No Man's Land

by A. J. Fitzwater

  The girl frowned. “Hello, pleased to meet you,” she said, paintbrush poised over the can dangling from her other hand. Very level. Very careful. Balanced. “My name is Dorothy Gray. You can call me Tea.”

  Izzy blinked, time doing that funny thing where it slowed to a crawl as her senses expanded. The girl’s face! The scent made sense now. She was Robbie’s sister. Robbie, te māhunga wai, hadn’t said anything about her having signed up for the Land Service. Boys!

  Time went on its merry way again. “Unfortunately, when I came to unpack I discovered my mother had, unbeknownst to me, repacked my suitcase with what she thought would be more appropriate work attire.” Tea glanced down at her blouse as if to shield herself from the directness of Izzy’s gaze. She frowned at the few black paint flecks that had already marred its sunshine state. “Apparently gumboots and my brother’s hand-me-down work shirts are not the done thing to meet charming young farmers in.”

  Tea’s tone sliced up another chunk of amusement from Izzy.

  “Oh dear. At least the rest of your gear from the Land Service will be arriving soon.”

  “Really? More gear? I hope I have enough rations for it.”

  Izzy scrunched her nose up, her dark eyes crinkling at the edges. “You should be getting a hat, sou’wester, wet weather gear, more shirts. That sort of thing. Doesn’t come all at once because supply lines are all over the place. And you don’t need to spend clothing rations. It’s supplied by the government.”

  What was the Service telling these girls before they sent them out into the back of beyond?

  Tea shook her head, bemused. “Well, if you say so. I’ll write back to Mum quick smart as well, to tell her to put the rest of my other gear on the train. That is, unless there’s a telephone?”

  “Mr MacGregor doesn’t let the girls use the party line unless it’s an emergency. And you’ll also have to oil those boots up to help break them in if you don’t want blisters.”

  “Too late.” Tea angled her mouth askew.

  “Oh, by the way, I’m Izzy. Short for Isabel. Larson. Isabel Larson. Yes. That’s me. One of the other three land girls here.” A blush? Hold it together, girl. She pointed along the edge of the pane. “And make sure you get into the corners. Mr MacGregor is very particular about blacking out.”

  Tea gestured a greeting with the brush and can. “Nice to meet you, Izzy. And thank you. I don’t know why the windows need to be blacked out here. We’re, what? Ten miles from the coast?”

  “More like twelve.”

  “What would the Japs want with us anyway? There’s only sheep and rocks out here!”

  With a final flourish of paint, Tea climbed down, cricked her back and groaned. Izzy now found herself looking down at the girl. No, not a girl. Robbie isn’t that much younger than me, which means …

  “Mr MacGregor belongs to the Home Guard, and he takes his duties very seriously.” Izzy ambled into the whare and the cool of her tiny bedroom, stripping off her dirt and sweat-streaked shirt, careful not to drop the dirty clothes on the neat, if threadbare, pink candlewick bedspread. Tea had started to follow but immediately backed out, averting her eyes. Izzy grinned into the coolness of a fresh shirt. “We’re always prepared for anything, snow, storm, or invasion.”

  The bread and freshwater smell lingered overtop the stringent cut of paint. The new girl said nothing.

  “So, you’re Robbie’s twin sister, huh?” Izzy called out. “You do look like him.”

  Tea’s shadow appeared in the narrow hallway. “You’re the first to say that. He’s bigger in the shoulders than me.”

  “Who’s older?” Slipping by, Izzy took a gulp from the water pitcher in the small front room. The girls used the room as a shared living space and had furnished it with tatty armchairs, a bookshelf, and a small fireplace, making the whole cottage a little cosier than its previous incarnation as the shearers’ quarters. Had the new girl brought any books with her? Izzy’s mind itched for something new.

  “He’s never said?” Tea’s laughter bubbled up, sweeter than Robbie’s, but just as rich and warm. Finally. “I am. And he doesn’t let me live it down.”

  Izzy paused, pretending to fidget with the matches and kindling in the fireplace. Tea cut a darker hole in the shadows of the dim cottage, like there was more than one of her standing in the same place. Izzy blinked and squinted; the doubled form resolved into one. How could this be? It didn’t run in families.

