’ Flora said.

  ‘Who?’ Charles shook his head a little, confused.

  ‘My sister-in-law. And you met Jack. He answered the door.’

  He let out a huge sigh and squinted his eyes in disbelief. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ His eyes gleamed with unshed tears and in that moment she loved him more than she’d ever thought possible.

  It was a fair question and one Flora had gone over and over in her head all these months. Before she was sure, she had assumed the stress of Frank being home and so unwell had interfered with her cycle. But when it became clear that it might be something else, when she was sick in the mornings and when her stomach tightened and enlarged, she had visited the doctor to be sure. When the test had returned a week later, positive, she had taken heed of his warning.

  ‘You’re an older woman, Miss Atkins.’ He’d hesitated over Miss. ‘There is every chance you won’t carry to full term. It’s nature’s way. There are also options available to you if you don’t want to continue the pregnancy. I note you’re not married. But please, let me recommend someone medically trained and safe.’

  She wanted nothing more than to continue the pregnancy and, it seemed, nature was equally as determined. That’s when she’d slipped on her father’s wedding ring. It had become both a way of keeping him close to his grandchild and deterring the prying eyes of strangers. Flora was well aware
of what people said about unwed mothers and didn’t want to hear any suggestions as to what she should do when the baby was born.

  ‘The doctor warned me and I didn’t want to worry you if something did go wrong. You’ve lost so much already, Charles.’

  He stared at her. ‘You’re here all on your own.’

  ‘I’m not. Truly. I have Jack and Doreen. They’re doing a wonderful job of looking after me. And I have Frank.’

  Charles ran a hand through his hair. She knew he was longing for his hat so he could jam it back on his head like an exclamation point on the gesture. ‘What have people said to you? You’re unmarried and expecting. I know what people can be like. I won’t have you put through that.’

  Flora smiled, held up her left hand and wriggled her fingers.

  He took her left hand in his, rubbed a thumb over the wedding band on her ring finger.

  ‘It’s my father’s,’ she explained. ‘All that Land Army work has given me big strong hands and my mother’s simply didn’t fit.’

  She glanced across the room to the wedding photograph sitting on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. Charles followed her gaze, and moved to sit beside her. She made space beside her on the settee.

  ‘That’s your father?’

  ‘John Henry Atkins. Jack is named after him. But he’s been Jack since he was in short pants.’

  ‘Jack takes after him. And you look like your mother. So much.’ Charles smiled down at Flora, rubbed his hand over her belly. ‘I wonder if it’ll be a boy or a girl.’

  ‘I honestly don’t mind,’ Flora said.

  Charles lifted her hand, kissed her ring. ‘I would have liked to have met him, your father.’

  ‘You would have liked him. You’ll have the next best thing in two brothers-in-law who are like him too.’

  ‘Can I meet Frank while I’m here?’

  ‘You’re staying?’

  ‘For tonight. I’m back on the train tomorrow to Mildura. Flora … if you honestly thought I’d receive your letter and not jump on the next train.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘If I could have flown here, I would have.’

  ‘Pull me up,’ she asked him and he tugged her to a sitting position. Side by side, she rested her head on his shoulder and wrapped her hand around a bicep. ‘I know you would have. How are the girls?’

  ‘They are over the moon about having a baby brother or sister. It’s all they can talk about.’

  ‘You told them?’ She laughed.

  ‘They were there when I opened your letter. How could I keep that a secret? I was thrilled for us and angry you hadn’t told me sooner and scared for you all at once. And my mother is ecstatic, as you can imagine. She’s begun knitting already.’

  ‘I’ll come back to Two Rivers as soon as I can. Tell them I miss them dreadfully.’

  ‘Have you missed me?’ he asked.

  She kissed his cheek, softness on his rough skin, and whispered, ‘Let me show you how much.’

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Wednesday 15 August 1945

  Lily Hogarth was with her parents in the sitting room of her family’s house in Buxton Street, North Adelaide, listening to the ABC, all of them concentrating so hard on the broadcast they hardly breathed for fear they might miss a word.

  ‘Hello Citizens—’

  ‘It’s Prime Minister Chifley,’ Mr Thomas startled.

  ‘Sshh,’ Mrs Thomas demanded, her hand splayed on her chest as if to stop her heart from exploding out of it.

  ‘The war is over. The Japanese Government has accepted the terms of surrender imposed by the Allied nations and hostilities will now cease. At this moment, let us offer thanks to God. Let us remember those whose lives were given that we may enjoy this glorious moment and look forward to the peace which they have won for us. Let us remember those whose thoughts turn towards gallant loved ones who will not be coming home.’

  Lily’s mother burst into tears and her father went to her, enveloping her in an embrace so uncharacteristic that Lily couldn’t help but stare. They were happy tears, she knew. Their daughter had survived the war. Susan was in London, safe, tending to troops injured on the Continent. They were allowed to feel happiness on a day such as today.

  Church bells chimed from the radiogram, ringing with joy and sadness. When the news bulletin began, Lily stood and knelt in front of the wireless, her stockinged legs pressing into the Persian rug, her ear hard against the oak cabinet from which news of the victory over Japan was blaring.

