We That Are Left

by Lisa Bigelow

  ‘Yes,’ Grace had nearly shouted. ‘I love Dorothea Lange’s pictures.’

  Graham smiled. ‘They’ve done wonderful work, Miss Lange and Walker Evans, capturing the stories of people struggling to survive on the land. It’s not quite that bad here, but their images are an inspiration. We all strive to that level, even if it’s just for The Tribune.’

  Grace knew his images would enhance her stories. ‘It’s not hard to shine when you have him on an assignment,’ Phil had said once. ‘Even if your words aren’t quite up to scratch, Graham’s photos will put you in the front of the book.’ That meant the prime news and feature pages, nearly always with a by-line.

  She’d dropped Graham in Horsham before lunch so he could develop his films and get them on the evening train. He’d get a lift out to the farm the next morning when the light was still low—directional, he called it, best time for taking pictures. And he’d promised to bring proof sheets so she could see how their stories were building. If only she could show Phil. He’d love her feature, he’d tell her what a beautiful writer she was becoming, that he’d believed in her all along. She pictured long talks about their news stories, sharing their angst over subeditors mucking up their headlines and threats of writs when they upset the wrong people. She longed to cuddle up and hear him say she’d been right to follow her dreams, that she was paving the way for all the other young Torchy Blane fans dreaming in dark theatres about being bold, sassy reporters mixing it with the men.

  The homestead roof loomed over a sparse, dusty hedge. Following the curve of the driveway, she rolled to a stop out the front of the single-storey Victorian house, skirted by a large shadowed verandah scattered with assorted wicker chairs and tables. A bit of wrought-iron lacework was the only attempt at decoration.

  A woman sweeping the steps smiled and waved as Grace cut the engine. Immediately, two blue heelers leaped against the door, barking. The woman ordered them to sit.

  ‘They try to round up visitors like sheep,’ the woman said as Grace got out of the car and walked towards her. Smiling broadly, she leaned forward and offered her hand. ‘I’m Alice Gower.’ Her blue eyes were friendly and her smile was warm but worn. She couldn’t have been more than thirty years old, but already her brown curls were streaked with grey and her brow was etched with lines.

  Grace heard children squabbling somewhere near the house but out of sight.

  ‘Did you find us easily, Miss Fowler?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Mrs Gower. Please call me Grace.’

  ‘And I’m Alice. You’ll meet the boys in a minute. I’m surprised they didn’t follow the dogs at the sound of your car.’

  Sure enough, two small boys appeared around the side of the house, one hand each on the handle of a metal bucket. ‘We’ve got the eggs, Mama,’ the taller boy said. ‘Nine today.’

  ‘I found three,’ the smaller boy said, holding up four fingers.

  ‘Josh is six and Jeremy is four,’ Alice said. ‘Jemima, the baby, is having a sleep. Say hello to Miss Fowler from the newspaper, boys. She’s staying with us tonight and writing a story for the paper about how Dulcie and Joy help us on the farm.’

  ‘Dulcie and Joy are a wonderful help to Mummy and Joy kicks the footy with us sometimes,’ Josh said.

  ‘Well, thank you, Josh. I’ll be sure to write that in my story.’

  Jeremy’s spare thumb went straight to his mouth as he sidled behind his brother.

  ‘Thumb out of mouth, right now. Out the back and wash your hands,’ said Alice.

  The boys dropped the bucket, ran up the stairs and disappeared into the house, a wire door slamming behind them.

  ‘Do you think the eggs survived?’ Grace asked.

  ‘They usually do. Hardy hens out here.’

  Within minutes Grace was sitting at the large kitchen table shelling peas while Alice rubbed butter through flour and sugar for a rhubarb and blackberry crumble.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me getting on with things. The children get a bit ratty if I don’t get them bathed and fed. The girls can give you the tour when they get back.’

