Dream a Little Dream

by Rosie Archer

Genres: World War II; Women's Fiction; Historical Fiction

Synopsis

Trixie and her fellow lumberjills are back in Scotland, newly stationed at the MacKay estate. When they arrive, they are shocked to find the place dilapidated and neglected and the taciturn and secretive Noah MacKay not at all happy to be meeting them. It quickly becomes apparent that MacKay was expecting men from the forestry commission to take charge, rather than four young women. Trixie, Jo, Hen and Vi decide he needs to be proven wrong - after all, don't they have stamina, skill and strength? But as the girls work to prove their worth, secrets from their own pasts threaten to follow them to Sutherland.

Release date: April 13, 2023

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

Chapter One

Late summer 1942

Trixie Smith watched the blackout-­reduced rear lights of the ancient lorry until its sight and sound were swallowed into the darkness of the stormy night. Now, standing outside the MacKay Estate in Talmine, and despite having her three best friends about her, a feeling of insecurity settled over her, like a shroud. Sutherland in Scotland must be the loneliest place on earth, she thought, definitely the least populated, and with nothing but mountains, lochs and heather for miles and miles.

There was no warmth in the explosive, blustering wind. The squalling rain was already beginning to drip down her neck and work its way into her clothes. The waterproofs provided by the Women’s Timber Corps were as much use as blotting-­paper in this lot, she decided.

Inside the lorry she’d been cold, but being outside in the elements was much worse. Was that the sea she could hear? Trixie listened hard. Or were the wind and rain playing havoc with her senses?

‘Are we standing out here all night?’ Trixie’s befuddled brain was pierced by Henrietta’s cut-­glass voice. ‘We’re going to drown. That’s if we don’t freeze to death first.’ Hen was trying to control her blonde plaits, which had become unpinned by the forceful wind that had whisked away her sou’wester. She usually wore her waist-­length hair coiled about her head in imitation of the famous skating star Sonja Henie. Now it blew wetly around her face and shoulders, like a flapping net curtain.

Happily, she looked healthier than she had before they’d left Shandford Lodge this morning, when Hen had hurriedly pushed herself away from the breakfast table and run to the lavatory where she’d been sick. By the time Trixie had caught up with her she was moaning about the food.

‘I should never have eaten those Spam fritters,’ Hen said, taking the handkerchief Trixie passed her and dabbing her mouth with it.

‘I had the same as you and I feel fine,’ Trixie said.

Hen gave her a weak smile. ‘We all know you’ve a cast-­iron stomach,’ she said.

Hen didn’t usually have problems with food, Trixie thought. ‘We’re expected,’ she said, quickly bringing her attention back to the massive wooden door that was keeping her, Jo, Vi and Hen from seeking shelter. Evidently the gate was the only entrance to the huge property that loomed ominously amid the tussocky heather and gorse-­covered Scottish hillside.

Suitcases and bags collapsed wetly at her feet while Trixie searched for a knocker, a bell, anything that would allow them to alert those inside to their presence. But all her frozen fingers found was scrubby ivy ending in brittle twig-­like branches, no doubt sheared off by the wind’s ferocity.

Trixie wished she hadn’t been so eager to have the lorry driver take his leave after bringing them the forty miles from Lairg station. Before they’d become too tired and cold to chat, she’d asked him if he was acquainted with Noah MacKay.

‘Och, aye,’ he’d answered dourly. ‘He’s well known. These trees all belong to him.’ Through the darkness, Trixie had made out the forests nestling beneath the mountains. The trees seemed to go on for miles. Then the man had had a sneezing fit and, fearing she might take his attention from driving along the narrow road, Trixie hadn’t questioned him further. She’d been only too happy to reach their destination.

‘Don’t you worry about us,’ she’d said. ‘You get off home to your warm fireside. Noah MacKay is expecting us.’

The elderly man had been spluttering, coughing and blowing his nose into his huge handkerchief as they’d trundled along in the blackness. His sickness had unnerved her. For any of them to fall ill on their very first job as fully fledged lumberjills would be a catastrophe.

