The Timber Girls

by Rosie Archer

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

Synopsis

1942. Working in the greengrocers and playing the piano in the pub isn't fulfilling 19-year-old Trixie Smith's idea of helping Britain win the war. One day she sees a poster advertising the Women's Timber Corps and decides to sign up - soon she is on her way to Scotland for four weeks of training to become a Lumberjill. On her journey north she meets Cy, an American soldier on leave. Their attraction is instant and although their time with one another is brief, they promise that they'll be together as soon as the war is over. But training to become a Lumberjill is hard; felling trees and hauling timber is dangerous and exhausting. Luckily Trixie quickly makes friends with three of her fellow Lumberjills. Each of them has different reasons for signing up, but running away from your problems doesn't make them disappear.

Release date: August 4, 2022

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

Chapter One

August 1942

‘On your lonesome, pretty li’l gal?’

‘I was until you barged in on me!’ Trixie flicked back her bleached-blonde hair, which fell across one eye in what she perceived as a fair imitation of film star Veronica Lake’s peekaboo style, and stared at the American sailor standing before her. Even in the cabin’s dim light of the ferry boat that would shortly set sail to Portsmouth from Gosport, she could see his smile and it made her feel like all her birthdays and Christmases had come at once.

More men were trundling noisily down the metal stairs, filling the once empty cabin. They were high-spirited sailors with accents that previously she’d only heard at the pictures. Wearing pea jackets over navy blue outfits with wide-legged trousers and perky white upturned-brim hats, they brought American brightness and glamour into the murky cabin.

‘Hobo, make with the blues harp!’ sang out the tall sailor, as he sat himself down on the narrow bench beside her, causing Trixie’s suitcase to topple at her feet.

‘Jeez, I’m sorry, honey,’ he said, bending quickly and nimbly to set the battered object upright again before making himself comfortable. Trixie tried to wriggle along to make room for him but found herself now wedged tightly between him and another sailor. He laughed, showing even white teeth, and his breath smelt of chewing gum. ‘Cosy this, huh?’

The muskiness of sandalwood cologne swept over her. She liked it. It made a change from the stink of sweat that usually emanated from the bodies of early-morning workers pressed together in small spaces.

‘The name’s Cy Davis. What’s yours, pretty gal?’

‘Trixie, Trixie Smith.’

A few minutes earlier, alone, she had been apprehensive, worried that the momentous decision she’d made to change her life was the right one. But, now, the appearance of this young man had inexplicably caused her thoughts to melt like snowflakes in the sun.

Trixie had to glance away from his dark brown eyes flecked with gold because looking into them made her feel she had known him for ever and that he could see deep into her soul.

‘And where’s Trixie Smith sailing off to on the first ferry of the day?’

She took a deep breath. Not only was he gorgeous, but he was incredibly forward. The war made a lot of people realize there might not be a tomorrow. The Allies, especially the Americans, were very sure of themselves. Most English men still spent ages deciding whether it was the correct thing to do to approach a girl, never mind ask her name and where she was going.

‘Scotland, to join the Women’s Timber Corps, the lumberjills.’ Her words tumbled out and the moment they left her mouth she knew the decision she’d made to leave the relative safety of home, and work to help save her country during this awful war, was an exciting step forward into the unknown.

Trixie smiled at his bewilderment, then added, ‘I’m going to learn how to chop down tall trees.’

‘Jeez! A lady logger?’ He was staring at her with renewed interest, as if she was the most revered person in the world.

Trixie guessed it was more than probable he knew where Scotland was in the British Isles. But meeting a woman lumberjack obviously wasn’t an everyday occurrence for him. Not that she was a fully fledged lumberjill yet!

She nodded. The man Cy had called Hobo had pulled a mouth-organ from his pocket and was playing ‘You Are My Sunshine’ skilfully, the men’s voices harmoniously joining in.

Cy spoke close against her ear but the noise inside the cabin now made it almost impossible for her to hear him clearly. ‘You travelling on by train at the harbour station?’

The ferry’s engine surged as it began its short journey across the Solent waters between her birthplace and Portsmouth. ‘Yes,’ she said.

‘Okay if I walk with you? Maybe we can grab a coffee before you board.’ He rolled back his coat cuff and looked at his watch. ‘I got time before we’re recalled from liberty to the USS Ready at the Dockyard.’

