We were all having afternoon tea with Miss Goldstein, as a special treat, at the Hopetoun Tea Rooms. There were women in aprons who brought your tea and served the cakes and everything. Bertie was on his third scone, but none of the adults had noticed because they were too busy talking about the Prime Minister’s thunderbolt. Another referendum on conscription, in just a few weeks’ time. The country was in an uproar. Again.

Later that afternoon, the Prime Minister was to hold a debate on the topic at the Town Hall. There were rumours that gangs of men would turn up to disrupt it.

‘Must we fight violence with violence?’ Miss Goldstein asked.

Miss John grimaced.

‘I feel as if that path leads us nowhere,’ she said.

‘If we do,’ said Ma, ‘how can we also argue that war is wrong? We are no better than the warmongers.’

Bertie slathered jam and cream onto another scone. I wiped a smear of cream off the end of his nose.

‘Some people,’ said Miss Goldstein, dropping her voice to a whisper, ‘suggest that we must take up arms ourselves. Fight.’ I was pretty sure she meant Adela.

‘People are angry,’ said Dad, shaking his head sadly. ‘But that’s not the answer.’

‘Smashing shop windows, throwing rocks,’ said Ma. ‘Nastiness. Where will it end?’

‘Indeed. Is hatred ever justified?’ asked Miss Higgins. ‘Under any conditions?’

‘We’re supposed to hate the enemy,’ said Dad, ‘but I just don’t understand the whole idea of it.’

‘You’re a good man,’ Ma said, and squeezed his elbow.

‘I suppose we’d better get to this meeting,’ said Miss Higgins. ‘Though I do worry it’s going to be a debacle.’

‘Do we have to?’ Bertie moaned. ‘I don’t feel very well.’

‘How many scones did you have, exactly?’ asked Ma.

‘Four. Or maybe five.’

‘You’ll recover,’ she said. Everyone stood up, our chairs scraping on the wooden floor.

‘Maggie, wait.’ Miss John took my elbow. ‘We want a word with you.’ She and Miss Higgins stood in the doorway so I couldn’t escape.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing at all, far from it.’

‘Phew,’ I said. ‘Because if Elsie’s kicked up again, I’m out of jokes.’

‘We greatly appreciate your work on the farm,’ Miss Higgins began.

‘But?’

She cocked her head to one side, like a sparrow watching me. ‘But we think you can do better.’

My stomach fluttered. ‘Are you giving me the sack?’

Miss John smiled. ‘No, dear Maggie. But we do want you to go back to finish school next year.’

‘What? Why?’

She glanced behind me. Ma and Dad stood there, smiling even wider.

‘Because after that, with your parents’ permission, and of course your agreement, we would like you to go on to further study.’

‘More school?’ I asked. ‘You’re kidding!’

‘The Horticultural College at Burnley, where I studied,’ said Miss Higgins. ‘You and Lizzie.’

‘Both of us?’ I checked each of their faces. It wasn’t a trick. ‘Really?’

‘We think you would make very good garden landscapers,’ she said. ‘Or you might farm, if you wished. But landscaping is a growing area, if you’ll pardon the pun, and ideal for young women like you. Either way, a couple of years at Burnley would stand you in very good stead.’

I moved closer to Dad and whispered in his ear. ‘Can we afford that?’

‘Don’t have to,’ he whispered back, then spoke out loud. ‘The ladies have very generously offered both of you a kind of scholarship, so long as you help them at the Women’s Farm on your holidays. Apparently, you are needed there.’

‘You are indeed.’ Miss Higgins grinned. ‘Guess what? We’re going to start growing spuds.’

The public meeting was in the Town Hall, and the Lord Mayor welcomed everyone but especially the Prime Minister, members of Cabinet and distinguished guests.

‘Is that us?’ asked Flossie.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Dad.

‘I’m very distinguished,’ she said.

‘You are,’ said Ma. ‘Now hush. Here comes the Prime Minister.’

Mr Hughes was tiny, and wrinkled like a sultana. But he had a very big voice. And a very big moustache.

He stood up at the podium as soon as the Lord Mayor introduced him and began speaking as if he was at a funeral.

‘I speak to you tonight in the greatest crisis in the history of the Australian Commonwealth—the gravest in the history of the world,’ Mr Hughes said.

He paused and glared around the room. ‘It needs no words of mine—or it should need none—to bring home to every man and woman what this means to the world, to democracy, and to us.’

He slammed his fist down on the lectern. Flossie jumped in fright.

‘This is our struggle—our war,’ he shouted. ‘And we must win it, or lose everything that we value dearer than life. Victory must be ours.’

‘Hoorah!’ A whole lot of people in the room leaped to their feet, applauding. But he shouted over the top of the noise.

‘Australians! This is no time for party strife,’ he said. ‘The nation is in peril and it calls for her citizens to defend her. Our duty is clear. Let us rise up like men!’

‘Yes!’ The man sitting behind me roared his approval.