The wind had whistled inside the ragged canvas-­topped vehicle as it had swayed along, narrowly dodging sheep grazing and wandering the single-­track road. It seemed to her that they had been journeying for ever since leaving Shandford Lodge, where the four of them had completed their training for the Forestry Commission.

Now, Trixie felt like bursting into tears. ‘There’s no damn bell or knocker,’ she shouted.

‘Don’t be stupid. There’s got to be a way in!’ Vi’s pragmatic but weary voice was little more than a whisper. She might be the youngest, thought Trixie, but she was always the first of them to state the obvious. Trixie knew Vi’s childhood had been hard. She thought it gave the girl an awareness of life often lacking in the others.

Trixie stared at her friend’s thin face framed by her sou’wester. Vi had cunningly used her mackintosh’s belt to anchor the hat securely to her head.

‘You’d have thought they’d have left some indication of how we should see our way in,’ Vi said. ‘It’s as black as the ace of spades out here.’

‘Perhaps they have no electricity in Sutherland,’ Hen said. ‘Not everywhere is as blessed as Gosport.’

Trixie realized she was probably right.

‘Arggh!’

Jo’s sudden scream sent alarm roiling around Trixie’s brain. She cried out, ‘What’s the matter? What is it?’

Jo had been wandering along the wall but she’d now rushed back, her fingers grabbing Trixie’s arm as though for safety. ‘It’s there, looking at me!’ she shrieked. ‘With huge goggle-­eyes . . .’

Trixie stared to where Jo was pointing. In the gloom she could just make out a panicking animal, obviously scared by Jo’s screaming. It skittered against its companion, snuffling and snorting.

‘For Heaven’s sake! Pull yourself together!’ shouted no-­nonsense Hen. ‘They’re sheep, sheltering by the wall! And you’re scaring them!’

Trixie felt Jo relax as she peered at the thick-­fleeced animals staring at her. They were definitely undecided whether to bolt or stay. One sheep let out a resigned bleat.

Loud clanging cut through the wind and rain. The sheep scattered.

‘What’s that?’ Trixie swung round, her heart beating fast.

Vi’s eyes were the size of dinner plates. ‘I found this chain in the ivy and I pulled it!’

‘Thank God you did,’ said Hen, loudly, calmly. ‘You’ve discovered the bell pull. Well done, Vi!’ She pushed her wet hair away from her face.

Vi perked up. ‘Shall I pull it again?’

‘Best not,’ Trixie said. ‘It made enough noise to wake the dead. I hope whoever’s going to answer hurries up!’ Every second of waiting felt like an hour. She patted the top pocket of her jacket beneath her waterproof. The letter of introduction from the Forestry Commission was inside and Trixie hoped the rain hadn’t made it unreadable.

Eventually she heard a small voice. ‘I’m coming. I’m coming as quickly as I can!’ She saw a brief, satisfied smile light Hen’s face. Thank goodness. They were about to be rescued.

The huge heavy door began to open inwards.

Vi and Jo leaned forward in anticipation, smiles already creasing their lips.

Carrying a lantern in one hand, a hunched figure appeared wearing a collection of shawls. Trixie could now see it was a woman and a broad smile was etched across her wizened face. At the sight of them the woman’s smile was replaced by an open-­mouthed look of disbelief.

‘We’re from the Forestry Commission,’ Trixie said. ‘Noah MacKay requested tree-­fellers and here we are.’

The woman seemed to be in a trance, until she blinked her button-­bright eyes and said, with a frown, ‘But you can’t be!’

‘Can’t be what?’ asked Trixie.

‘You can’t be from the Forestry—’

She was cut off. Hen had pushed herself in front of Trixie and demanded, in her cultured voice, ‘This is the MacKay residence?’

The woman nodded.

‘And you are?’ Hen asked,

‘Housekeeper to Noah MacKay, Morag MacBeath.’

‘Very well, Morag MacBeath. We’re cold and wet. I suggest you attend to your duties by showing us hospitality and allowing us immediate shelter. Then summon your master, and tell him of our arrival from the Forestry Commission. And is this the only way into the estate?’