Trixie remembered seeing the anchored gunboat across at the naval base as she’d walked down Gosport’s jetty to board the ferry. ‘You’re not backwards in coming forwards, are you?’

‘I know that cute English saying,’ he said, winking at her. ‘And this one, “If you don’t ask, you don’t get!”’

She laughed, thinking there was nothing she’d like more than to remain in his company until her train left. It would be a fine send-off from Gosport to her new life. She moved her shoulders happily to the music.

‘You know this tune?’ His mouth, breath warm, close to her ear made her heart flutter.

She nodded. She wanted to tell him she frequently played the popular song on the piano and it was one of her favourites, but he was now jiggling his body and tapping his feet to the harmonica’s jaunty notes. In any case, the noise in the cabin had heightened even further so instead of trying to talk she began to sing with the men.

He stared at her, admiration in his eyes. Then in a clear tenor voice he too joined in with the singing and she saw Hobo wink good-naturedly at him. Eventually the tune changed to ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo’. Trixie sang lustily.

When she’d left home that morning, she’d been apprehensive of venturing into the unfamiliar, leaving the town where she’d been born, which wrapped itself round her like a comfy old overcoat. In Scotland she knew nothing of the people or the work expected of her but now she felt reassured. If these brave boys could come across the seas to England from America to help fight the war against Hitler, she certainly had no need to be afraid of travelling a few hundred miles away.

Again, the song changed. Hobo began playing ‘Don’t Sit Under The Apple Tree’.

Cy covered her hand with his own, squeezing her fingers gently. She didn’t recoil. His touch, the singing, the music made her feel warm inside.

Then the craft’s engine changed volume and the boat juddered to a stop as it nudged against the safety of the fenders hanging from Portsmouth’s wooden jetty.

The music stopped abruptly as Hobo shouted, ‘We’re here!’ The singing petered out. Trixie knew the boatmen would be tying ropes around bollards making the ferry safe for passengers to disembark.

Cigarette smoke swirled in the cabin and escaped with the American sailors as they clambered the stairs to the outside world. Cy waited until most of the men had departed before picking up her case and helping her to her feet.

Emerging from the cabin Trixie found a weak sun had broken through the previously dull skies. Automatically she stared towards the dockyard where Victory, Admiral Lord Nelson’s flagship was, as usual, moored. The old and the new, she thought, looking more closely at the clean lines of the convoy escort gunboat docked nearby, showing the American flag.

As Trixie stepped down from the ferry she was aware of the queue of passengers waiting to board it back to Gosport. She walked carefully, mindful that her high heels could slip between the planks of the wooden pontoon. Cy, still carrying her suitcase, said, ‘There she is, Trixie, honey, USS Ready. She’s one of your ships, built in Belfast, borrowed by us on the lend-lease programme. You provide the boats we fill ’em with men to help win this war. We’re all in this together now after Pearl Harbor.’ He slipped his free hand into hers. ‘We docked early yesterday for remedial repairs. Because of liberty I was sure destined to meet you. I call that Fate.’

‘Do you believe in it?’ she asked. Trixie firmly believed that ‘What goes around comes around.’ She tried to be fair in all her dealings and never willingly to hurt anyone.

Cy stopped walking and faced her. ‘I come from New Orleans, honey, where everybody believes in Fate.’ His eyes twinkled knowingly.

The light August breeze was ruffling Trixie’s blue dress. She smoothed the cotton material with one hand, then adjusted her gas mask and bag slung across one shoulder. With Cy still clasping her other hand, she followed the crowd up the pontoon towards Portsmouth Harbour railway station nestling on iron pilings in the mud between the Hard, the bus station and the entrance to the Dockyard.

So many people were jostling up the steps to the trains that Cy let go of her but he caught her up as she showed her travel warrant to the ticket officer and bought a platform ticket for himself.

‘Platform two, Waterloo train’s late. Change there for Dundee,’ said the uniformed attendant at the barrier.

‘How late?’ Trixie was worried she’d not make the connection for the Dundee train.

The attendant shrugged. ‘There’s a war on, love, or hadn’t you noticed?’ He suddenly smiled. ‘It’s on its way. Listen for information.’

Trixie consoled herself with the thought that at least the train wasn’t cancelled.

