In the midst of World War Two, New Zealand faces a labour shortage as its men leave to serve overseas. To fill the gap, young women are called upon to work the land, becoming the nation's 'land girls'.

Emerald (Emma) is one of those who answer the call, leaving her widowed mother and the comfort of home, to work on a rural farm. Thrown into the harsh and physically demanding world of farming, Emma grapples with doubt, isolation, and the weight of responsibility. But under the guidance of the farmer and his wife, Emma learns resilience and discovers a strength she never knew she had.

Extract from The Cinderella Service by Lynda Taylor, Mary Egan Publishing, $25.00 RRP.

The railway carriage swayed gently and clicked past the miles. It was a clear evening in the first week of spring. I’d boarded at Napier, where I shared the platform with four others. A young man wearing a khaki uniform was being farewelled by an old man in a frayed coat and two women: one at middle age and one close to my own age.

As the train chugged away from the station, the women smiled and waved. The older woman pulled a hanky from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. The man wore an expression difficult to read. He stood with his feet apart, hands behind his back.

The young man was undoubtedly bound for Trentham. Clifford travelled by rail to Trentham, too. Almost three years ago. He trained at the Trentham Military Camp before boarding a troop ship, in January 1940.

I wasn’t part of the crowd that watched the Empress of Japan slip its moorings and steam away from Wellington Harbour. Clifford and I said our goodbyes in Napier, beneath pink magnolia blooms swathed in darkness. He stood with his back against the tree trunk and drew me to him. I felt Clifford’s body press into mine as we kissed.

It was mutual first intimacy that night. Like a helpless bundle of flotsam, I was carried away on the wild swirl of a swollen, rushing river.

When I opened my eyes, Clifford lifted my hand and kissed my ring finger. We made a promise to marry soon after his return home.

*

Steam hissed and brakes squealed as the engine slowed and stopped at Waipukurau Station. I retrieved my suitcase and hat box from the overhead luggage rack. My throat felt dry. It was difficult to swallow.

I stepped on to the platform and noticed a man striding towards me. He wore dark baggy trousers and a collarless shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

“Well, I’m betting you’d be Emerald Dineen,” the man said. “My, but you’re a slight wee thing ain’t ya.”

His smile was generous and the skin around his nut-brown eyes crinkled. I began to feel less apprehensive.

“Yes, I’m Emerald, but please call me Emma. And you must be Mr Evans.”

His handshake was firm. His skin felt rough. “Walt will do just fine. It’s less formal and that’s how I like things.”

Walt took my luggage and we walked to his truck. It was a Bedford with a flat tray at the back. My uncle had once owned a similar vehicle. In Ma’s bedroom was a framed photograph of me sitting in the tray of the truck with Uncle’s farm dogs. I was perhaps four or five years old at the time.

As Walt drove, he talked about the difficulties of running a large, dry stock farm without help. I chose not to admit that I had no idea what ‘dry stock’ meant. Walt would find out soon enough how little I knew about farming.

“Esther, that’s my better half, she does all she can, but she hurt her shoulder a while back. Dang thing has never come right, and she’s had to slow down. We used to have three workers: a cowman, who was also a fencer; a shepherd; and a part timer who could put his hand to almost anything. But each of these fine fellows was called up. And that was that.”

Walt stared hard at the windscreen for a few seconds without speaking. I sensed he was troubled.

“Conscription,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “Some of them are boys, their faces still not in want of a real shave. They think it’s their chance to see the world. Go off on an adventure. But they haven’t a clue what they’re letting themselves in for. Talking them into doing their bit for God, King and Country is too easy, I say. Too blasted easy.”

I made no reply, recalling Clifford’s eagerness to don a uniform and serve his country. I believed Clifford’s sense of duty blinded him to the dangers of soldiering.

Dearest Emma,

Greetings from Egypt!

I embarked at Wellington a matter of weeks ago, and yet it feels like a distant memory. There was fanfare, cheering and general merriment. Bands played, and banners and streamers fluttered in the breeze. My heart was full as I boarded, and remained so, even as the ship ducked and tumbled across the Tasman Sea. I stood gazing over the rails into the swirling water and felt not the least bit ill. Other poor souls were not so lucky.

The voyage was lengthy and by the time we reached Egypt, I’d had enough of shipboard life. The days were dull and repetitive, and none of us had any space to call our own. We disembarked and travelled by train through the desert. Mile after mile of tawny sand, rocks, and dirt. Some parts hilly; other parts flat for as far as the eye could see.

We are at Maadi Camp now, a New Zealand camp not far from the bustling city of Cairo. We sleep on straw mattresses, and it surprised many of us that at night the temperatures drop and cold creeps into our bones. From sun-up until sundown, thirst, flies, and vermin are relentless enemies.

We were driven to Cairo the other day and travelled alongside the green serpent-like Nile, which courses through the desert. We saw tethered cattle that looked like water buffalo, as well as camels, donkeys, fat-tailed sheep, and goats. All except the goats looked skinny – like the locals. The women envelope their heads with scarves and have

an air of mystery about them.

The city of Cairo is like no place I could ever have imagined. The streets and the many shops and bazaars teem with people. I encountered beggars and pedlars, and all manner of folk in between.

Some were unkempt and others well-dressed, wearing robes and headdresses. Strange odours abound in the streets of Cairo, as does iniquity. Some of the native women appear to have lost all sense of common decency.

I am pleased more than I can say, that waiting for me at base camp were several letters. None was more welcome than yours, my darling. I miss you.

All my love, Clifford.

*

The Cinderella Service is available now.