The Women’s Pages Read online

  PRAISE FOR VICTORIA PURMAN

  ‘an engaging tale from a foundation of extensive research that deserves its place in the canon of Australia’s wartime-inspired fiction.’ — News Mail on The Land Girls

  ‘Moments of great sadness and grief, as well as moments of pure, radiant joy, unfold in this gentle, charming tale … the genuine heartfelt emotion and the lovely reimagining of the way we once were … makes The Land Girls such a rich and rewarding read.’ — Better Reading

  ‘a well-researched and moving story.’ — Canberra Weekly on The Land Girls

  ‘a moving tale of love, loss and survival against the odds.’ — Better Homes & Gardens on The Land Girls

  ‘Purman’s almost lyrical description of this particular point in Australia’s history is a richly crafted treat veering cleverly through the brutal hardships faced at the time while also filtering in little moments of beautiful, historical nostalgia. It’s a well-told story filled with multi-dimensional female characters.’ — Mamamia on The Land Girls

  ‘I would recommend The Land Girls for its historical significance, romance and power to make the reader feel proud to be Australian.’ — Chapter Ichi

  ‘a charming, edifying and poignant novel.’ — Book’d Out on The Land Girls

  ‘A beautiful story with rich characters, vivid settings and the whole emotional range’ — Beauty & Lace on The Land Girls

  ‘a beautifully descriptive portrait of war at the Homefront.’ — The Butcher’s Wife Books on The Land Girls

  ‘There is a wealth of detail woven into this novel … Victoria Purman just seems to be going from strength to strength with her historical fiction.’ — Theresa Smith Writes on The Land Girls

  ‘Victoria Purman had me fully invested in each woman, each story so real.’ — The Book Date on The Land Girls

  ‘an emotional tale of love, loss and courage.’ — Claire’s Reads and Reviews on The Land Girls

  ‘What a lovely tribute this book is to all the women of the Australian Women’s Land Army. This story will draw you straight into the 1940s world as we meet three young ladies from very different walks of life living in Melbourne, Sydney and Adelaide … I enjoy her style of writing, the characters and the in-depth description she gives to make you immerse yourself into her world.’ — Reading for the Love of Books on The Land Girls

  ‘This is a heart gripping tale of love and loss and who you become when the person you love is no longer there.’ — Little Literary on The Land Girls

  ‘a multifaceted read with many captivating moments.’ — Talking Books Blog on The Land Girls

  ‘This is a beautifully written story that was obviously so well researched, I cried bucket loads of tears and I smiled as well as I journeyed with Flora, Betty and Lilian and the many other girls.’ — RBH Blogspot on The Land Girls

  ‘A heartwarming novel … The story of Bonegilla is a remarkable one, and this novel is a tantalising glimpse into its legacy.’ — The Weekly Times on The Last of the Bonegilla Girls

  ‘Victoria Purman has researched and written a delightful historical piece that will involve its readers from the first page to the last … written with empathy and understanding.’ — Starts At 60 on The Last of the Bonegilla Girls

  ‘Victoria Purman has written a story about people exactly like my family, migrants to Australia … I came to this novel for the migrant story, but I stayed for the wonderful friendship Victoria Purman has painted between the four girls … The story is written in such a friendly, welcoming style that you can’t help but be embraced by the Bonegilla girls and become one of them … don’t be surprised if you find yourself crying at the end.’ — Sam Still Reading on The Last of the Bonegilla Girls

  ‘A story told directly from the heart … The Last of the Bonegilla Girls is a wonderful ode to the bonds of female friendship and the composition of our country.’ — Mrs B’s Book Reviews

  ‘… a moving and heartwarming story [and] a poignant and compelling read, The Last of the Bonegilla Girls is … a beautiful story about female friendship and how it can transcend cultural and language barriers.’ — Better Reading

  ‘… so rich with emotion, detail and customs that are almost unheard of these days, and thankfully so [because] the best way to get to know these characters is to read their story for yourself.’ — Beauty and Lace on The Last of the Bonegilla Girls

  ‘The Last Of The Bonegilla Girls is a touching and compelling story of female friendship and celebration of what it means to call Australia home, no matter where the journey began … beautifully told … with an ending that will leave you dewy eyed and [with] a renewed sense of hope.’ — Bluewolf Reviews

  ‘An enjoyable and well-written historical novel with tragedy, love and friendship in a harsh landscape where the only option is hard work and survival.’ — S.C. Karakaltsas, author, on The Last of the Bonegilla Girls

  ‘… a celebration of Australia’s multicultural history, of love, friendship, tolerance and building bridges … [and a] glimpse into a chapter of Australian history we normally hear little about … The Last of the Bonegilla Girls is an insightful, uplifting and feel-good book that I recommend to all lovers of Australian historical fiction.’ — But Books Are Better

  ‘I couldn’t turn the pages fast enough, but at the same time I didn’t want it to end. It kept me guessing from the beginning.’ — Rachael Johns, bestselling Australian author on The Three Miss Allens

  ‘Serious social issues, including the plight of unwed mothers, domestic violence and the place of women in Australia’s history are wrapped up in poignant romance.’ — Good Reading on The Three Miss Allens