  ‘I’m happy to just dive on in to family life,’ Grace said, realising that she meant it. She felt calm, comfortable in the old house with its faded furniture and curtains. There was nothing new or shiny in the room, but it wasn’t shabby either; it was just exactly what the heart of the home should be: warm and functional. Well-used saucepans hung from hooks above the stove, canisters lined the mantelpiece, utensils stood in a couple of ceramic jars right where they were needed. The kitchen she’d grown up in was much smaller and tidier, with everything tucked behind a cupboard door or kept inside a drawer, but a wave of homesickness rolled through her chest as she realised how much she’d missed sitting in a kitchen, talking to her mother—even her father when he was at home—while a meal was being prepared. So much had happened in the two years since she’d left home, but this was the first time she’d done something as ordinary as helping to cook a meal.

  ‘Do you all eat together or do the children eat first?’

  ‘No time for separate meals on a farm. It’s all in together then get the children straight to bed. After dinner is our only chance to relax and it usually involves mending and bookkeeping, I’m afraid. Not much in the way of excitement.’

  ‘It must be nice to have the company of your Land Army girls, though—some other adults around the place.’

  ‘I can’t tell you what a godsend they’ve been. I couldn’t have made it through another harvest without them.’

  ‘How many acres do you have?’

  ‘We’ve got five hundred under wheat, although the paddocks are fallow at the moment. We’ll start sowing in a couple of months. Meanwhile, we have to shear two hundred sheep and get the mutton to market.’

  ‘How did you manage before the girls came to help?’

  ‘Some of the neighbours gave me a hand after my brothers signed up, right at the beginning in ’39. The older men had their own farms but everyone pitched in after my father died. Then I lost my brothers and finally Jim, my husband, on the Sydney.’

  Grace watched Alice carefully, ready to concentrate on her peas if she needed a moment.

  ‘My editor, Mr Barton, is a friend of Mrs Parker. I saw you at the memorial at Scots’ Church. I’m so sorry for your loss.’

  Alice wiped her eyes and blew her nose then turned to the sink to wash some potatoes.

  ‘Thank you, Grace. I’d say it was one of the hardest days of my life, but it’s all a bit of a haze; I barely remember it.’

  Grace heard something pinging against metal outside the back door. ‘Bullseye!’

  ‘Josh is teaching Jeremy to throw stones against the rainwater tank,’ Alice explained. ‘Jim painted a target last time he was home.’

  ‘Flick your wrist, like this!’

  ‘Some people think the men are POWs; that they’re coming home,’ Alice said. ‘But hope doesn’t run a farm. The navy investigated whether some of the Sydney crew might have survived, might have been taken prisoner, but there was no evidence. They issued death certificates last winter. In a way, it was a relief; I started getting the widow’s pension, but it wasn’t enough to keep this place going. So when I heard that Land Army girls were being organised for the area, I jumped at it. Lots of blokes around here thought they’d be useless, but I know how much work women do on farms; I’ve been doing it all my life. I knew the right girls would be a great help. While they’re out in the fields, I can look after the house and the vegetable garden and the kids. I get out there with the girls too when I can. They’re wonderful. I hope they’ll stay for a good while. They’re like family now. I’d be pretty lonely without them.’

  ‘When will they be back?’

  ‘Any minute. I won’t let them work past five. That’s the rules. There’s probably plenty who flout them, but I’ve got no intention of taking advantage. They’re not allowed to do any work around the house and they always have Sunday off—except when we’re harves
ting, but that’s only for a couple of weeks.’

  As if on cue, a truck rumbled into the backyard. Through the flywire door, Grace saw a tall, blonde woman in dusty overalls and boots leap out of the driver’s seat and walk to a shed. A smaller woman with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail grabbed hats and thermoses out of the back tray and ran up the stairs into the kitchen.

  Alice introduced Dulcie, who couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen years old.

  ‘Hello, Miss Fowler. Alice said you were coming today. Joy will be here in a tick. One of the fences is down in the west paddock. She’s checking we’ve got enough wire to fix it in the morning.’

