Girls began to yell and old men shouted and when the mannequin was lowered, the rope became slack and collapsed to the ground. Betty pushed through the crowd to see it. A man swung a leg back and kicked the Hitler in the groin, once, twice, three times, and there was wild cheering and a young office boy bent over and smashed his fist into the mannequin’s head.
Betty kept walking, being jostled good-naturedly. She wondered if she would see anyone she knew, so they could share the joy of victory and peace, but she was surrounded by strangers. When a young American soldier appeared in front of her, she reached up, took his face in her hands and gave him a smacking kiss right on the lips.
‘Why, thanks, miss,’ he said, beaming, and disappeared into the throng.
The sound of the crowd was so loud that Betty didn’t hear it at first, but when faces turned skywards she looked up. A Mosquito flew overhead, directly over the GPO, and people gasped and cheered, and it turned steeply and flew back around. Car horns sounded, people sang, and army lorries crowded with people were almost at a standstill as they negotiated the throng.
It took her longer than she expected but she finally made it to the Cenotaph. In the cacophony of noise all around her, it was somehow quiet there. Flowers had already been laid on the plinth, and others stood, their hats pressed to their chests, in silent prayer. So many had paid the highest price and they would never be forgotten. She elbowed her way through and swept her hands over the words engraved in gold on the stone block, Lest We Forget, and she thought of her friend Gwen’s fiancé, Reggie. Michael’s brother, Patrick. Lily’s husband, David. All the boys she’d gone to school with and all the husbands and fiancés and sweethearts of every Land Army girl she’d worked with during the past two years.
And her dearest Michael, who was alive, who had survived. He would be coming home to her. She couldn’t wait to kiss him, to hold him, to tell him how proud she was of him, and to tell him all the things that she hadn’t been able to put in her letters. How scared she’d been when she’d enlisted in the Land Army. How had she lasted two-and-a-half years? The girl who’d cried for two weeks straight at her first posting? That’s the other thing she would make sure she told Michael. About how brave she’d become. How pleased and proud she was that she’d served her country in the best way she could. About her dreams for a future life for them bigger than being a shopgirl or a grocery boy.
About a life they might have together if they were fearless enough to search for it.
She crossed herself, said a prayer for him, and headed home to see Mrs Doherty.
‘I have the paper. Do you want to see it?’ Flora pulled up her chair beside Frank’s bed at the Heidelberg Repatriation Hospital in Melbourne. He looked better today. Less yellow. She wasn’t sure why she was speaking quietly to him, as there was little privacy in the ward of seven patients and, anyway, every single one of them was cheering and whooping with laughter, trying to be heard above the wireless blaring and the car horns beeping outside from the street. There were running footsteps in the hallway beyond the ward doors, and whistles, and a group of people singing ‘There’ll Always Be an England’.
‘C’mon, Flora. Read it to us,’ called Benny from the next bed.
‘Can anyone have a private conversation around here?’ Flora replied with a grin.
‘Nothing’s private around here, hey lads?’ John from Geelong laughed.
‘And you should know that by now, seeing as you’ve been here every day since Frank arrived. I reckon they should give you one of them nurses’ uniforms, make you an honorary one.’
The boys cheered and Flora’s cheeks flushed. She looked around at the men she’d grown to know during the past six months. Benny. Tom. John from Traralgon. John from Geelong. Harry and Bryan. They’d kept each other’s spirits up during their long recoveries from their war injuries and their illnesses. They’d come from prisoner-of-war repatriation camps in England, from Townsville as their war injuries had improved, and from the battlefields of New Guinea. They were the lucky ones and they knew it. After the deprivations they’d known, the luxury of regular food, clean sheets and attentive care was not lost on them. And the proximity of the Old England, Henry Barkly and Ryan Hotels made their recovery all the sweeter. They didn’t even bother to change out of their pyjamas or dressing gowns before heading down for an ale.
‘It’s every bloke’s god-given right to have a beer,’ Bryan had announced one afternoon and there was unsurprisingly no disagreement.
‘Where’s Harry?’ Flora asked, noting his empty bed.