  ‘Reading a Victoria Purman book is like taking a sneaky day off work to huddle beneath the doona. It’s warm, comfortable and once you are done you’re left with a great feeling of satisfaction.’ — Rowena Holloway, author of the Ashes to Ashes series

  ‘An intriguing story told brilliantly.’ — AusRom Today on The Three Miss Allens

  ‘Some writers just … draw you in and wrap you in their world before you’ve even realised, and Purman—most definitely—offers that here.’ — Debbish on Only We Know

  ‘Kudos to Victoria Purman for a debut novel that feels like a breath of fresh air. What more could you want? … sand, sea, surf, good love, good friends and good wine. *sigh* … idyllic.’ — The Eclectic Reader on Nobody But Him

  VICTORIA PURMAN is an award-nominated, bestselling Australian author. She is a regular guest at writers’ festivals, has been nominated for a number of readers choice awards and was a judge in the fiction category for the 2018 Adelaide Festival Awards for Literature. Her most recent novels are The Three Miss Allens (2016), The Last of the Bonegilla Girls (2018) and Australian bestseller The Land Girls (2019).

  Also by Victoria Purman

  The Boys of Summer:

  Nobody But Him

  Someone Like You

  Our Kind of Love

  Hold Onto Me

  Only We Know

  The Three Miss Allens

  The Last of the Bonegilla Girls

  The Land Girls

  The Women’s Pages

  Victoria Purman

  www.harlequinbooks.com.au

  To Jo, with heartfelt thanks

  Contents

  Praise

  Also by Victoria Purman

  Act One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

 
Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Act Two

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Act Three

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  ACT ONE

  PEACE

  The Sun, 15 August 1945

  Chapter One

  The day the war ended, Tilly Galloway sat at her desk on the second floor of the Daily Herald building in Sydney’s Pitt Street and cried with delirious joy.

  She held a sodden handkerchief in her left hand, smeared with what was left of her foundation and mascara, and a cigarette was gripped tightly between the middle and index fingers of her right, the imprint of her Regimental Red Helena Rubinstein lipstick like a kiss on the cork tip end. She dragged hard, filling her lungs with heat and smoke, and her blood with the rush that had kept her going for so long now she couldn’t imagine getting through a day without it. When the tears stopped, when her shoulders stopped shaking, she lit another from the butt of her fourth that morning and leant back in her chair, eyes closed, feeling her heart knock against her ribs.

  The whole bloody thing was really over.

  She opened her eyes with a quick blink as the cacophonous sounds of victory swept right through her. The phone next to her typewriter rang but it took her a moment to hear it amid the crying and shrieking laughter all around her in the women’s newsroom. She tugged off her marquasite earring, reached for the black receiver and pressed it to her ear.

  ‘Galloway.’

  A song blared from the wireless in the corner—something triumphant with trumpets and stirring strings—and her colleagues, police reporter Maggie Pritchard and Frances Langley from courts, were spinning each other around an imaginary dance floor, Maggie’s blonde curls bouncing at her shoulders and Frances’s glasses slipping to the end of her large nose and in danger of toppling to the floor as they threw their heads back gaily and hooted and hollered.

  ‘Hello? Are you there?’

  Tilly looked back across the sea of empty desks and abandoned Remingtons. Cups of tea were going cold. Someone had pushed open one of the windows overlooking Pitt Street and a gust of wind whipped through the floor and unsettled stacks of copy paper, which swirled into the air like joyously thrown wedding confetti.

  ‘I’m having trouble hearing you, whoever you are,’ she yelled down the line. ‘In case you haven’t heard, the war’s over. We’re celebrating.’ Tilly puffed on her cigarette and flicked the ash into an overflowing ashtray on her desk.

  ‘Tilly! Can you hear me now?’ Tilly recognised the voice of her flatmate and dearest friend, Mary.

  She covered her free ear with a cupped hand. ‘I can barely hear you, Mary.’

  ‘Can you really believe it’s over?’

  Agony aunt Betty Norris, always called Dear Agatha on account of it being the name of the column the newspaper had been running since the dawn of time, beckoned Tilly to the wireless. ‘The prime minister’s about to speak,’ she implored, then stopped and cleared her throat, her voice choking with emotion and her eyes filled with tears. ‘Hurry!’

  ‘Wait on, Mary. Chifley’s on. I’ll call you back as soon as I can.’ Tilly dropped the receiver into the phone’s cradle with a hard thunk, grabbed her ashtray and ran over to join the huddle around the wireless.

  Tilly and Mary had left their Potts Point flat so early that morning that Kings Cross had still been asleep. They’d been too excited to stay in bed, as rumours had swirled for days that the war in the Pacific might be over that very day and they hadn’t wanted to miss a minute of it. As they’d walked hurriedly through Hyde Park—they were far too excited to stand in the crush on the tram—and then all the way down Pitt Street to the Daily Herald building, expectation had crackled in the winter air. Nine days before, the B-29 Superfortress bomber, the Enola Gay, had dropped an atomic bomb on Hiroshima. The bomb was codenamed Little Boy and Tilly had tried not to think about such an innocent name being used for a weapon of such destruction. And then another dropped, three days after that, on Nagasaki.