Perhaps, thought Trixie, it was Hen’s upper-­class English accent or maybe the authority in her voice, which came from her public-­school background, that did the trick: the housekeeper gathered herself together and moved aside to allow them to enter.

‘My apologies,’ she said. ‘Welcome. There is another entrance at the back that’s used by tradespeople but you’d not have known that. I have hot broth simmering on the fire and no doubt you could all do with a nice cup of tea.’

Trixie noted the musical Scottish Highland lilt in her voice.

Hen, suitcase in hand, bag and gas-­mask case over her shoulder, swept through the gate, muttering her thanks.

Trixie breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Tea would be wonderful,’ she said, picking up her dripping luggage and following Hen. Sometimes, though she didn’t like Hen’s occasionally overbearing attitude, it worked wonders.

Morag MacBeath waited until they were all inside. then closed the gate. ‘Follow me,’ she said, walking ahead through the courtyard. ‘Mind your feet! When it’s wet the cobbles are like glass.’ Ignoring the huge door at the front of the dark building, she stepped over slippery stones until she finally arrived at a back door, which had been left on the latch. A heavy blackout curtain stopped the light shining out.

Trixie gasped as, in the kitchen, the warmth from a fire burning in the huge hearth enveloped her. A ham and two pheasants hung from the ceiling. She could smell fresh baking from the large black-­leaded oven that stood beside the fire. A pot of broth was bubbling above the glowing peat turves, and its meaty fragrance made her realize how hungry she was. Oil lamps provided the lighting.

‘Take off your wet things and dry yourselves,’ Morag said briskly, shutting the door. ‘I see you all have your gas masks too, though I doubt you’ll need them up here. Not enough people for the Germans to bother about.’ After removing most of her dripping assortment of shawls and leaving them hanging over the fireguard, she passed the girls threadbare towels that had been drying there. Morag’s long grey hair was pinned into a bun from which wet tendrils had escaped.

Trixie dropped her case, thankful to be out of the rain and wind. Looking at each of her bedraggled friends, she could see how weary they were. ‘Is the weather always this awful?’ she asked.

Morag fixed those button-­like eyes on her. ‘Och! No. Sometimes we have snow.’

It took Trixie a moment to grasp that the housekeeper was teasing her. She returned the older woman’s smile.

‘Shouldn’t you announce to Noah MacKay that we’ve arrived?’ Hen enquired.

Morag glared at her. ‘Plenty of time for that,’ she said curtly. ‘You need warmth and sustenance first.’

With a folded rag she pulled down a large blackened kettle hanging from a hook above the fire and carried it to the stone sink where she replenished it with water that gurgled noisily out of the tap. The water was brown.

‘Good thing we know it’s pure,’ Trixie said, drying her face with the warm towel. The incessant rain and wind rattled the windows. She felt happier now, out of the elements.

Morag began, ‘The water’s perfectly safe to drink—’

‘Just like at Shandford Lodge,’ Hen interrupted. ‘It’s the iron and manganese present in the soil.’

Morag’s eyes narrowed. Trixie could sense hostility between the two women, which was a pity.

Vi was struggling to untie the belt that fastened her dripping sou’wester. Jo moved her cold fingers away and completed the job for her. ‘Probably safer than the reconstituted water coming from the taps in Gosport,’ said Jo. ‘Anyway, it makes a lovely cuppa, which is just what I could do with now.’

‘Which you’ll get directly. Hang your wet outer clothes over there.’ Morag nodded towards a large wooden stand by the door. Several coats adorned it.

Trixie was towelling her bleached-­blonde hair now, but she paused long enough to ask, ‘Do we call you Morag or Mrs MacBeath? Is there a Mr MacBeath?’

‘Aye, I’ve a husband and he’s attending to night chores elsewhere on the estate,’ she said. ‘Best call me Morag, for now,’ she added, opening a waist-­high door in an aged, paint-­chipped wooden dresser and taking out deep pottery bowls, which she placed on the scrubbed table.