‘He’s got an appointment with Dr Ryan,’ John from Traralgon laughed.
‘You mean he’s at the Ryan Hotel?’
‘Who can blame him on today of all days?’ Bryan laughed. ‘If this isn’t the day to have a bloody beer or two, what is?’ Flora believed herself to be accustomed to the way men spoke with each other, having grown up in a household full of them, but these boys were something else. She’d grown to love each and every one of them these past months. She’d seen them through tears and heartbreaks and agonising pain. Held their hands when they’d discovered they’d been abandoned by wives or sweethearts who either couldn’t face their injuries or had found the waiting too long and hard. All they wanted to do was go back to their ordinary lives. They wanted normality, quiet, a distance from the horrors.
Flora and Frank shared a smile at the antics. He was coming back to her, her little brother. His symptoms had eased and his humour was returning. She couldn’t wait to see him cheeky again, teasing, out on the town in a black suit and his hair slicked back with pomade like Frank Sinatra, flirting with anyone who walked past.
Flora stood, holding a newspaper in her outstretched hands.
‘Sit down, Flora,’ Frank urged from his position in bed, propping himself up against overstuffed pillows. ‘Don’t exert yourself. Take a load off, love.’
‘I’m all right. I’m marvellous, in fact.’
‘Listen to your brother,’ Benny called. ‘A woman in your condition needs all the rest you can get. I don’t know how you’ve done it, being here every day for Frank. He doesn’t deserve you, Flora.’
‘No, he doesn’t,’ said John from Traralgon, who hobbled towards Frank’s bed, a wooden crutch propped under each arm. Flora was no longer shocked when she saw his right pyjama leg pinned up at the knee.
‘Surely that baby is coming any day now. Look at the size of you.’
Flora turned to glare good-naturedly at Bryan. ‘Not for two months, at least, so stop your blathering and listen, will you?’
Her baby. Her miracle. She looked down at her rounded belly, her smocked dress exaggerating the bulge beneath it. She cleared her throat and the men finally quietened.
‘This is the Victory edition of The Herald,’ Flora started and the boys broke into a rousing chorus of ‘Rule Brittania’.
‘Peace. World hails Jap surrender. Hirohito to order cease fire. Oh, look. People were dancing this morning in Collins Street.’ She flipped the front page around so the boys could see. Except for Bryan, of course.
Flora continued. ‘A party of specially selected Australian servicemen left Australia at dawn today for Manila to get to work on tracing and rehabilitating Australian prisoners of war held by the Japanese since the fall of Singapore three and a half years ago.’
John from Traralgon piped up. ‘That’s the 8th Division. My cousin Hedley.’
‘My brother, Terry,’ said Benny. ‘They’ll be right. They’ll all be home soon, you’ll see.’
‘Australia has been at war for five years, eleven months and eleven days,’ Flora read.
‘And it’s bloody well over,’ Frank said from beside her, and when he reached for her hand, she folded the paper and sat with him.
‘Dad would be so proud of you today,’ Flora said, her voice choking. ‘For what you did for the country, for our family.’
‘And you,’ Frank smiled. ‘Two years in the Land Army is nothing to sneeze at, Flor. You did y
our bit.’
Her thoughts turned to Lily, at home in Adelaide with her family. How awful today must be for her. And Betty—what a day of rejoicing up there in Sydney. How wonderful for her to know that Michael would be coming home soon and that they could begin their young lives together.
And she would be going home, too. Not to Camberwell, but to Two Rivers.
She would be going home to the place of her heart, to her baby’s father, to its two siblings, to its grandmother. To her new family. Charles had been patient and understanding, cautious and concerned during her confinement. She understood what he’d gone through and she knew he struggled with being so far away from her should anything go wrong, but he bore it. He knew and understood her too well to think she would do anything except be at Frank’s bedside each day as he recovered. They both had responsibilities and obligations, had had their hearts torn in two by being apart. But they’d survived it.