  ‘Reckon we’ll be right tomorrow, Dulcie,’ Joy called as she scraped her boots outside the door. ‘Plenty of wire an’ a coupla posts. Oh, hey, you must be the reporter lady. Alice says yer stayin’ tonight and comin’ out with us tomorrow. Hope ya brought a hat and some strong clobber.’

  Grace laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I don’t always dress like this,’ she said, gesturing to her pencil skirt and black patent-leather pumps. ‘I grew up in the country.’

  ‘Grace, you can borrow anything you need,’ Alice assured her. ‘Dulcie, can you keep an eye on Jemima? I’ve got to get the boys into the bath.’

  Alice stepped out onto the back verandah.

  ‘I’d love to get in there when they finish, but I reckon they’ll’ve probably peed in the water,’ Joy said.

  ‘It could be worse,’ Dulcie teased as she washed out the thermos flasks and left them draining on the windowsill.

  ‘Eeew! You’d never know she went to a posh girls’ school, would ya? Was on her way to an English finishin’ school when she ran away and joined this circus.’

  ‘I didn’t run away,’ Dulcie retorted. ‘I talked my parents into letting me help the war effort at home. Said it was safer than sailing through a war just to go to school.’

  ‘Did they mind you working on a farm?’ Grace asked. ‘Surely they would have wanted you at home, or working in an office.’

  ‘I grew up on a farm, rather like this one but bigger, with lots of workers. I never knew how to do half the things I do here, but I could ride and drive and when it came to working I wanted to be outside. They didn’t fuss about needing me at home. They sent me away to school for ten years, so I think they were pretty used to not having me around.’

  ‘Where’s your parents’ place?’

  ‘Gippsland. A big dairy farm near the south coast; beautiful and green, but it rains all the time.’

  ‘What about you, Joy? Where are you from?’

  ‘I’m a city girl through and through. Third-generation Fitzroy. Used to work in the munitions factory in Maribyrnong but got jack of workin’ inside. Felt cooped up like I was in gaol or somethin’, so I joined the Land girls. Never looked back.’

  ‘Have you worked on other farms?’

  ‘Just one, pickin’ spuds near where Dulcie’s from. Nearly did me back in, bending over to pick the taties out of the ground then lugging great heavy sacks on and off the trucks. They reckoned ’cause I was the same size as a bloke, I could do the same work. But ya gotta build up to it. Can’t just turn up one day and get stuck in. Anyways, got transferred here, now I’m happy as a pig in poop! That Alice is an angel, poor love.’

  ‘Bathroom’s free,’ Alice called as the boys streaked through the kitchen, around the table then down the hallway to their bedroom.

  Joy and Dulcie raced to the door and disappeared. Grace heard them jostling to reach the bathroom first. She envied their friendship; it was ages since she’d seen any of her friends back home. And seeing Alice with the children, she realised how much she wanted the sense of belonging that came from being part of a family. Her own family wasn’t much comfort but she could create a new family, one full of love and laughter. Of course she couldn’t do that if she wanted a career. When Phil came home, they’d be married and she’d start a family, there wouldn’t be a choice to make. She couldn’t have both, that wasn’t the way things worked, so she had to enjoy this freedom, this taste of being a career woman, for as long as possible.

  Alone in the kitchen, she checked her notes. She’d written everything the girls had said in shorthand, but it was going to take more than a few quotes to convey the genuine affection within the house. She knew she needed to try to paint a word picture of the setting for her readers, but it wasn’t coming naturally yet. She really had to think about the story, to select her words so carefully that it looked effortless. Phil said it got easier with practice. Easy for him to say! What represented them: a melting pot? Blah! A tiny Land Army battalion with a small team of women battling the Goliath of Mother Nature? Oh dear!

