Imagine it, lambsie:

A noisy place, and airless, hot in summer, freezing in winter. A tin-shed of a factory that sprawls across a whole block. But if you close your eyes and breathe it in, you might truly think yourself in heaven.

Hundreds of Shortbread Cream halves cooling on trays, slabs of Currant Lunch baking. The sweetness of butter and currants, vanilla and cloves, cinnamon and lemon peel hanging in the air.

Smell is more than a sense, lambsie. Did you know that? It has substance that settles, you cannot help but taste it as you breathe. Ask any gutting quine with the bitterness of blood and slime on her lips and her tongue. Girls at the Mills & Ware biscuit factory—always girls, no mind the age—they grumbled a lot about the heat from the ovens, the flour that made them cough, the concrete floors and windowless walls. But oh, that smell! No matter how hard the day, you couldn’t help but smile when the rotation changed and some new deliciousness floated through. Chocolate Creams. Gingernuts. Macaroons. Even the plains—the Thin Captains and Milk Arrowroots, the Cabins used as ship’s biscuits—they filled the air with something like … what’s the word? Oh, just goodness, aye. As comforting as a pot of tea.

I used to listen to the grumbling, nod to be companionable, murmur to get along, but the memory of fifteen hours without a break at the farlins, knee-deep in muck, was part of me. I’d not speak of it—who would have believed me, eh?—but it was in my mind while the girls prattled on about conditions, because to me this job was a gift dusted in sugar like the Nice biscuits we made.

That day after Clementina arrived, I’d to jog the two blocks from home to get to the factory on time, and I left my apron behind on the kitchen table. No clean apron, no start. But Lois came to my rescue with a spare she always kept rolled tight in her basket. Lois had never forgotten an apron once that I knew of, but she was a careful person who liked to be prepared.

I rushed, sweating, past Forewoman Vi outside the Creaming Room, but aproned I was and late I was not.

So they arrived, then, did they, ya friends from Pommie Land? Ollie asked as she squeezed blobs of buttercream onto shortbread halves through the nozzle of a huge bag.

Good thing Clementina Ratter canna hear ye calling her a Pommie!

Ollie looked puzzled. Well, isn’t she? Same as you?

What? Meggie English! Lois said, looking up from the lines of biscuits she was setting out for Ollie to cream. A Scottie, her—no mistaking that accent!

Ollie shrugged. Scotland, England, all the same to me! And she gave me a no-hard-feelings-you-can’t-help-it hug with an arm already greased to the elbows with cream.

Ollie!

All right, all right!

I placed the top halves on each biscuit, lightly pressing down to sandwich the cream, and Vi ran the trays of assembled biscuits into the Packing Room for wrapping in paper and sealing with wax. We swapped jobs, the four of us, every week, to ease the boredom of the same old routine, and Vi kept a watchful eye over the whole operation. There was nothing to stop us from talking from start of shift till the noon bell.

So what was it like, seeing your friends after all this time? Vi said, grinning.

I hesitated. I’d been thinking of little else all morning, but there wasn’t much I wanted to say just then. I liked my workmates at the factory—the girls from the Creaming Room, Enzia and Franca in Packing—and in time we became friends, but when it came to things that mattered, I was wary at first, shy of offering them up to be turned into fun, which is what the girls always did.

Clementina is the same, same as she always was, aye, an’ Stivvy looks a bit fatter …

And they’ve got two young kiddies, haven’t they? Ollie interrupted. Twins? What a handful!

I caught Lois’s look, the little shake of her head at Ollie.

Oh …

Vi broke the clumsy silence, bursting through the door. There was a problem with one of the ovens and we were to take our dinnertime early, as soon as this load was creamed.

We finished the trays. The girls chattered about the state of the ovens, glad to have moved the conversation on.

That awkwardness, it was because they thought I could not have children. And even though their pity always made me squirm, I had no intention of saying otherwise, because it was what I’d told Management. See, when I first applied at the factory, I was turned away: We don’t employ married women. Curt. No argument. But they were desperate for staff, and I tried again later, and this time the office manager gave me a second look.

Why d’ya want to work for, when you’re married? Surely your husband wouldn’t have a bar of that.

Where I come from, isn’t any shame in married women workin’, I told him. Everyone does. Everyone has to.

He’d looked at me sceptically, then down at my application form. Says here you’re nineteen. Ah. Well. You’ll have a family on the way before you know it. What’s the point in starting you?

I took a huge breath and out came Lie Number One.

I won’t. I canna have babies.

Shocking, but I told myself that there was some truth in it.

He blinked at me in consternation, clearly afraid of what embarrassing details I might be about to offer.

So, ye see, it’s different for me.

He looked doubtful and I sensed a moment of chance. Look, Mr Prentice, I didn’t come all the way from the Shetlands to idle around on the beach. You need workers an’ I need to work. An’ I’m a good worker. Ye’d not be sorry if ye took me on.

And ya reckon your husband will give his permission?

Permission. It summoned up memories I did not want in my head, and not one of them involved Magnus Tulloch. I looked at Mr Prentice and spoke firmly: Aye. I mean, yes.