Trixie put her damp towel on the long, metal three-­fold fireguard to dry off and smoothed her hair. She looked around the kitchen at the tiled floor and the worn but comfortable furniture. A print of the famous Stag at Bay painting, in a dusty carved wooden frame, hung above the fireplace. A brass box full of fire-­ready peats stood next to the grate. She decided it was a welcoming place even if it was in need of a good clean and some attention to maintenance. The blackout curtain moved as the wind thundered against the ill-­fitting window frame. The ceiling was darkened with years of smoke from the fire. She wondered if the upkeep of the house was down to Morag alone or if Noah MacKay employed additional help. The only other large Scottish house to which Trixie could compare this one was Shandford Lodge where the girls had completed their training. That place had smelt of polish, and although Trixie had hated the animal heads, with horns and antlers, that had dominated the hallways, she knew that money had been spent on its upkeep. But if the rest of this house, including their sleeping quarters, was as comfortable as the kitchen, she wouldn’t care how rundown it was. The girls weren’t helpless, were they? They could keep their own quarters tidy and possibly help Morag with a bit of cleaning. None of them expected to be waited on.

‘That’s not long been baked, has it?’ Vi peered at the fresh tin loaf on a wooden breadboard sitting on the table and smiled contentedly.

Trixie hadn’t seen such an appetizing loaf in ages. Bread wasn’t rationed, like many commodities, but due to war shortages the ingredients weren’t always completely faithful to the recipes. Trixie thought of the grey bread back home in Gosport’s shops. Suddenly, with a light heart, she was humming her favourite song of the moment, ‘Dream a Little Dream of Me’.

She’d heard the song on the wireless and thought of Cy, the American sailor she loved. She’d had no letter from him for ages, even though she wrote regularly to the only address she had for him. She felt happier persuading herself it was merely postal hold-­ups for his lack of letters to her. Trixie pulled her thoughts forward to the present.

‘No, the bread’s not long from the oven,’ Morag answered, stirring the broth. ‘If you’d like to sit at the table, I’ll serve you now,’ she added. ‘And I think the tea’s stood long enough, don’t you?’ She glanced at the cosy covering the teapot. ‘As soon as you’ve eaten your fill, I’ll away to find Mr MacKay.’

Trixie looked at Hen, Vi and Jo sitting around the table. Hen’s hair, still a little damp, framed her pretty face, hung over her shoulders and tumbled down her back, like a fairy-­tale princess’s.

Morag cut thick slices from the loaf and passed them to the girls. ‘There’s butter,’ she said. Jo had already discovered the golden delicacy inside the white porcelain dish with its matching lid.

‘The meat in this stew tastes heavenly, Morag,’ said Vi. ‘Women queue for hours outside butcher’s shops in Gosport for bones and scraps for meals that before the war they’d have fed to the dogs.’

‘Is that so? Glad you think the meat’s tender, dear,’ Morag said. ‘We’re fairly self-­sufficient here and haven’t really felt the full pinch of rationing. We help where we can.’ She frowned, then confided, ‘We do have what you English call a spiv, He’s a southerner, like yourselves, in Spean Bridge, who can provide, for a price, what we can’t get in the local shop. I think it’s down to people’s consciences whether they buy from him or not. But that’s another story. With the sea and lochs on our doorstep, and rabbits and deer running wild, we manage, we trade, and we help our crofters. We’ve a gillie to manage our fair few acres, the poultry, cattle and sheep. That’s rabbit stew you’re eating. We don’t, in this house, go short of most things,’ She paused, then said with passion, ‘Though many aren’t so lucky . . .’

Trixie smiled at Jo, who grinned ruefully at her after hearing sheep mentioned. But why shouldn’t Jo be scared to encounter sheep in the dark? Probably the first sheep she’d ever seen had been through the train windows as she’d travelled to Scotland. There weren’t any sheep sheltering against walls in Gosport, were there?

Trixie could see Vi didn’t know what a gillie was, and not being quite sure herself, she asked, ‘Is a gillie like a gamekeeper?’

Morag smiled. ‘Aye, that he is. Duncan served here before the present owner took over so there’s nothing he doesn’t know about the estate.’

Trixie decided she liked Morag. She hadn’t been so sure when Morag had seemed so astonished at their arrival. She wondered about the confusion at the gate – and Morag had referred to the ‘present owner’. It sounded as if Noah MacKay hadn’t been the master here for long.

