IT WAS A whisper, but it spread. One of the men who’d taken a load of logs down to the railway station had heard that the war was over. It had been announced on the wireless. He’d come back to where the girls were working and told Lorna, who’d told Elspeth, who’d told Dorothy; soon everyone knew. They downed tools and started hugging one another. Duncan blew his whistle and ordered everyone back to work.
Dorothy asked if it was true that a peace treaty had been signed. ‘Is the war over?’
Duncan said, ‘Not for you, it’s not.’
Elspeth asked what that meant.
Duncan said, ‘It’s over when I say it’s over.’
Hoots of derision. ‘You’ll be phoning Churchill to tell him, then,’ said Elspeth. ‘Better call the King, too. He likes to be kept informed.’
After that, the heated everyday pace slowed. Elspeth abandoned her quota. Why bother? she thought. I’ll be going home soon.
On the way back to the camp, everyone sang. They tramped down the road hollering ‘We’ll Meet Again’ and ‘Pack up Your Trouble in Your Old Kit Bag’. The girls skipped, danced, twirled. The men whistled.
Elspeth took the horse to the stables, rubbed her down, fed and watered her. She washed in the ablutions hut and joined the others for supper. They were halfway through their meal, when Duncan came in.
‘You’ll all know by now, the war’s over. Tomorrow’s VE Day. You’ll not be needing to work, it’s a national holiday.’ He stumped out.
‘To victory, ladies!’ shouted Tricia.
‘To our boys coming home,’ said Lorna.
They raised their mugs and toasted victory in Europe with murky tea.
It wasn’t a night for sleeping. They kept the blinds up so the moonlight drifted into the dormitory. They lay in their beds, talked, dreamed and planned.
‘How long before we get to go home?’ asked Tricia.
‘A month, maybe two,’ said Lorna.
‘Two, I should think,’ said Dorothy. ‘Time the troops come home, settle in and get back to work.’
‘Yes,’ said Elspeth. ‘Two months for sure.’
Lorna said that she’d never look at another tree again. ‘Every time I see one, I’ll just think about being cold, eating carrot sandwiches and bleedin’ snedding.’
‘God, snedding,’ said Elspeth. ‘I wish I’d never heard of it.’
Tricia said, ‘I’m going to wear high heels all the time. And lovely skirts and have my hair done and put perfume on every bit of me.’
‘Roast beef,’ a voice in the dark. ‘Soon as I get home, I’ll have roast beef, roast potatoes and no carrots. I’ll never eat cabbage again.’
Other voices, more wishes – scrambled eggs with butter, tea from a real china cup, stockings, proper sheets. ‘Just soap,’ said Dorothy. ‘A bath with lovely scented soap.’
‘Home,’ they sang. ‘We’re going home.’
Lorna started to sing ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’ and they all joined in, soft voices filled with longing.
The next afternoon Elspeth and Lorna cycled into the village. The place was alive with bunting; tables had been set up the length of the High Street. It was the children’s party – adults serving sandwiches, cakes, jelly and lemonade. Elspeth and Lorna watched, but didn’t join in. Eventually, they strolled arm in arm by the river.
‘I can’t remember ever being so excited,’ said Elspeth. ‘I’ll go back to my cottage first. I’ll sleep in my own bed. I’ll sleep and sleep and sleep.’
‘Then what?’ said Lorna.
‘I’ll probably go to London. See if I can get a job there. City lights for me.’
‘I’m going to try to get my old job back. I’m going to walk the old familiar streets, see all my pals and just be normal again. Nothing fancy. Just plain ordinary life, coming and going. Being at home with my folks, listening to the wireless at night, having the odd hot bath and sleeping. I’ll be doing a lot of that, too.’
‘I know,’ said Elspeth. ‘Waking up in your own bedroom listening to the sounds of the day outside, seeing the same old familiar faces. You don’t know how good it is till it’s gone.’
They sat down, watched the water, sighed and dreamed. ‘Know what I’m most looking forward to?’ said Lorna. ‘No whistles.’
‘God, yes,’ Elspeth agreed. ‘A whistle-free life.’
By seven at night the party in the street had changed. The pub was thronged, people spilled out on to the street, drinking. There was a bonfire, flames curling up, sparking into the sky, though it was still light, couples danced round it. Elspeth managed to get herself and Lorna a glass of beer each, and they sat on chairs left on the pavement after the children’s party, sipping and still dreaming. They danced with one another, joined in the singing, toasted the King and drank some more beer.
By half past ten the pub had run dry. But the singing and dancing went on. Elspeth took Lorna’s arm and said, ‘Have you noticed? There’s nobody from the camp here. Let’s go back, see what they’re up to.’
They cycled back into the forest. It was getting late, but still light. Elspeth stopped, standing in the middle of the road, astride her bike, and wept.
‘Don’t cry,’ said Lorna.
‘I’m sorry. I can’t help it. It’s the relief. I’m so happy.’
‘I know,’ said Lorna. Tears spilled down her cheeks. ‘You’ve set me off, now. I’m happy, too. We’ll see each other again, though. We’ll keep in touch, write. I’ll want to know what’s happened to you.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Elspeth. ‘I’m not letting you go. Never.’
‘We’ll get back to the camp, find somewhere quiet,’ said Lorna. ‘And just sit and be glad that we’ll soon be on the train heading home.’
Elspeth said, ‘Good idea.’
They heard the party long before they reached the track that led to the huts. Singing, shouting, whooping and someone had brought along the gramophone. The Kitty Vitty Minstrels were blaring.
Whisky was being handed round. They’d long abandoned their mugs and were swigging from the bottle, passing it on. They waltzed, jitterbugged, jived. It was frenzied.
The men gathered round the girls and clapped, egging them on. Tricia had whipped off her shirt and was cavorting in the light of tilley lamps that were lining the duckboards. Other girls joined her. They linked hands, formed a circle and whirled round shouting, ‘We’re going home! We’re going home!’
The circle became a conga line and they whooped along, kicking their legs out as they went, and the chant got louder. ‘We’re going ho-ome. We’re going ho-ome.’
Elspeth and Lorna put their bikes down and joined the men, looking on. Tyler sidled up beside them. ‘You’ve been missing the party.’
He took Elspeth in his arms and swept her up in a dance. ‘Home,’ he said. ‘Back to Newfoundland. Back to where I belong. Sea and sky and forest and family.’
The conga line was now bobbing and weaving through the crowd of drinking men, girls stripping off their tops, shouting, ‘Home! Home! Home!’
At first nobody heard the whistle. When they did, and turned, they saw Duncan standing outside the dining hut, cheeks stretched, face red, blasting and blasting.
He turned on the conga line. ‘Home? What’s this going home? You’re not going anywhere. You’re all a bloody disgrace.’
‘But the war’s over,’ said Tricia. ‘We can go now.’
‘Yer not going nowhere till the Forestry says you can go.’
‘When will that be?’ asked Tricia.
The girls had all stopped dancing, were staring at Duncan, mouths agape. A few clumsily pulled on their clothes.
‘The country needs trees. It’ll always need trees. And it’ll need you to cut them down. It’ll be years before you get signed off. Bloody years,’ said Duncan. He was getting a great deal of pleasure from giving them this information.
It took a few seconds for this to sink in. A long and awful silence before they howled, ‘You’re kidding.’
‘I never kid,’ said Duncan. ‘Get to bed, the lot of you. You’ve got work tomorrow. And the next day, and the day after and after that. For years, do you hear me?’
He limped away back down the path to his cottage. ‘Years and bloody years.’
Elspeth reached out, took Tyler’s hand. ‘All right. I’ll marry you.’