The Sunnyvale Girls (3 page)

MAGGIE
was up early again. She had six cows to milk and only one had waited outside the cottage. But she'd had Nessy a long time; Nessy knew the routine. Maggie set down the bucket of Nessy's milk inside the cottage for her mum. Phyllis would put it through the separator until Maggie had finished milking, and then it would be Maggie's turn to finish the separating. She liked the old way better: they used to leave the milk on the large setting pans overnight and then scrape the layers of cream off in the morning. But her mum had insisted on getting a separator so they could sell the cream to Watsonia in Perth. When they first got it, Maggie had turned it so fast the cream had been thick enough to stand a fork in. But she'd been scolded. They needed the cream for money, except for the bit they kept to make their own butter.

Phyllis picked up the bucket and put it next to the separator. The cottage kitchen was small, with the dining table in the middle and a smaller table against a wall with a large tin dish on top that they used to wash up the dishes. The wood stove was already burning with the sticks Maggie had collected earlier.

‘Hurry up with those cows now, Margaret,' said Phyllis as she pushed back her neat curls. She had blush on her pinched cheeks, and the same blue eyes as Maggie. Her clothes were always impeccable; even her apron was spotless.

Maggie nodded and headed outside past the old bough shed, which her father had built from trees and covered with broom bush. They used the bough shed more in summer or when they had the neighbours over for a party.

As she walked by, the chooks ran to the edge of their pen, hoping for scraps. Mother sold some of the eggs too, and Maggie would have to collect them later and scratch them clean with steel wool.

Maggie walked along the dirt, through the gimlet trees and around the large salmon gums. Near the stables were Splinter and Flossy, their large bodies resting in their wooden stalls. The other Clydesdales were with her brother Charlie and her father, who were clearing the land her father had bought back in 1927. Her father had applied to get a 2000-acre block three hundred and sixty times, but the land was highly sought after. It didn't help that the government was giving land to the Poms before the Aussies, and by the time Father was offered land it was way out near Pingaring – and eighty others had also applied. Father believed he was selected because he'd been to agriculture school and had the skills to make it work.

It was a very long way from the city, over five hours in their old ute. Mother spoke about the isolation – nothing but untouched natural bush around them and the odd farm – and how she'd hated the place to begin with. Father had wanted better land closer to a bigger town but it was all taken. Eventually he took this parcel of land because he'd heard the railway would be coming close by. As it turned out the railway went past further west, which became the siding of Pingaring, twenty minutes by car. But father said he had his chance at land so he took it, naming it ‘Sunnyvale'.

A year later Maggie had been born. Now at sixteen, Sunnyvale was all she knew. And she loved it much more than her mother did. It was home for her and her three older brothers, George, Thomas and Charlie. Well, it had been. Thomas and George had gone to war. George had been killed and Thomas was still missing, presumed dead. Now it was just her and nineteen-year-old Charlie left to help their mother and father on Sunnyvale. It was lonely at times without her other brothers.

A magpie flew overhead and Maggie moved cautiously, knowing it might try to swoop her to protect its nest. She was safer with the screeching galahs, although her ears took a battering. It wasn't a long walk to the cows. They usually liked the edge of the fence by the road and Maggie enjoyed the quiet of the walk. Both of their dogs, Roy and Roo, were with Charlie. Roo would always be off looking for a kangaroo while Roy, the sheepdog, was happiest by Charlie's side.

Sucking in the morning air, Maggie rubbed her arms against the cold. Pain shot up her foot as she trod on a sharp rock and she cursed her thin shoes but kept going. She could hear the girls now; they saw her too and started to moo.

‘Hey, Miss Maggie!'

Maggie turned to the gravel road to see Arthur riding towards her on his bike.

‘Morning, Mr Stewart.' He was wearing brown pants and a jacket that were too big, probably hand-me-downs from his older brother. His greasy hair was plastered off to the side, like it had been recently combed. Arthur was riding the treasured Malvern Star bicycle that he'd bought with over a month's wages. He was two years older than Maggie – they'd been to school together – and she knew he was sweet on her. His family's farm was ten kilometres away, at the end of the road. Their mothers spoke of marriage while the fathers discussed a farm merger. Maggie wasn't so keen on either idea.