Trixie had been surprised at the way Hen had spoken to Morag earlier. True, it had persuaded Morag to let them in but Trixie didn’t think Hen should have talked to her like that.

‘Tell me about the forestry training you’ve had.’ Morag seemed genuinely interested in their work at Brechin. She listened avidly, asking questions about the tasks they’d undertaken, eyes wide at their answers, then marvelling when Hen told her how, because she was quick at mathematics, she’d learned to measure trees and assess correctly how much per acre lumber was worth.

It was good that they weren’t eating in silence, Trixie decided. Conversation seemed to dispel the girls’ tiredness. Morag, too, was eager to chat and obviously enjoying their company.

‘I hear the south of England has been severely bombed,’ she said, changing the subject from forestry.

‘I should say so,’ said Vi.

Trixie glared at her, then saw that Vi had realized it wouldn’t do to say too much. Only recently the girls had discovered that Jo had been keeping a terrible secret and it wouldn’t be prudent to remind her of Gosport’s bombing. On a recent trip back to the town without Jo, and finding themselves near Bedford Street, the girls had decided to visit her home and let her relatives know she was well and learning about all aspects of forestry.

Jo had never confided to any of the girls that she’d returned home from the picture-­house to discover that her Gosport home had taken a direct hit. Her child and her mother-­in-­law had been killed. Previously the War Office had written and told her that her husband was missing, believed dead. She had become a lumberjill to build a new life for herself.

Obviously, her feelings were raw and, being fragile, she’d kept all of this to herself. When Trixie had first known her, her moods had been mercurial. She seemed much more at ease with herself now. Slowly her new life was giving her confidence, but Trixie was well aware that Jo was easily hurt by thoughtless talk. She looked across the table at her, buttering a piece of bread. She appeared not to have been following their conversation and Trixie breathed a sigh of relief. Jo was sometimes quite an aloof and solitary person.

‘Wick was bombed in 1940,’ continued Morag. ‘So far enemy attacks have been confined to the RAF airfields at Caithness, and Scapa Flow, where the submarines are,’ she said. ‘Here we have mountains and heather and I’m thankful that, so far, the Germans have left us alone.’ She asked more about their training in Angus and about their lives in Hampshire, in England. She seemed interested in all of them.

The wind and rain still flung themselves against the old house. Trixie knew she shouldn’t allow herself to become too complacent about Morag’s friendliness because they had yet to meet their new employer, Noah MacKay. She patted her pocket to make sure the introduction letter from Shandford Lodge was still safe.

Morag, clearly seeing that the girls were replete, began removing the breadboard and bowls from the table. Trixie jumped up to help stack dishes on the wooden draining-­board. ‘That was a superb meal, Morag, thank you.’ She glanced quickly at each of the girls in turn. ‘We’ll do the washing-­up.’

‘Hear, hear,’ said Hen, rising to her feet. As she moved, her chair scraped across the tiled floor. She faced the older woman. ‘Morag, I’m sorry I was sharp with you earlier. I don’t really know what came over me. Let me get you a cuppa – you deserve a sit-­down.’

‘Och, no, it’s not my way,’ Morag said. ‘But when the table’s cleared I’ll tell the master his foresters are here.’ A frown crossed her face. Then she took a deep breath. ‘I cannae go on without explaining why I was dumbfounded at seeing you outside the gate . . .’ She seemed to tail off as though she was searching for the right words to finish the sentence. Another deep breath followed. ‘I’ll not allow you four girls to be as lambs to the slaughter.’

Trixie, confused, opened her mouth to speak but Morag waved a hand to silence her. ‘Noah MacKay needs help to bring this estate back to its former glory. He owns huge forests, wood that will certainly help the great lumber shortages in Britain . . .’ She paused. ‘The master is a good man, take my word for it, but he’s not going to be best pleased to find four pretty girls sitting in his kitchen. He’s expecting men.’ She sighed. ‘He’s been expecting the Forestry Commission to send him strong, able men to do hard graft.’ She took a breath. ‘He believes his employees to be hard workers but they’re not trained.’

Hen broke . . .