  Izzy blinked again and could see the warmth boiling within Tea’s silhouette, something different again to the double vision. Another coldness gripped her guts. Oh yes, it’s there alright. Maybe brother and sister are cut of the same cloth. Izzy had heard myths passed down and down again about twins.

  Best to wait, watch, be careful. So very careful. People had their rules, their lines. They liked to gossip. There was a weight to darkness in this land.

  A muddy collie tumbled through the front door with a clatter of claws, tongue a-flop with happiness to see Izzy.

  Tea pushed it away, horrified as it stuck its nose in her crotch. “They’re all over the place!”

  “They like you.” Izzy stepped onto the veranda, whistling for the dog.

  “I just got here. They barely know me. Hey, where are you going?”

  “It’s time for—” The pump of the bell echoed across from the farmhouse. “—dinner.”

  Wiping her hands on her thighs, Tea snatched up her painting tools from the veranda and, juggling the ladder, scurried to catch up. “But how did you—”

  “The dogs know.”

  *

  Tea had smelled the question before it drew breath. It radiated as much sunshine as her blouse.

  What was she wearing, the girl had asked. The wrong clothes, the wrong skin. A skin that pretended she could be a good farmhand. A skin obviously too much like her brother’s – she hadn’t decided if that was a good or bad thing. This was her one chance to draw a new skin over herself. Who knew how long the war would last, before she’d have to stop pretending and find a husband?

  Tea blushed as she hurried to catch up with Izzy. There was another scent, mingling with the new, large scents all around. They were nowhere near as terrible as she thought she’d find them. The farm made a great blanket of awareness quite unlike her disjointed understanding of the city. She’d always been carefully attuned. Scents were warnings, heralds, rewards. She had never told anyone about this strange, heightened awareness, not even her brother. It made her sound quite mad.

  She’d scolded herself for the less-than-ladylike greeting she’d attended upon the other land girl. Hunger, the strange dog on the road, and the long day had caused her peevish tone. Mum would be so cross with her if she’d heard.

  But Izzy Larson wasn’t Mum. Chattering far too easily about shearing timetables and mealtimes and rising at ridiculous o’clock, the person walking beside her exuded Tough.

  Mum had warned her about tough girls. They wore pants, cut their hair shorter than was proper, smoked cigarettes and had loud voices, big rough hands, and too-brown skin from working outside.

  But there was something comforting about Izzy’s deep laugh, the still-perfect dark curls at her forehead and ears. She was big and dark as a storm, flashing diamond rain. And that scent like dog and cool night air. Terribly poetic in non-poetic times. Mum would say she’d been reading those awful books again.

  “You got a sunhat in that rig of yours?” Izzy was asking as they rounded the low hill studded with native trees. On the far side of the farmyard, the dogs were snout-down in their bowls. Another girl ladled out bones and bloody chunks. The dog that had fetched Izzy dove into the mix.

  “Yes, that survived the purge, at least,” Tea sighed.

  “Good. It’s easy to get sunburn out here when you’re not used to it.” Izzy went on about all sorts of strange things about eating and drinking that didn’t
make sense.

  Tea snuck another glance at Izzy’s long jaw and nose. She was lucky. The width gave away nothing, while her own sometimes warranted a second look. MacGregor wouldn’t have asked the same disquieting question of Izzy that Tea had been on the pointed end of earlier.

  Mrs MacGregor pumped the dinner bell a second time, and Tea hurried to store away her tools.

  “Bell only goes twice,” Izzy explained, slipping off her mucky boots, lining them up neat, and padding into a washroom lined with a rack of oilskins, buckets and mops, a heavy kettle and wringer, and shelves with soap boxes and scrubbing brushes. Tea obediently followed suit. “Five minutes to wash up, and if you’re not done in that time you go hungry.”

  The girl who had been feeding the dogs, all red pigtails and freckles, burst into the washroom and grabbed up the Sunlight soap. She reeked of dog. “Tuesday!”

  “Sorry?” Tea paused in lathering her hands.

  Izzy indicated between them with soapy hands. “Alison Twidle, Tea Gray.”

  Tea murmured a greeting, then, “What do you mean, Tuesday?”

  “Lamb chop day!” Alison grinned.