Two years later, I was still the only married woman in the Mills & Ware factory, except for the widows, who were another kind of married. There were a few of them.

~

I was glad to take my break early and ran back to Martha Street.

Stivvy wasn’t there—he’d gone for a look around—but I stood at the door of the cottage, panting, and took in the sight of the impatient, irascible Mrs Clementina Slater Ratter humming over two nearly-sleeping bairns. The look of tenderness on her face made me turn away with a wound in my breathing.

When finally she glanced up, she turned on me the full light of that tenderness, and in it I saw my mother and my sister and my best friend.

And something in me broke.

~

The problem with the oven was fixed by one-thirty, but we were behind schedule and would have to stay until the day’s tally was done.

Any overtime? Ollie ventured hopefully.

Vi quashed the idea with a short laugh. Y’ve had extra break time, haven’t ya? That’s what Management said.

I was resigned to being late home on the last day I would want to be late, and had to remind myself, for the second time that day, how lucky I was to be working.

On the day I started, the girls had looked at me aghast, and no-one was shy about saying why.

How can you work in a factory without all ya fingers? Vi demanded. Strewth! You’re no good to me on a production line, luv, no offence, but we can’t be standing round, waiting on you to catch up! I dunno, Management needs to take a good hard look at ’emselves, sending me someone like you, no offence, luv.

Her outspokenness took my breath away, but I thought: So this is how it is. Well, then.

Management had in fact said much the same thing, until I produced Lie Number Two.

I’ve been workin’ on production lines with half a finger missin’ all my life, I told Mr Prentice. Hasn’t stopped me before an’ won’t stop me now.

He’d scratched his brilliantined head and looked dubious but I stood my ground. On a less desperate day, I’d have been shown the door, for sure.

I told Vi the same lie and assured her that her production line would not be slowed down by me.

Well, by the time anyone found me out, I’d made good on my promise and was handling the heavy trays, lining up biscuits, even manoeuvring the cream nozzle, same as all of them.

I’d never manage with a knife again, I knew what my limits were, but you don’t gut herring for three seasons, you don’t knit the whole of your life, without becoming good with your hands. All of that could not be wiped out by the loss of a bit of a finger. And if anyone had ever asked me, I’d have told them straight: Creaming biscuits? A picnic compared to gutting fish.

Aye, I reminded myself again as the factory clock chimed six, I’d every reason to be grateful to Mills & Ware.

~

It was getting dark when I got home. I opened the door and found everything neat: the makeshift bedding folded, bags stacked in corners against the wall. Even Haldane and Jessie looked spit-and-polished and shiny-bright in a way only Clementina could manage in a place where all was new and strange. The teapot was on the sideboard, in a knitted cosy I’d never seen before. She had even managed the Metters. It’d taken days of wrestling with the old beast before I’d got it working, but even a Metters would bide its manners and behave for Clementina.

Ach, an’ here’s your Unty Meggie now, she crooned, pushing Jessie forward with one hand and hooking Hal by the breeches to swing him around to face me. An’ what d’ye say to your Unty Meggie?

Jessie gave me a frown so like Clementina’s that my face twitched with trying not to laugh.

Clementina pushed her again.

Ay ay, Jessie said. So grudging.

What’s that, Miss Jessie? her mother demanded. Ay ay WHO, d’ye care to say?

The frown deepened, but Jessie said, Ay ay, Un-ty Meggie.

Hal, happy little thing he was, had been chattering away to himself but sobered at the sound of his sister’s voice. He looked at her and up at me.

Ay ay, he echoed solemnly. Un-ty Meggie.

I am too young to feel old, I thought.

I reached out a hand to each of them but they shrank back.

Clementina tsked.

Come with me, I said firmly, leading them to a big pinewood box in the kitchen.

Once a week, factory staff were allowed to buy a huge bag of broken biscuits for sixpence. I hefted the sack onto the table and scooped out bits and pieces by the handful: Cream Fingers, Nice, Gingernuts, Chocolate Creams.

Suspicion drained from Jessie’s face as I filled her hands, and Hal’s eyes widened. Both of them looked to their mother for a nod before stuffing their mouth with crumbs and buttercream and sugar. Not until they’d finished, and I was wiping their sticky hands and grinning faces on my apron, did I dare glance over at Clementina. But I wasn’t fooled by the scowl, the shake of her head: she didn’t begrudge me my shameless bribe. She was glad we were friends, me and the children, and never mind how.

Once they were cleaned up, she ushered them to play in the corner with a bag of things that rattled and tinkled, and poured two cups of lukewarm tea from the pot.

So where have they gone, Magnus an’ Stivvy?

Her forehead furrowed. Some place called … now, what did they say? The Anchor? Said they’d not be long, an’ they better not be!

Well, there wasn’t much money for it to be otherwise, and Magnus was not much of a drinker then, so I expected they’d be turning up any minute. I fancied Clementina thought the same, and there were things she wanted to say before they did.

So ye’re happy, quinie? she asked as I sat down opposite her. Happy in this place?

Aye. Happy enough. An’ ye’ll be too.