Arthur rode his bike close to the fence and then stopped the big spoke wheels. ‘I wondered if you'd be here bringing in the cows,' he said with a smile.

Maggie had to bite her tongue. He met her here nearly every week and she half wondered whether he sat behind the big tree further up waiting for her. ‘Yes, Mother is waiting. Off to town again for work?'

He nodded shyly.

‘You might pass the war officer. The Italians are arriving today.'

‘A few are none too pleased about having them around these parts.'

‘It'll be good. Give the gossips something to really talk about,' she said.
Might offer some respite from all the talk of marriage
, she added in her head. Maggie could hardly wait for the Italians to arrive. They came from a world so different from hers. What would they look like? Would they be skinny and fair like Arthur?

‘Are Mr Fuller and Charlie still clearing?'

‘Yes, not much left in that paddock. We can get a crop in soon.'

‘Um, have you any news on your brother?' Arthur asked, blushing.

Her good mood vanished. ‘No. He's still missing in action.' Maggie shivered at the words. They sounded strange coming from her mouth, like she was just reciting the telegram they'd received a year ago. It had said there was a possibility he could have been taken prisoner but they had no more information. Maggie had listened to her father read out the news as her mother collapsed on the chair while clinging to Charlie. Sometimes it seemed like yesterday. Even though time had passed they still held onto hope that Thomas might return after the war, or that they'd find him in one of the prison camps.

‘Mother won't give up hope but I fear he's gone like George. I'm so glad they couldn't take Charlie. The war has taken enough of my family.'

George had joined the 2/11th Battalion in 1939 and saw action in Libya and Greece. But it was in Crete in early 1941 that George was shot and killed. Thomas had joined another Battalion in 1940 and had gone missing a few years later. Maggie knew it all so well now; over the years it had been repeated by her family as if helping them to understand what their boys' fight had been for, and maybe also to feel closer to them in some way.

If the doctors hadn't refused Charlie due to his severely broken arm, they might have lost him too. Maggie tried hard to imagine what her brothers had gone through, tried to imagine the strange lands they'd walked along and the battles they must have fought. Had they killed anyone? Had George died painfully? She'd heard bits on the radio at night and it always made her heart race. She missed her big brothers dearly. It seemed not that long ago that they'd all been out shooting foxes together or playing in the bush. It was hard to think of them as dead. It was as if they were just away on a trip, and one day they would reappear to pull her hair and undo her ribbons. She still hoped this was true for Thomas.

‘I'm sorry, Maggie. I didn't mean to upset you. I'd best be on my way or I'll be late. It's a long ride into town. I might see you tomorrow,' Arthur said hopefully. His skinny legs pushed hard to move the bike along the gravel.

‘Goodbye, Arthur.' Maggie turned and followed the group of cows home, pulling apart some wild oats she'd plucked from the paddock.

By the time she'd milked all the cows, her father and Charlie had come home for morning tea. Normally Maggie would take it out to them – maybe a slice of cake and some tea made up in a big beer bottle – but today they returned to the cottage, as the Italians were arriving before lunch.

‘Maggie May, how's my girl?' her father said after he'd washed up. Charlie was behind him, trying to fold up his cotton sleeves so he could wash.

John was the best father a girl could have. He was gentle, funny and always had time for his only daughter. Maggie knew her mother thought he spoiled her too much. But Phyllis spoilt Charlie plenty too.

‘How was the clearing?' Maggie asked.

‘Going well,' her father replied. ‘Won't be long and then we'll have a real crop.'

‘Roo caught a mid-sized kangaroo, so we brought it home for dinner,' said Charlie, scratching his head. At nearly nineteen he was already shaving. He had one of those sweet faces that made you want to hug him and trust him wholeheartedly. Maybe it was his gentle smile, or the way he moved calmly like their father as if they had all the time in the world. In fact, Charlie was a lot like his father: they were both medium build, a little on the thin side, with short sandy hair and narrow jaws. Charlie was a strapping young man but he wasn't afraid of showing his affections. He wrapped his arm around Maggie and gave her a squeeze. ‘Think Mother would mind making roo tail soup?'