‘Frank! Flora!’ It was Jack at the door to the ward, buoyant, beaming. He ran to them, his shoes clicking loud on the linoleum, and threw his arms around Flora. Little shreds of paper rained down on her from the brim of his hat. He whipped it off and shook Frank’s hand heartily. ‘I came as soon as I could. The trams are all caught up in the crowds. The streets are chock-a-block. You wouldn’t believe it. I almost got run over by a horse and cart on Collins Street. People are coming from everywhere.’ He sat on his brother’s bed, patted Frank’s thigh. ‘How you doing, old boy? You look better.’ Jack turned to Flora. ‘Doesn’t he look better?’
‘He does,’ Flora replied. ‘He’ll be ready to leave next week, the doctor says.’
‘That’s bloody marvellous, Frank.’
‘You’re telling me,’ Frank replied with a weak grin. ‘I can’t wait to get out of here. To get my life going again. To see what peace will bring me. Will bring us all.’
Flora exchanged glances with her brothers. They listened to the celebrations in the room, the blaring radio, the shouted conversations.
‘Here’s to dear old Dad,’ Jack said finally. ‘If only I had a beer to give him a toast.’
Frank moved in his bed, sat up a little. ‘To absent friends. May they rest in peace.’
Chapter Forty-Three
Flora
The train pulled into Mildura station, its smoke billowing around the platform like winter fog. Flora buttoned her coat against the late-August cold, although it didn’t do up all the way now. It felt so strange to be wearing civilian clothes after all the times she’d made this same journey in her khaki Land Army uniform. But the war was over and she, like the war, was officially retired. Thirty-three years old and retired. The thought amused her. Her gloved hands gripped the handles of her handbag and she turned to Frank.
‘You ready?’
He winked. ‘I’ve fought the Japs, Flor. I reckon meeting your future mother-in-law will be a breeze. And I can’t wait to see your bloke again. Maybe this time I’ll buy him a beer.’
Her bloke. Her Charles. He’d come down to Melbourne as often as he’d been able to during the past couple of months to see Flora and he’d even accompanied her to the repatriation hospital in Heidelberg so he could get to know Frank. They’d become mates, just as she knew they would.
Flora held out a hand to Frank. His grip was tighter and stronger than it had been since he’d come home. The doctors had warned that he would have recurring bouts of malaria, with chills, fever and weakness, for some time before he was fully recovered. She and Charles had asked Frank if he would like to recuperate at Two Rivers and his answer had been a swift yes.
When she stepped off the carriage onto the platform, she heard them immediately.
‘Flora! Flora!’ A moment later, Violet and Daisy had thrown their arms around her.
‘Hello, you two.’
‘I didn’t recognise you in your real clothes,’ Violet said, her voice muffled into the woollen fold of Flora’s coat. ‘But Daddy saw you first.’
‘How are you, Daisy?’
Daisy was crying and Flora wrapped an arm around her. ‘Don’t cry, sweetheart. This is a happy day.’
‘You’ve brought the baby home,’ Daisy shouted.
Flora’s eyes welled. ‘Yes, I have.’ She patted her belly. ‘When we get home I’ll let you put your hands here and you might feel it kick.’
The girls stared at each other, wide-eyed.
‘Violet,’ Flora said, and she felt a surge of love for Charles’s oldest daughter. ‘It’s so wonderful to see you again.’
‘Welcome back, Flora,’ Violet beamed.
‘Violet, Daisy. This is my brother, Mr Atkins.’
‘Hello there,’ Frank said cheerily. ‘I’ve heard all about you two.’ He tipped his hat to them. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Nettlefold.’ He looked from Violet to Daisy. ‘Miss Nettlefold.’
Violet held out a hand and Flora marvelled at how grown-up she already seemed. Would she need a mother? For that’s what she would be to them now, wouldn’t she? She watched Violet and Frank shake hands earnestly, and then Daisy copied her sister. Yes, no matter how old they were, they would always need a mother. Flora knew in her heart that every woman did. She herself had felt the loss of hers more keenly during her pregnancy than she ever had before. As a young woman and an expectant mother, she’d had no one to confide in, no motherly influence, no comforting words from someone who knew her better than anyone. That’s what she could be to these two girls. And that’s what she hoped Charles’s mother might be to her.