  The war had been over in Europe since May, but the Japanese had fought on in the Pacific until the bombs had all but wiped out two entire cities.

  Now, after so much devastation and loss and grief, the end felt close, real, final.

  Maggie slipped two fingers in the corners of her mouth and let fly a piercing sound. Frances laughed and elbowed Maggie in the ribs. Just then, fashion editor Kitty Darling arrived and sashayed directly over to her colleagues. ‘It is true? Everyone on the street is saying it’s over.’

  Tilly nodded. ‘Yes. It’s about to be announced.’ Kitty tugged at each fingertip of her white gloves and slipped them off, clutching them in her hand as tears welled in her eyes. Kitty had never let wartime rationing hinder her ability to look ravishing. She was sporting a tan, tailored, square-shouldered suit with a pleated skirt and a silk flower was pinned to her left lapel.

  ‘Thank goodness,’ she said. ‘I hope I never have to see khaki anything again as long as I live.’

  Prime Minister Ben Chifley’s stoic tone filled the air, the reception crackling with static.

  ‘Where’s Mrs Freeman?’ Dear Agatha gasped, enquiring after the editor of the Daily Herald’s women’s pages. ‘She should be hearing this, too.’

  ‘She’s up with Sinclair, I expect, planning the victory edition of the paper,’ Frances replied.

  ‘Hush! Or I’ll whistle again,’ Maggie threatened and the women were finally quiet.

  ‘Fellow citizens,’ the prime minister started, sounding as exhausted as everyone in the country was by six years of fighting. ‘The war is over.’

  ‘I still expect to hear John Curtin’s voice when someone announces the prime minister is about to speak.’ Dear Agatha dabbed at her eyes with a dainty embroidered handkerchief. ‘Poor man. Imagine living through all this and dying a few weeks before it’s over?’

  Maggie lunged forward and twiddled with the tuning knob. ‘Sshhh.’

  ‘Turn it to the left, not the right, Maggie,’ Dear Agatha instructed, which earnt her a look of reproach from Maggie.

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake, be quiet.’ Frances held a finger to her lips and looked sharply at Maggie.

  The women leant in, holding their collective breath.

  The radio crackled. ‘The Japanese Government has accepted the terms of surrender imposed by the Allied nations and hostilities will now cease. At this moment let us offer thanks to God. Let us remember those whose lives were given that we may enjoy this glorious moment and may look forward to a peace which they have won for us.’

  Dear Agatha crossed herself and then blew her nose loudly. Cookery editor Vera Maxwell, sitting at the desk nearest the wireless, dropped her head into her crossed arms and sobbed.

  Tilly found herself saying in a whisper, too disbelieving to utter it out loud in case she jinxed it, ‘The Japanese have surrendered.’ Chifley himself had said it. There really was to be victory in the Pacific.

  A strange sort of hush overcame Tilly and then they all succumbed to it as the news sunk in that right had endured after so many years of despair. A hard-fought victory had finally been achieved, at a brutal and terrible cost. The unspeakable human suffering of the war would come to an end. The men and women who’d been so far away for
so long would be coming home. Some families and loved ones would be reunited.

  ‘To victory,’ Maggie shouted.

  ‘To peace at last,’ Dear Agatha said through her sobs.

  Around her, her colleagues’ stunned silence suddenly gave way to laughing and cheering and singing. Frances began to bellow ‘Rule Britannia’ and everyone joined in. The world’s darkest days were over and life might finally return to what it had been before Hitler and Hirohito and Mussolini. Tilly’s head was filled with a loud buzzing, and for the first time since 1941 she didn’t immediately assume it was the sound of Japanese Zeros flying low over Sydney Harbour. She picked up her ashtray and went back to her desk, reaching for her Craven As. She tapped the pack against her palm, pinched the last cigarette between her trembling red lips and struck a match, hoping one more puff would still the shudder working its way up her body, from her toes past her roiling stomach to the end of each strand of pinned and curled brown hair.

  It was over.

  She looked up and wished she could see the sky instead of the old and yellowed plaster ceiling. Her vision blurred and she imagined it shattering into a million pieces and flying into the atmosphere, and the grey lampshades hanging from it disappearing into the azure sky as if they were being pulled by a puppeteer’s strings. Then the black Remington typewriters on each desk began to sway and float as light as feathers on a warm breeze, the clouds above them soft as the cotton bolls she’d seen freshly picked in Gunnedah when she’d reported from there back in 1942.

  An enormous weight had been lifted from Australia’s shoulders but Tilly still carried a burden which sat like lead in her stomach.

  Then someone was calling her name and she turned. Mary was running towards her, wearing a smile as wide as Sydney Harbour. Tilly swept Mary up into her arms and lifted her off her feet, which made Mary giggle before they hugged each other breathless. Mary was quivering with excitement.

  ‘You didn’t ring me back, you rat.’

  Tilly lowered Mary to the floor. Her cheeks were wet from Mary’s tears. ‘I meant to. Honestly.’