Maggie laughed. It was Charlie's favourite, so of course it would be made. Phyllis clung to her remaining son with every ounce of love she had left – so much so that it felt sometimes as if there was not much left for Maggie.

Phyllis came in from outside, saw Charlie was home and smiled.

‘Sit down, Charlie, I'll get you something to eat,' she said, holding out a chair and then patting his shoulders as he sat. ‘Maggie, is the tea ready?'

‘Yes, Mother.' Maggie filled the cups with hot tea. Phyllis took the first one from Maggie and passed it to Charlie's good hand before sitting beside him, leaving Maggie to deliver the rest. When Charlie was younger he'd fallen off Contractor, their big racing horse, and had been thrown hard to the ground. His arm had been broken in many places and had never healed right. It still ached a lot and had no strength.

John sat down beside Maggie and brushed her arm affectionately. Maggie had liked it when her father used to carry her on his shoulder so she could see the world from up high. Now she was too big for that, and besides, she was nearly as tall as he was.

‘Do you think the Italians would like roo tail soup?' Maggie asked.

‘I don't know. I can't imagine they've been eating all that well in the camps,' said John.

‘Will they understand us?'

‘I hope so! It'll make things pretty hard otherwise. I imagine they've picked up some basic words. Maybe you could teach them, Maggie?' he said with a wink.

Maggie thought that was a wonderful idea. She would have loved to have been a teacher.

‘Certainly not, John Fuller,' said Phyllis sternly as she clunked her cup down on the small wooden table. ‘She'll be going nowhere near those wog prisoners. I don't trust them. I still don't see why we need them.'

‘Now, we've talked about this, Phyllis. We need the help on the farm. Charlie and I can't keep up with all the work.'

‘If the war hadn't taken my boys, we wouldn't be needing these dagoes. What a waste,' she muttered. ‘They kill my son and then take refuge on our farm.'

Maggie cringed. She hated the names people were calling the Italian prisoners but it was even worse when it came from her own mother.

‘I can hear a truck,' said Charlie, wiping his hands on his trousers, which were held with braces over his white cotton shirt. He headed outside with the rest of the family hot on his heels. Morning tea was forgotten.

Outside a Chevy truck pulled up. An officer in uniform got out the front and two men in maroon-coloured clothes stood up on the back tray of the truck.

‘Mr Fuller, Captain Jack Tweedie,' said the man in uniform, holding out his hand to her father. As they talked and shook hands, Maggie studied the men on the back. Besides their dyed purple clothes, she found them no different from other men: they still had two legs, arms and eyes. Both men looked lean, clean-shaven and tall, and one of them seemed no older than Charlie.

They climbed down and Maggie stared at the ground, unsure of how to behave in front of prisoners. She felt her mother's hands on her arms, pulling her back, and Maggie wondered whether her mother was trying to protect her or shield herself.

‘These are your men,' said the officer. He pointed to the older of the two, the one with thick dark eyebrows. ‘This is Giulio Mosca, he's twenty-seven and is quite skilled in building things.' Then the officer pointed to the younger man. He had black hair and deep brown eyes, and – Maggie had to admit – he was very handsome. Instantly she straightened her dress and wished she'd checked her hair.

‘And this is Rocco Valducci. He's twenty, a quiet bloke but a good worker.' The officer stood straight in his dark-green uniform with big front pockets. It reminded Maggie of seeing her brothers before they left. That would be the last mental picture of them she'd ever have, eternally in uniform.

‘Giulio, Rocco, this is your new boss, Mr Fuller, and his wife, Mrs Fuller,' said Captain Tweedie.

Maggie's father held out his hand and both men shook it firmly.

‘Mistair,' said the oldest one with a nod.

‘This is my son, Charlie,' said John. Charlie also shook hands with the Italians. ‘And my daughter, Margaret.'

Maggie gave them a smile and felt a blush rising under her skin. Having the eyes of the Italian men on her was both scary and exciting. They were so nice to look at, with their strong bodies and dark eyes.