Dad sat quietly, with Bertie on one knee.

‘He’s very good, really,’ he said. ‘I do admire his passion. It’s just a pity he’s so wrong.’

The Lord Mayor clapped the Prime Minister very heartily indeed. Then he introduced the new Archbishop of Melbourne, Dr Mannix. He seemed twice as tall as Mr Hughes and much more distinguished, in his long robe and little black hat. I knew a few ladies who’d have killed for that amount of silk, or for the silver buckles on his shoes. The half of the crowd that hadn’t applauded Mr Hughes stood and clapped Dr Mannix. So did Ma and Dad. And Bertie. Then when the noise died down, Dr Mannix sighed deeply.

‘Oh dear, dear, dear,’ he said, gazing at the Prime Minister sadly. ‘The greatest crisis in history, is it?’

He turned to face the audience.

‘We always get the news that fits the occasion,’ he said. ‘At other times, all our battles are victorious and our losses very light.’ Quite a few people laughed at this, and he smiled. The Prime Minister looked cross. ‘But now the Allies will suffer one defeat after another—and all for the lack of conscription in Australia and of a few more Australians in the trenches.’

More laughter. ‘Do not take my word for this,’ said Dr Mannix. ‘Just watch the papers.’

At that, Dad cackled.

‘He’s very good as well,’ he said. ‘And a great deal funnier.’

Dr Mannix’s speech was all about how the Prime Minister was making things out to be worse than they were, and how the war was costing too much. Mr Hughes sat behind him, fuming almost fit to burst.

When the Archbishop had finished, half the audience stood and cheered him.

The Lord Mayor started to say something else, but Miss Goldstein stood in the aisle in the centre of the hall and raised her hand.

‘I will not answer questions from that woman,’ said Mr Hughes.

‘Will you not allow discussion on your proposal?’ she asked him.

Mr Hughes waved his arms at the Lord Mayor. ‘She is dangerous.’

‘Why do you ban newspapers that question your policies?’ asked Miss Goldstein, loudly.

‘Get her out of here!’

‘We are a democracy,’ said Miss Goldstein, as three men moved towards her to usher her back to her seat. ‘And we will not give up our rights of free speech to a tyrant.’

‘Take her out!’ The Lord Mayor motioned to the policemen standing ready at the front.

Adela stood up and moved next to Miss Goldstein.

Mr Hughes snorted loudly enough for everyone to hear. ‘And there’s another one. Shouldn’t she be in prison?’

‘Prime Minister.’ Adela’s voice rang around the room. ‘When will you stop your attacks on the women and children of this country by stealing food from their mouths?’

‘How dare you?’ The Prime Minister leaped to his feet.

I turned to say something to Ma but she’d vanished. On the ground floor, all the men in the audience stood up, and things looked nasty. A few fellows in the corner started pushing one another, and everybody was shouting.

In the middle of the mayhem, both still calling out questions to the Prime Minister, stood Miss Goldstein and Adela. They were surrounded by men, some in police uniforms, who linked arms and tried to circle them.

Another woman appeared at Miss Goldstein’s side. Ma.

‘Look!’ shouted Bertie. ‘Ma’s getting arrested.’

‘How exciting,’ said Flossie.

At that moment, Miss John walked up the steps and onto the stage.

‘Hey! What is she doing?’ said Mr Hughes.

Miss John faced the audience and started singing.

I didn’t raise my son to be a soldier,
I brought him up to be my pride and joy:
Who dares to put a musket on his shoulder
To kill some other mother’s darling boy?

Half the crowd sang with her. The other half shouted to try to drown her out. An ex-soldier in the front row threw a punch. Two men jumped on him and pinned him to the floor. Mr Hughes flung his arms up in rage and stormed off the stage, still yelling. Dr Mannix sat in his chair, tapping his toe along with the music and smiling serenely. Bertie and Flossie hung over the balcony, singing along with Miss John, as loyal soldiers in her Children’s Peace Army. Dad laughed and laughed.

‘Bedlam,’ he said. ‘This is as good as the Christmas pantomime at the Tivoli.’

October, 1917

Women’s Farm,

Mordialloc

Dear Ace,

You see? I’ve decided to call you Ace after all, just like your friends in the Flying Corps do, because even though you aren’t the kind of ace that shoots down dozens of enemy pilots (thank goodness), you are the kind of ace that everyone needs to have around. While I’m sure you’re very good at taking photographs and whatever else it is that you do up there in the air, I’ve a feeling you’re even better at looking after people, as well as looking after planes.

So although Ma and Dad didn’t raise you to be a soldier, as we say in our song, they did raise you to be just like that. And they are proud of you. We all are.

But I do think it’s about time you came home. Surely at some point those generals will stop trying to out-bomb each other. What will it take for them to realise they’ve made a horrible mistake, and that nobody can win? I say let’s call it a draw and send everyone home.

Especially you, Ace.

Do hurry.

Love Mags