  Saliva sprang into Tea’s mouth. Real farm lamb chops? Rationed lamb had been on the small side, fatless, infrequent. They did this every Tuesday?

  Lost in her meaty daydreaming, Tea only gave half her attention to Alison’s questions which were, yet again, about her brother.

  They passed through the spacious kitchen where an enormous wood-run Shacklock blasted heat, and Mrs MacGregor’s head twitched when she heard Robbie’s name. “Later, Miss Twidle. So the poor girl doesn’t have to repeat herself five times over. Here we go, ladies. Steady as you go, all the way through to the dining room, please.” She handed out piled-high plates.

  Tea’s eyes widened at the weight of the pretty china plate. The meaty aroma of the chops mixed with the polished wood of the echoing farmhouse and charred wood from the wet-back stove.

  The huge dining room featured creamy sconces, burgundy carpets, and an enormous porcelain-infested sideboard. Even the black paint on the bay window had been applied neat and smooth, adding a cool, dim glaze to the room. Izzy nodded towards a chair midway down the long table. Plates clattered. Tea almost sat with relief for her aching back but snatched her hands away from the high-backed chair when she saw Izzy, Alison, Grant, and the other land girl waiting silently, eyes ardent on their food.

  A grandfather clock in the hall ticked slow and heavy, matching the low rumbles in Tea’s stomach. Everyone remained silent, not even introducing the other girl. What was her name? Mrs MacGregor had said it during the avalanche of information she’d imparted about cottage rules and mealtimes and not bringing boys to the cottage or sneaking out. Was it Karen? Charlotte?

  Tea jumped when a sonorous bong from the clock welcomed Mr MacGregor into the dining room. Mrs MacGregor followed with two plates, flicking a light switch with her elbow. A chandelier denuded of all but four of its bulbs illuminated the table.

  Mr MacGregor measured the gathered workers with stormy grey eyes under the dark clouds of his enormous eyebrows.

  “Sit.”

  Chairs scraped. Izzy to her left, Grant to her right.

  “Bless us, O Lord, and these gifts, for what we are about to receive …”

  Tea fumbled for the words as the others mumbled along. Mum had always said grace, when Robbie wasn’t around.

  “… and may you safely bring our boys back home,” said Mrs MacGregor at the end when Mr MacGregor paused.

  Tea glanced up through her lashes. Mrs MacGregor’s grey-streaked, bowed head didn’t tremble. ‘Our’ boys? Tea hadn’t seen any photographs, but then the living room and guest rooms had been deemed out of bounds. Did she mean Robbie and the other local farm lads? All of the Kiwi boys in the theatre of war?

  “Amen,” Mr MacGregor stated emphatically.

  “Amen,” mumbled the diners.

  With a clatter of silverware, dinner turned into something altogether different, as everyone tried to slough off the morbidity. Tea quickly hacked off a slice of lamb and bit down. Her eyes oozed closed in delight. Two chops – two! – the best she had tasted in two and a half years. Real butter melted on the mound of mashed potatoes and the fistful of vibrant green beans. Thick gravy neatly adorned the chops, but Tea swirled it through everything. Made with real drippings, crunchy and dark!

  “So, you’re Robbie’s sister,” the unfamiliar girl stated.

  Tea repressed a small sigh. Robbie’s sister, Robbie’s sister, it’s always just Robbie’s sister. She stuffed the thought down with a mouthful of potatoes and nodded.

  Izzy saved her. “This is Tea,” she said, somehow able to chew and talk at the same time without earning a glare from Mr MacGregor.

  “I’m Carmel Atkinson.” She flicked back toffee-blonde curls. “Sorry I wasn’t here to meet you. Me and Izzy, we were bringing the sheep down for the next shearing.”

  Tea nodded back, mouth still too full. Shearing already! Were there enough boys for a gang in the district?

  Thankfully, Carmel didn’t ask for information about Robbie. The conversation turned towards what consumed every Kiwi’s waking moment, and often their sleeping moments too. Mr MacGregor gave a report of the previous evening’s news from the BBC World Service, censored for the girls’ sensitive ears. He listened to the wireless religiously after dinner over his cup of tea and newspapers, Izzy whispered to Tea out the corner of her mouth.