  She sat back and closed her eyes for a minute then opened her eyes and listed everything she saw. Large wooden table in the middle of the room—well, most kitchens had that, at least in the country. What made this one special? The dents and scrapes made by generations of the one family. Still ordinary. The clutter of salt and pepper shakers, mustard pots and sugar bowls in the middle. Again, nothing unusual there. No, she realised: it was the mismatched chairs. Large wooden chairs with arms sat alongside cream-painted metal, and there was a bench along the wall that could be brought to the table for big gatherings. None of it matched, but everything seemed related by age and paint colour, belonging despite their differences. That was how she’d frame her story. Gatherings like this one were happening on farms across the country; people of assorted skills and background coming together to feed the nation and help the war effort. She wasn’t naive enough to think that every Land Army farm was this happy and productive, but it was a good place to start the story.

  She made a few more notes about the huge old cast-iron stove, the collection of blue Cornishware canisters along the mantel, the worn lounge chair beside the stove with its comfortable cushions and a rug. She imagined Alice’s husband would have sat there reading the paper, just like her father had done and probably his before that. She wondered if anyone sat there now; maybe Alice reading stories to the children.

  Throughout the night Grace kept careful watch but the chair remained vacant; not even the boys ventured near it.

  Up with the chooks the next morning, Grace felt refreshed in the way that only came from a good night’s sleep breathing clean country air; no car exhaust, no coal-fired heaters. While Alice dressed the children, Grace sat at the kitchen table adding to the notes she’d written the night before—a night that had ended at nine-thirty after several rowdy games of canasta. Most nights the three women were alone on the farm, so they were pleased to have a fourth for cards, although Joy let slip that Alice’s neighbour John was a frequent visitor.

  ‘He’s away at cattle sales this week,’ Alice said softly, quickly returning her attention to her cards.

  ‘He was training in the air force,’ Dulcie explained, ‘but he had ear problems, so when his father died, he came home to run the family property next door.’

  ‘And he’s quite the helper here too,’ Joy added. ‘Knows his way around, doesn’t he, Alice?’

  ‘He was Jim’s best friend at school, and our families have always been next-door neighbours. Makes things much easier.’

  Grace had almost finished her notes when Dulcie brought Jemima, into the kitchen. ‘Would you mind holding her while I get the tea ready?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  Grace lifted the baby onto her lap and marvelled at the way she already held her back and tiny neck so straight. Jemima turned her head and smiled. Grace hugged the child close, burying her face in the warm shiny hair that smelled of Velvet soap. She was shocked by her rush of affection, how much she relished the feeling of holding her little body so close. She was suddenly aware of an intense feeling of emptiness that ached to be filled. She’d heard women joke about being clucky, but it was surprising to actually feel it for the first time, the utter longing; it was similar to the longing she felt for Phil, yet different. It felt like the knowledge of it was burrowing i
nto her bones, reaching into the most solid part of her, where it would live until she had children of her own.

  ‘Ready, Grace?’

  She stood and handed Jemima back to Alice, then went outside and sat in the ute’s passenger seat as Dulcie pumped the accelerator, double-clutched then roared away from the house. Joy was in the back tray with Graham, who’d arrived just in time for breakfast.

  When they reached a gate, Grace reached for the door handle but Joy was over the side of the truck in a flash, running to undo the latch then waving them through before reversing the process as the dogs barked their approval. The routine was repeated as they traversed five paddocks, each larger than the one before. After about twenty minutes of bouncing over ruts and furrows they reached the broken fence. The morning was clear and already warm, the sky as blue as Grace had ever seen. It would be another hot, dry day and, later, heat shimmer would smear the horizon so you couldn’t quite tell where the sky met the fields. As the girls got to work pulling out rotten posts and cutting rusted wire, Graham went to work with his camera. First he got down close to ground level so he could focus on their hands, emphasising their strength. Later he stood on top of the truck cabin and used a wide-angle lens to show the vastness of the property and the huge job that rested on the shoulders of the two young women. Joy and Dulcie smiled the whole way through without Graham ever having to ask them to pose.

  ‘Wanna have a go?’ Joy called to Grace as she rammed a new post into the hole. ‘Good for gettin’ rid of your worries.’

  ‘Thanks, Joy, but I’m enjoying watching you. It would take me three times as long.’ As Dulcie rolled out lengths of wire for the new section Grace said, ‘You both work like machines. Are there ever any arguments?’