‘What did I tell ya?’ Cy murmured in her ear, ‘It’s Fate! We’ve been given more time together.’

He pulled her through the early-morning crowd of servicemen and workers towards the tea room. Inside, the air was thick with cigarette smoke from the customers sitting at small tables, or standing huddled in cliques drinking from thick cups. Unappetizing sandwiches curled beneath a glass dome on the counter.

‘Two coffees,’ said Cy, to the frizzy-haired young waitress when she looked at him for his order.

She immediately raised her eyes heavenwards, turned and spoke loudly to an older waitress with fierce metal curlers in her grey hair: ‘Another Yank wanting coffee!’

The older woman tutted and shook her head. ‘No coffee,’ she mouthed through brown teeth. ‘Tea or cocoa?’

‘Two teas, please,’ cut in Trixie, and watched as the younger woman set a cup beneath the spout of a large steaming metal urn, flipped up a tap, and liquid the colour of tar filled it. She slid the overflowing cups onto thick saucers. ‘Milk? Sugar?’

‘No,’ said Cy.

‘Yes,’ said Trixie.

‘Make your minds up!’ snapped the young woman. ‘That’ll be fourpence.’ She glared at the ten-shilling note Cy held out. ‘Nothing smaller?’

Trixie was already fumbling in her bag and slipped the coppers onto the counter. The waitress picked them up and transferred the money to the drawer of the till, dismissing them both.

‘Coffee’s difficult to get,’ said Trixie, sliding onto a chair vacated by a British soldier lugging away a kitbag. Cy sat on the empty seat across the table from her. He piled food-encrusted plates on top of each other to make room for their cups and saucers. A wireless was playing and Trixie could hear Frank Sinatra crooning ‘Be Careful It’s My Heart’.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for you to pay, honey. But don’t let’s talk about coffee. Tell me about you.’

She was aware of the firmness of his jaw, the dimple in his cheek caused by his broad smile as he watched her, with those long-lashed gold-flecked brown eyes. She wanted to put her hand across the table, lift it and touch the tight dark curls peeking below his jaunty sailor hat, but it seemed an improper gesture to make to someone she’d only just met. He picked up his cup in both hands, took an exploratory sip and grimaced, putting it down on the saucer. Trixie laughed. ‘That good, eh?’ She saw his hands were large, calloused, capable.

He noticed her staring and said, ‘Okay, let’s start with me. I’m twenty-two, unmarried. I worked in Jackson Square for the New Orleans Steamboat Company. A paddle-steamer, the Natchez, sailing the Mississippi river . . .’ She must have looked amazed for he hastened to add, ‘Below deck, shovelling coal. Money was good but I wanted to see the world so I joined the Navy.’ He pushed back his cuff, looked at his watch, then said, ‘Now you, honey.’

‘I was born across the water in Gosport nineteen years ago and I’ve never been anywhere else. I live with my mum. I’m not involved with anyone. My dad’s dead. He served in France during the Great War, and Mum’s met this lovely man who wants to marry her. I think they deserve a life without me hanging about, getting in the way. I gave up my job in a greengrocer’s to join the Land Girls only I got persuaded to go to Scotland instead and chop down trees.’

He was listening carefully and his eyes hadn’t left her face all the time she was talking, but now he foraged in the pocket of his pea jacket. He drew out a stub of pencil and a scrubby piece of paper and began writing, careful not to let the paper soak up the spilt tea on the table. When he finished, he sat looking at her again. ‘What d’ya mean, you got persuaded to go to Scotland?’

Trixie laughed. ‘I thought the Land Army would be a cut above working in a shop, and I’d be doing more to help England win this war. The assistant at the Labour Exchange suggested the Women’s Timber Corps, a newly formed branch of the Land Army. She said they needed strong young women to work in forests to provide lumber for pit props, telegraph poles and such. I liked the idea that I’d be useful and I’d travel. I didn’t know then that I might be sent to Scotland but I didn’t need much persuading.’

Trixie liked it that he’d given her his full attention. She gave him a small smile and lifted her cup to her lips, noticed the smear of bright lipstick that wasn’t hers and replaced it on the saucer, which was swimming in tea.

He shook his head. ‘It was stupid of me to bring you in here to say goodbye. Trixie, you’re worth more than this.’