  Mrs MacGregor tempered a rousing Churchill speech and the Allies’ press into Libya (Where is that? Tea wondered. Must get out my atlas), with news of a local family who had received a telegram a few days previous.

  Then there was Grant in his too-big clothes, watching the conversation flow by. He chewed over every word like he chewed on his chops. Slow and careful.

  Especially the ones about Robbie. The buttery potatoes loosened Tea’s grip on her annoyance. She couldn’t help the pinch of pride at having everyone’s undivided attention. Yes, Robbie had joined the Second Expeditionary Force out of Linton. No, he wasn’t allowed to say where and when he’d been deployed (she couldn’t stop her stutter; did the walls all the way out here have ears?). Yes, he was still alive as far as she knew. No, she hadn’t received a letter in a few weeks. Yes, she would read them later to everyone if they so wished.

  They did. Grant said nothing, but when she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye as pudding was delivered to the table, there was a strange glint in his eyes. He must be jealous because he was not of a health or size to sign up.

  The scent of apples, boysenberries, and brown sugar made Tea’s tongue tingle. She’d emptied her dinner plate clean and her belly was tight, but by golly she was going to make room! Mrs MacGregor spooned out bowlfuls of fruit crumble with big dollops of cream. Real cream!

  Somewhen back in Dunedin, her mother laughed and pinched her hip. “Rationing will be a wonderful way to help you drop that weight you’ve put on since you turned eighteen. No man likes a fat wife!”

  Yes, it had done that. And it had also left her tired. A different tired to that of the few short years she’d spent nursing Grandad, with all that lifting to the bedroom and the outhouse. And with Robbie gone God knows where, it had left her too empty to be thinking about catching a husband.

  Tea glanced right as the second-best china cups came out for the tea. Grant nodded along to something Mr MacGregor was saying about top dressing with the collected manure – what on earth is that? – but under the tablecloth he massaged the large red knuckles of his skinny right hand. Only then did she catch his scent. Warm clay dust and wool, rather pleasant. Why hadn’t she caught it earlier?

  As she started thinking up words to describe him to Mum in her letters, he gave the tiniest of grimaces. As if he’d heard her thoughts.

  A sting. Tea’s right hand went into a spasm, fingernails biting into
her palm. Her teaspoon of sugar clattered into the saucer and black liquid sloshed on the tablecloth. Mrs MacGregor clucked her dismay. Mr MacGregor growled a warning.

  All apologies and dabbing napkins, Tea flapped her hands, thinking she’d caught a splash from the pot or a wasp had made its way to the dinner table, but it was neither. A ghost sting. Her fingers were still prickling by the time the mess was cleaned up. Face hot beneath the stares from the diners, she resumed drinking her tea, wringing her fingers under the table between mouthfuls.

  Grant took the tiny uproar in his stride, neither scolding nor laughing. Tea appreciated his gentle silence. Was that the tiniest of glances through his sun-lightened lashes? Tea didn’t dare catch the MacGregors’ disapproval a second time during the meal. It wouldn’t do to be accused of anything untoward on her first day.

  Her first day at work. Her first day away from home.

  The stares whittled away as Alison and Carmel took instructions for the next day. There were groans over thistle grubbing, race cleaning, and wood chopping. Tea volunteered for the wood chopping; something she knew how to do and was good at.

  Not all the stares left her alone. Izzy narrowed her eyes when she caught Tea rubbing her fingertips together. Grant too kept making a fist. Tea could hear his large knuckles creak.

  *

  “What happened?”

  Dishes done, Izzy had been instructed to introduce Tea to all the dogs.

  “When?” Leaning over the gate of the dog run, Tea let the dogs sniff her before she entered their territory. It seemed the right thing to do.

  “At the dinner table. When you dropped your spoon.” Izzy pushed into the dog run, inured to the nips and licks.

  Wet noses pressed into Tea’s hands. “A wasp startled me, that’s all.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Was Izzy calling her a liar? Tea took the road best trodden. “Well, it might not have been a wasp, but some insect crawled onto my plate …”

  Izzy straightened from opening the bitches’ box. She looked Tea up and down, but not in the way MacGregor had done earlier. Her age-old regard smoothed against Tea’s skin like moss on stone. At the moment Izzy looked away, the sun dipped behind the sheds, and Tea shivered.