  ‘It’s nine o’clock Wednesday morning August the 15th, 1945, and it’s peace. The pent-up emotions of almost six years of strain burst in a giant chorus of overwhelming happiness.’

  And then General Douglas MacArthur’s gruff American voice boomed. ‘My fellow countrymen. Today the guns are silent. A great tragedy has ended, a great victory has been won.’

  ‘Did you hear that?’ Mr Thomas exclaimed. ‘The bombs worked. Hiroshima. Nagasaki. Pity that Roosevelt didn’t live to see this day.’ His voice caught in his throat. ‘Or Curtin. Hard decisions can wear down even the strongest of men.’

  It was over.

  Lily had been fourteen years old when the war had begun, untroubled by the slings and arrows of life, with nothing but a happy and privileged future predicted for her in her comfortable world. Now she had learnt that she could take nothing for granted any more. And as much as MacArthur might believe that a great tragedy had ended, Lily knew that her personal one would endure. It would never be over.

  She’d had months over the long winter to think about who she was now and what would come next for her after the war had ended. She would never go back to that comfortable life she’d had before the war. Years of work in the Land Army, all that she’d seen and done, all that she’d learnt and endured, had liberated her. She’d had a wage of her own, the freedom to choose where she was going to work and what jobs she did. She’d found the joy of real female friendship, and learnt how important it was to have such friends to help her cope with the worst the war had wrought.

  David would never return, his life sacrificed like so many others for king and country, but to pretend he hadn’t existed would be not only a betrayal of her husband but of the person she had become.

  Don’t forget to keep living. She long remembered Mrs Nettlefold’s advice, had memorised it on the long train journey home back to Adelaide in January.

  She’d made a decision about her future. She’d been at home for six months as a widow, her life on hold, in a limbo she hadn’t chosen, and it had taken all that time for her to find her courage. Susan had written often during that time, asking how her younger sister was, reassuring her that she would recover and, in her last letter, which had only arrived a week earlier, Susan had made Lily an offer she had decided she couldn’t refuse.

  Come to London, Susan had offered. She was now based in Eastbourne, in Sussex, treating repatriated prisoners of war who’d been freed from camps all over Europe as the Allies had advanced. They’re all Australian boys, Susan had written. Won’t you take the next boat over and come and work with me? We need all the help we can get and the Anzacs would love to see a friendly face from home. Once they’re well enough, they’re sent back to Australia, but some of them are in pretty poor shape so it’ll take some time. It’s all hands on deck and if you don’t mind doing whatever we ask of you, I’d have you tomorrow. Think about it, Lily.

  She had thought about it. Her world could be bigger than Buxton Street. Bigger than Adelaide. Bigger than Australia.

  She was going to London.

  Betty Brower stood in the middle of Martin Place with thousands of other Sydneysiders who’d all rushed into the streets that morning when they’d heard the news.

  She had been home on leave from the Land Army when the bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and eating breakfast when she’d heard Prime Minister Chifley’s announcement on the radio that Japan had surrendered. Like every other person in Sydney, she rushed into the streets, following the crowd o
nto buses to head into the city.

  Chifley had declared two public holidays so anyone who had been heading into their offices or factories or shops simply turned back and joined the masses gathering in the streets. People were packed tight as sardines in Martin Place, from above Castlereagh Street across Pitt Street and past the Cenotaph.

  Betty found herself laughing and crying in equal measure, sometimes in the same minute. Someone handed her a paper hat made out of that morning’s newspaper and she slipped it on her head. People waved streamers and Union Jack flags and someone had a Stars and Stripes, too, and there were victory shouts in one ear and singing in the other. Anyone with a whistle kept for air-raid warnings found it and blew until their lungs must have been on the verge of collapse. Hats flew in the air and landed who knew where. A man next to Lily exclaimed, ‘My glasses!’ and dropped to his knees to search for his precious spectacles underfoot.

  Betty could hardly hear herself think in the crush and the loud thudding in her ears. The last time she’d been in a crowd like this she’d been evacuated from Woolworths in an air-raid drill. Now, it was to celebrate victory.

  She pushed her way through the crush towards the Cenotaph. A young woman in front of her had drawn VP Day on her forehead and cheeks. Everyone was smiling and laughing and so, so happy. A clapping crowd surrounded a man doing a highland fling. A group of young people danced with British and American soldiers, standing in a circle doing the hokey-pokey. A tram was trying to make its way through Pitt Street, crowded with people inside coming to join the celebrations and others jumping on and cheering.

  ‘Look at that!’ There was a shout and Betty looked around to see a sea of fingers pointing up to the side of a building in Martin Place.

  ‘What is it?’ an old man called, his voice croaky from singing.

  ‘It’s Hitler!’

  The crowd erupted. Two men had looped a rope around the neck of a shopfront mannequin and were dangling it out a window, lowering it to the crowd. A swastika had been daubed on its torso and they’d drawn a toothbrush moustache above its mouth.