I’d always imagined, when I was Flossie’s age, that when I grew up I’d be a famous adventurer like Gertrude Bell, riding through the desert on my camel and digging up ancient cities lost in the sand. Or a writer like Miles Franklin, living in Paris or London and going to art galleries and fancy restaurants.

But no. This is what my days were like. Up early to help Ma with the little ones. I do love them, but they never slept in. Nor did she. I chopped the kindling and got the cooker going, then fed the chooks.

While Ma made breakfast, I helped Flossie get ready for school and dressed myself for work. Then I’d convince Bertie to eat his egg yolk instead of painting the tablecloth with it. Dad spent ages reading the newspapers, sipping at his tea, wondering aloud if the Americans would finally join in the war.

‘The Germans have sunk another American ship,’ he said. ‘Hundreds of people on board.’

‘What happened to them?’ asked Bertie.

‘I’m sure they were all rescued,’ said Ma quickly. ‘Isn’t that right, dear?’

‘No, it says here …’ Dad glanced up into Bertie’s face. ‘Um, yes. They’re all safe and well.’

‘Good,’ said Bertie, and resumed the attack on his boiled egg. ‘They probably didn’t like getting wet though.’

Dad jumped to his feet, buttoning up his waistcoat, kissed each of us on our foreheads, and rushed out of the kitchen.

‘I have to meet the eight-twenty-seven from town.’

Every morning he sounded surprised by that, even though his whole life ran according to the train timetable. And then off he’d go.

All day Dad got to blow his whistle and wave flags and shout ‘All aboard!’ Even when there were no trains due, he could order the signalmen about, help ladies with their parcels, sell tickets and meet all kinds of people. The train platform was always lively. Bertie spent untold hours sitting on our front veranda waving to the train drivers as they pulled into the station and watching all our neighbours come and go. If Dad wasn’t looking, he’d run across the tracks to talk to old Mr Grant who was in charge of the railway crossing and sometimes let him stand on the gates as they swung shut. Or he’d sit up in the signal box with Fred, munching on sandwiches and pretending to be in charge of the entire train system. Which is a scary thought.

But me … in fact, my days were so dull I can’t stand even thinking about it.

Instead of going to fascinating parties full of charming people, it was washing day on Saturday and a roast on Sunday, or lining up at the butcher’s shop for whatever sad fatty chops were left, since all the decent food was sent over to the soldiers, even though it must’ve tasted perfectly horrible by the time it got there.

I’d also thought—silly me—that going to work would be more interesting than going to school. Far from it. Instead of reading wonderful novels like Seven Little Australians and Anne of Green Gables and trying to remember the date of the Battle of Hastings, I had to measure linen and pin up hems and help old women decide between tan or beige gloves.

Life wasn’t how I thought it would be—like the lives I’d read about in books.

How I wished that I could be in England like Alex, learning fascinating things and flying through the air and seeing the sights.

Women had won the right to vote. At least some women had. But we still weren’t allowed to have adventures.

March, 1917

Station Street,

Coburg

Dear Dunderhead,

I do wish I was in Oxford with you. Is it just as you imagined?

I’ve always dreamed of going to university. Have you? I suppose so. You could’ve studied engineering, like General Monash, and I could be a famous philosopher. Everything might have been different if there wasn’t a war, and we weren’t as poor as church mice. But I don’t suppose it was ever likely, not for us.

I enclose a scarf I knitted for you, and one mitten from Flossie. She insisted.

You may never get the other half of the pair. She seems to have lost interest in knitting now, having accomplished such a triumph so early in her career. It’s a little bit lumpy, but please don’t let on. Also, she couldn’t quite manage the thumb. So you might be better off using it as a tea cosy. But it’s a lovely blue, and it made her happy.

Dad sends a tub of his special boot polish and Ma sends her love.

Bertie has nothing to say on the subject at all, but he does miss you.

As do I.

Your sister,

Mags