‘Flora.’ Charles was at her side, his hand on her elbow, and she turned.
She exhaled. ‘Charles.’
He took off his hat, dipped his head and pressed his lips to her cheek. She breathed him in.
Their journey to each other was over. She’d reached her destination at last. Her future lay ahead of her here in northern Victoria, in the azure sky, in the red dirt of Two Rivers, and in the hearts of those she loved the most. She would be a wife to Charles. A mother to Violet and Daisy. A daughter-in-law to Mrs Nettlefold. A sister to Frank and Jack and a sister-in-law to Doreen. An aunt to their children. And, most importantly, a mother to her unborn child. A hand drifted to the swell under her coat and she covered it with her own.
‘Everything all right?’ Charles whispered.
She nodded. ‘Yes.’
Two-and-a-half-years earlier, her world had been small and sheltered and lonely. Now her horizons were as big as the sky.
‘Good to see you, Frank.’ Charles held out a hand and they shook firmly. ‘You’re looking well.’
‘Tired but well.’
‘That’s terrific news. You’re going to like it at Two Rivers. There might even be some work for you when you’re well enough.’
‘Good to know,’ Frank said. He sent a scrutinising look Charles’s way. ‘You going to make an honest woman of my sister, then?’ Frank winked at Flora and glanced at her stomach. ‘You haven’t got long.’
Charles grinned. ‘That’s the idea. You of a mind to give her away?’
Flora was flooded with joy at the thought.
‘Too bloody right I’ll give her away. I’ve been telling her for years that she needs to strike out and find a life for herself. Lucky for you she listened to me, hey?’ Frank chuckled, which made Flora laugh. She’d missed his humour, his cheek, but she didn’t have to miss it any more. The ties that bind are strong, she knew. There was lots to catch up on and they had all the time in the world now.
Her war was over. Troops were coming home in their thousands. Families were being reunited. Fathers were being introduced to children they’d never met or cautiously reintroduced to children who’d forgotten them. Mothers hugged sons and fathers hugged daughters. Young women were getting on boats to sail across the seas to husbands they’d known only briefly. Men came home to abandonment and grief of their own. Women wept that those they loved would never return.
The war had touched everyone, changed everything.
Charles took Fl
ora’s hand in his and she looked up to meet his gaze. ‘My mother has an afternoon tea waiting for us at Two Rivers. What say we make a move?’
The girls showed Frank to the Dodge parked in the paddock across the tracks, and Flora followed Charles to the last carriage to fetch the luggage. She had a tea chest coming soon with the rest of her clothes, her books and the items she’d collected when she was younger for her hope chest: dishes, linen, a cutlery setting, cookbooks.
Hope.
It had been sorely tested before Frank had come home.
But it had returned, filling her up, swelling her heart. Her family and Charles’s would grow together from this day on.
He turned to her suddenly, took off his hat again and moved in close. His eyes met hers. ‘Welcome home, Flora.’
She got up on tiptoes and pressed her lips to his.
At last, recognition
Around 6,000 women served in the Australian Women’s Land Army between 1942 and the end of the war. These women left the cities and moved into the country, to farms and orchards, to do the work once done by men. Many stayed on for the duration of the war. It was disbanded on 31 December, 1945, and women returned to their old lives.
After the war, their work and sacrifices were largely ignored and forgotten but they continued to campaign long and hard to have their work recognised. They marched on Anzac Day for the first time in 1991, and in 1994 became eligible for the Civilian Service Medal 1939–1945.
On 20 August, 2012, at a reception at Parliament House, Canberra, the then Prime Minister Julia Gillard presented each surviving member with a certificate and a commemorative brooch to wear. Her comments on the day outlined just how much they had contributed to the war effort.
Women of the Australian Women’s Land Army, I’ve been told to refer to you as the Land Army Girls. So from the Head Girl, I’m very pleased to be with you today for this very, very special occasion.
The Land Girls Page 36