Mr Cartwright drove the harvest to market every Friday, and I rode along to help him. It was all terribly interesting. There were lots of girls and women working there, buying vegetables for their greengrocer shops or market stalls, unloading wagons and trucks, and even running livestock auctions.

Most of them had worked on farms their whole lives. I thought of Ma and Miss Goldstein, trying to change the world, and all the time these other women were just going about their business as if women’s votes and men’s wars didn’t affect them. But everyone was affected really, and there were plenty of girls like me, helping out because the men were away.

One wintry morning, we unloaded the truck at the market and then Mr Cartwright wandered off to look at a block and tackle that was on sale.

I bought a cup of tea at a stall and sat on a crate nearby, my fingers wrapped around the warm mug. Steam circled up into my face as I sipped.

‘You work at Appletree?’

A young woman about my age stood over me. She wore cut-off overalls and a man’s tatty coat, so big that the shoulder seams hung down near her elbows. Her golden hair was tied up in a grubby scarf, and her boots were nearly as muddy as mine.

‘With Mr Cartwright,’ I said. ‘That’s right.’

‘When’d he get the Ford?’

‘A few weeks ago,’ I said.

‘Wish we had one. Way of the future. Old Cartwright knows what he’s doing.’ She plonked herself down beside me on the bench. I noticed her bootlaces were just bits of string off a hay bale.

‘I’m Lizzie,’ she said.

We shook hands as if we were blokes. Her fingers were icy.

‘You been there long?’

I shook my head. ‘Where do you work?’

‘Schwerkholt’s,’ she said. ‘In Mitcham. Apples and pears.’

‘No truck?’

‘Nope. Takes us three hours to get here, an hour to unload, then three hours home again. Hardly worth it nowadays. Not like anyone’s buying much.’

‘He is.’ I pointed out a man in a grey flannel suit and dark coat who strode among the fruit crates. Another man, older and in a cloth cap and frayed jacket, ran behind him taking notes.

‘Maybe he’s buying for the Army?’ I suggested. ‘My brother says the strawberry jam is almost completely apple.’

‘Not him,’ said Lizzie. ‘He’s stockpiling.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Buys up the good stuff,’ she said. ‘Keeps it in storage till the prices go up. Then sells it for whatever he can get.’

‘To the Army? Or shops?’

‘Whoever wants it,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose he cares.’

‘That’s not fair,’ I said.

‘Way of the world, isn’t it?’

I finished my tea. ‘It shouldn’t be.’

‘Radical, are ya?’

‘Little bit.’ I blushed.

Lizzie laughed. ‘Good on ya. Someone has to be.’ She rubbed her hands together and blew on them. ‘Could it get any colder?’

‘Probably will.’

‘We must be mad.’

I grinned. ‘Better than being stuck at home doing the laundry,’ I said.

‘True enough,’ said Lizzie.

After that, Lizzie and I met every market day and shared a cup of tea and one of Mrs Cartwright’s ham and pickle sandwiches while Mr Cartwright fossicked around in the rag and bone stalls. We talked about apple trees and farming and our families and, of course, the war. Lizzie had one brother in the infantry somewhere in Flanders and another one in the Navy, on a ship in the Mediterranean Sea. We both pretended not to be worried about them, because that’s what everyone always did, when really most of the time we were sick inside with fear.

I told Lizzie stories that I’d read, just like Alex used to tell me—all about lady adventurers and explorers— and about my bicycle, and the Women’s Peace Army and anything else I could think of. She told me about movies she’d seen, and the costumes people wore in them and everything that happened. I was never allowed to go to the cinema, because Ma reckoned it wasn’t dignified, but it sounded awfully interesting.

Lizzie’s mum was mad about Douglas Fairbanks, so they went to the Saturday matinee whenever they could afford it. Lizzie said there was always somebody playing the piano, starting with ‘God Save the King’, then other songs at interval so everyone could sing along, but during the movie the music was sometimes scary or funny or dramatic or sad, so the person playing it must be terribly clever. She promised that one day she’d take me into Hoyts in town to see a Charlie Chaplin film.

‘Honestly,’ she promised, ‘you’ll laugh yourself silly. He’s the funniest chap you ever saw.’

‘It’s amazing, when you think about it,’ I said. ‘All these new inventions all the time. Trucks and movies and aeroplanes and what-have-you.’

‘World’s changing,’ Lizzie said. ‘Especially with the war. Everything’s different and only some of it good.’

‘I don’t want to go back to how things were before the war,’ I said. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll want to, either.’

‘No fear,’ said Lizzie. ‘Ten-hour shifts at the boot factory, stuck inside all day, staring at the inside of a machine.’

‘At least you had a job,’ I said. ‘I had to go to school.’

‘Easy enough to say,’ she said. ‘You had a choice. I never did. Had to find a job to help pay the rent. I’d rather be at school than in the bleeding factory, and rather be on a farm than anything.’

‘Funny, isn’t it? My grandparents were farmers. All anybody in my family ever wanted to do was get off the land and live in the city.’

‘And now look at you,’ she teased. ‘Australia’s a different place.’

‘Better or worse?’

‘Dunno,’ she said, with a loud sniff. ‘I really dunno.’

I snuggled deeper down into my coat. ‘When the war is finally over, I might get my own farm.’

‘You reckon you could?’

‘Small orchard, maybe. With a market garden to keep it going between harvests, and to feed yourself. Dairy cow. Maybe some pigs. Mr Cartwright’s got the right idea.’

‘How would you pay for it?’ she said.

‘Haven’t worked out that part yet,’ I admitted.

‘By yourself?’ she asked. ‘I expect you’ll have a husband by then.’

‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘But when you think about it, given all the boys who aren’t coming back from the war, we girls will probably have to make our own way in the world.’

We were both silent for a moment.

‘Lot of work for one person,’ Lizzie said.

‘Sure.’

I nudged her with my elbow. ‘Good thing you’ll be there to help.’

She looked up. ‘Could I?’

‘Who better?’

She beamed. ‘Imagine. No more rotten old factory, ever.’

Mr Cartwright appeared in front of us. In his arms was a fat white goose, honking its head off.

‘It was on sale,’ he said.

July, 1917

Appletree Farm,

Box Hill

Dear Alex,

You might be able to fly a plane. But I can drive a truck. Who’s envious now?

Mr Cartwright taught me last week, and I haven’t hit anything yet, so he’s quite happy with my progress. He didn’t think a girl could do it. I wasn’t so sure myself. But once I found a sack of grain to sit on so I could see over the bonnet, there was no stopping me.

The truck was on sale at the general store. It makes life much easier for all of us, because I can roll it along very slowly while he shovels the manure off the back. He’s very elderly, you see, nearly fifty, and it saves him an awful lot of time. Of course, he could drive, and I could shovel, but that hasn’t occurred to him yet. Let’s hope he doesn’t figure it out for a while.

Apart from that, I do everything a farm labourer does, but possibly a little more slowly. I am in charge of the chickens, although they don’t take orders from me or anyone else, and I work in the fields. At present we are harvesting cabbages. Very Belgian of us, isn’t it? I have my own pair of overalls, and most excellent boots.

Thank you ever so for the present. My own copy of Jane Eyre. I feel very spoiled. You know how I love that book, and Jane, and her strong will. I feel just like her so much of the time. Funny how you can feel like that about someone who doesn’t really exist. I shall treasure it, knowing that you bought it for me in Oxford, and that, most especially, it’s from you.

Do look after yourself.

Mags