She was aware of the overfilled ashtray, the loud chatter, the myriad body smells, the dog ends trodden into the wooden floor. ‘There’s a war on.’ She shrugged, remembering the ticket attendant’s words.

Billie Holiday was singing ‘Trav’lin’ Light’.

‘That’s us,’ he said, ‘both travelling to places we’ve never been, to do things we’ve never done . . .’ His hand snaked across the table and covered hers. The piece of paper crumpled against her fingers. ‘Will you write to me, honey?’

Trixie nodded, slipping the paper inside her bag.

‘Eventually I’ll get your letters,’ he said.

‘I don’t have an address . . .’ she began.

‘Fate’ll take care of it,’ he said.

‘It probably will,’ she replied but her words were cut short as he leant across and she felt the warmth of his breath before he kissed her, gently and with mindful desire. Then he put his hand on the back of her neck and pulled her towards him until the one innocent kiss became as hot as the fire burning inside her. She wanted to hold him closer, wrap her arms about him.

Behind the counter, the elderly waitress coughed dramatically. Trixie opened her eyes to see customers about them, staring. She dragged herself away from him. Instant attraction, she thought. Like a sudden thunderclap. The kind only ever experienced once or twice in a lifetime.

‘What’s it like in New Orleans?’ she asked, trying to speak more calmly than she felt and all the while thinking she’d rather be kissing him than talking to him. ‘I’ve seen the place on newsreels and read about it in books.’

‘Nothin’ like on film or in books!’ he responded. ‘You got to feel the place. You got to experience New Orleans. It’s special. It’s magical, especially the music coming from the bars in the heart of the French Quarter . . . Me and Hobo play jazz in the Blue Moon—’

Trixie couldn’t help interrupting, ‘You play an instrument?’

‘I play bass saxophone.’

She knew it! They both loved music! Oh, how she’d love to hear him play. Trixie wondered if the notes bubbled around inside him, as they did with her, longing for freedom. ‘Can you read music?’ The words tumbled from her mouth.

He shook his head. ‘Did you see Hobo playing to sheet music?’ He didn’t wait for her answer but carried on, ‘Music comes from the depths of a person.’ He paused. ‘Listen to Billie Holiday. She’s one of the best singers ever! She never learnt to read music but she manipulates the tempo and phrasing, and what comes out is pure magic. Your Vera Lynn’s spellbinding, too. Another terrific singer who doesn’t need to read notes . . .’ The excitement in his voice tapered off. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘running off at the mouth when I want to know all about you.’

Trixie was smiling. She wanted to tell him she loved listening to him, discovering things she never knew, hearing him praise the singers she admired. She said, ‘I have nothing very interesting to tell you. I have such a little life. But I do love playing the piano by ear,’ she added.

Another smile creased his face. ‘Trixie Smith, karma has pushed us together because it can’t bear for us to be apart any longer. Fate won’t care about time or distance. When this war ends, whether it’s in America or England we’ll be together. And that’s a promise.’

He picked up her hand. It looked small nestling in his strong-looking brown fingers. She could feel the heat of him transferring itself to her, making her conscious of her already heightened emotions.

‘You don’t have a little life, not to me, Trixie,’ he said. ‘We’ll write to each other. Tell each other everything that goes on in our hearts and minds.’ He was leaning across the table and she felt again the warmth of his breath. The musky smell of his heated maleness filled all her senses. His face was close, so close that she couldn’t help herself because it seemed the most natural thing in the world to do. Her hand left his and she rested it on the back of his neck, feeling the silkiness of his crinkled hair before she pulled him towards her. His lips, full and supple rested on hers for a moment, and then he kissed her, at first, gently, then with mounting passion.

His tongue met hers, played inside her mouth until Trixie felt she wanted to devour him but, coward that she was and mindful of the sudden silence that had once more filled the tea room, she pulled away, just as the obscure voice announced, ‘The train on Platform Two will shortly be leaving for Waterloo . . .’

‘I have to go . . .’ Her words were muffled as the proclamation was repeated over the loudspeaker system.

Cy had already picked up her suitcase. Hastily they made for the tea room’s door. Once they were outside, he grabbed her hand and they began running along the platform, her gas-mask case bumping against her hip.