She shrugged. Stivvy has his mind set on this farm. A fisher an’ a gutting quine! All this way, an’ I’m to turn m’self into a crofter’s wifie now!

She shook her head. Show me your hands, quinie.

I held them out at once and she tut-tutted and pulled a face.

I sighed. Herring hands …

Salt an’ gipper hands …

Biscuit factory hands …

A disaster! And Clementina’s big snorting laugh set me off too.

She took my disastrous hands in hers and looked me in the eye. Now, tell me, quinie, if ye’re so happy, where are the bairns for Unty Clementina?

The noisy arrival of Magnus and Stivvy spared me from saying what she already knew: that I wasn’t yet ready. That there was still a frozen part of me that even the fierce Fremantle sun couldn’t thaw.

~

I had brought home bread and cheese. But that Clementina, she’d conjured up a soup from nothing.

Good, Magnus declared, sopping it up with a hunk of bread, and Stivvy agreed with a nod.

I could taste dried peas and potatoes—all there’d been in our pinewood pantry—but as for the rest?

Whatever did ye find to make stock? I asked.

Potato skins. An’ some green onion things from the Eye-talun mannie, your neighbour, what’s his name? He called out to me an’ passed them over the fence, nice as ye please.

I don’t know. And I thought: How like Clementina to know more in a day than I’d managed in two years.

An’ a spoonful of flour from that Mrs Laskon next door.

Mrs Laskon! Mrs Laskon gave ye flour?

I asked her for some, aye, and she did. She wanted to give me two spoonfuls, make it thicker, she said, but one’s quite enough an’ I told her thanks, one’s all I need. And Clementina sniffed.

I was trying to imagine this conversation with our landlady, the same woman who wanted a word, please, Mrs Tulloch every time I saw her. Clementina Slater Ratter truly was a marvel.

The marvel looked at me curiously. What problem is it ye have with her?

Oh, no problem from where I see it, I said, looking across at Magnus, but he and Stivvy were deep in discussion again—clearing this, fencing that. I lowered my voice, all the same. Problem’s all with her. Turns up her nose, she does. At Magnus for the shame of his wife put out to work, as she calls it, as if I have no say at all. An’ as for me—well, Mills & Ware, ye canna get lower. Factory girl—yew know.

I laughed, but Clementina’s brows disappeared into fleshy furrows.

~

It was late when I pinched out the wicks of the thick tallow candles. Mrs Laskon objected to electric lights after nine; she wasn’t made of money.

My toes kicked something light that skittered across the floor. Something from the children’s bag of trinkets. I picked it up, turned it in my fingers. A small cone, smooth inside, the outside pitted with tiny corrugations. I took it to the window but I didn’t need moonlight to tell me it was a limpet shell.

How many limpets had I shelled in my life?

Faces in the dark—my beautiful sister, an old man, a slack-chinned lolloping boy … Furiously I rubbed them from my eyes.

I held the shell to my face, breathing in the faintest smell of a cold, faraway sea, of all I had left behind. And left gladly, I reminded myself.

I turned to find little-boy eyes blinking, watching me, from across the room. I saw them all the time, eyes like these, in darkness, in the full glare of a blinding sun. Sometimes laughing at a runaway rabbit, sometimes crying from the blue expanse of somewhere I could not follow.

I reached out, but they blinked again. Were gone.

A catch in my throat, a violent shiver. Struggling to find a rhythm for my breathing again.

Haldane, I whispered silently, forcing a calmness I did not feel. It’s only wee Hal’s face.

I let the shell drop to the floor, then quickly scrabbled to pick it up again. It’s like this, with memories, lambsie: you want to push them away, then you want to hold them tight. It makes no kind of sense.

I put the limpet shell with the one the little girl had given me on the beach not long after we’d arrived. The old and the new.

~

Only a few nights, it was, before Magnus cycled home with two bottles of Penguin Ale from Castlemaine and a parcel of river prawns, wrapped in newspaper, from the Greeks who used to drop their nets near the brewery.

What’s all this, then? I asked. Did ye find a spare pound flappin’ in the breeze?

He looked across at Clementina with a question on his face.

Have ye not …?

We’re off tomorrow! Stivvy cut in, singing. Off ta Merredin in the morning! Off ta a new life! Say hello ta your farmer friends, lassie! And he galloped to the kitchen and back, Jessie under one arm and Hal under the other.

Oh. Tomorrow … That’s … that’s … wonderful …

And Stivvy Ratter came to a halt and stared at the sight of the farmer’s wife and the factory girl weeping silently into each other’s hair.

~

It’s a warm, clear Saturday in autumn 1912 when I summon up every scrap of strength I have to bid goodbye to Clementina, Stivvy and the bairns and wish them the happiness I long for them to have.

We are determined, Clementina and I, we made a promise the night before: we are done with crying, there will be no more of it. And so it was that we had busied ourselves with packing up, with cutting pieces for the long rattling journey east, with making lists of supplies to be sent on later once they are settled. And now we stand, hand in hand, holding on. And then she looks up and snorts, in true Clementina style, flicking her fingers at the sun.

Well, quinie, look at that. Another bloddy blue sky.