The smell of steam and oil filled the station. Passengers scattered to and fro searching for the right platforms. The London train was already packed with civilians and men in uniform as Trixie hoisted herself aboard.

She stood in the corridor by the open carriage door, her suitcase at her feet. Cy gazed up at her, every so often stepping aside as people climbed onto the train.

‘I wish we’d met . . .’ The last of her words were lost in the blast of a whistle. Just along the platform the uniformed guard was waving a flag and then he was walking towards them, slamming doors shut.

Cy grinned, too late to mask his sadness. She blinked because tears prickled the backs of her eyes.

Something seemed to click into place and Trixie knew they were no longer two strangers going in opposite directions. Somehow, sometime, they would meet again.

She’d fallen in love with Cy as soon as she’d met him. A rush of unhappiness flooded her. It was easy to be cynical about love at first sight. But sometimes, if someone was lucky, they met somebody. All she could think of was that the timing wasn’t right and she didn’t want to leave this man, who was still clutching her fingers, making her feel warm and wanted.

‘Shut the window,’ the guard demanded.

Cy’s fingers abandoned her hand and now she felt bereft. Tears stung her cheeks.

The train was moving out of the station. She strained to peer through the glass as the engine gained momentum but its smoke made it difficult to see.

A huge sigh left her as she leant her head against the cold glass She felt as though part of her had been torn away.

Chapter Two

Trixie, her heart in torment at being dragged apart from Cy, bent down and stood her case upright. Travellers stumbling against it had left it overturned. She looked about her and saw servicemen and other passengers sprawled on the littered floor, some chatting, some snoozing and most using kitbags and luggage as seats or pillows. Already stale air and cigarette smoke filled the corridor.

Opposite her was a carriage, door open, its seats crammed with people, parcels and bags tucked into their laps, wielding newspapers. Fingers waved lit cigarettes denoting claims to passengers’ spaces. Trixie sighed. The journey to London could perhaps take a couple of hours. Any dreams she’d had of sitting on a seat with her head next to a window and thinking about Cy had already disappeared. She had resigned herself to joining the others sitting on the floor, when a voice called, ‘Room for a little ’un here, ducks.’

A well-upholstered woman, wedged between a sullen-looking, thin-faced young girl sitting by the window and a little boy kneeling on the upholstery of the seat next to her, was waving a small kitchen knife at Trixie. She was grasping a bright red apple, its peel dangling, in the other hand. On the floor, jammed between her knees, was a wicker basket. Apples bulged from a brown-paper bag. The child squirmed, waiting impatiently for his next slice of fruit.

‘Shove up, Norman, and let the young lady sit down.’

The child stared rudely at Trixie, then crawled awkwardly from the seat, exposing socks around his ankles and sandals with mud-caked soles. He leant now against his mother’s plump knees.

‘Um . . .’ began Trixie, but got no further for her suitcase was hauled through the carriage’s doorway and shoved across spent matchsticks and dog ends to the sliver of seat between the thin girl and the stout woman, who had now moved along the seat.

‘All the way to London, is it? We’re a bit late starting off but we’ll get there.’

The woman shoved her knife in front of Trixie almost before she had managed to squeeze onto the seat. Startled, she realized she was supposed to take the speared apple slice, and answer the question. Trixie nodded. ‘Thank you,’ she said, sliding the apple from the blade into her mouth. The fruit was sharp and crisp. The child glared at her. Perhaps he begrudged her the piece of apple, thinking it should have been his. Trixie tried a smile at him – he was perhaps three or four years old. Beneath his overlong fringe, pure mischief gleamed from his eyes.

Trixie wondered if his mother cut his hair by putting a basin on his head, then using the knife to hack around it.

Wrestling with her shoulder bag and gas mask, Trixie saw the knife now held another slice of apple. She screwed her eyes closed in anticipation of a wail from the child, accompanied by a gout of blood spouting into the air as he made a grab for the fruit. When nothing happened, Trixie cautiously allowed herself to raise her eyelids to find the little boy’s face inches from her own.

‘Leave the lady alone, Norman,’ said the woman. The apple was still on the knife.

Relief flowed through Trixie when he slid to the other side of his mother.

‘Sorry, love, do you want a piece?’

Now the large woman was addressing the girl, who was tightly pressed next to the window. Shaking h. . .