WHERE WERE THE HOUSES? This would never work if people didn’t actually live here. Outside the window, in the gathering twilight, rows and rows of trees lined up like the Coventry terraces before they’d been blitzed. It was a wonder the train was finding its way through at all.
Connie blinked, her lashes hot and wet, and dashed her sleeve against her eyes. It reeked of sick and she nearly gagged again. She needed to get that under control before they arrived.
The train’s whistle shrilled and she pulled herself up on tiptoe to peer out properly, the chatter of the other girls in the carriage fading as she poked her head out of the window, sucking in the damp, fresh air. They were pulling into a tiny station, smaller even than the one in Worcestershire. The trees mingled now with little whitewashed houses and Connie sighed into the strange, furniture-smelling breeze, blowing out all her nerves. Her plan might just come off if she played it right. Then she’d be free to get on with her life.
The train juddered to a halt and Connie lost her balance, stumbled backwards into the crowd jostling behind her. One of the other Women’s Timber Corps recruits – were they really supposed to call themselves lumberjills? – stamped on Connie’s chilblain and with some effort she bit her tongue. No need to give her a piece of her mind; it wasn’t the girl’s fault that Connie’s back was killing her and her mouth was sour. Not long now until she’d be shown to her digs. With a bit of luck she’d wangle a bath then get under the bedcovers. Maybe her billet would be as cushy as that last place, a couple of hours south of Coventry, when she’d still been doing farm work. There, the farmer’s wife had doted on her, made all her meals.
Until … well, what’s done is done, and it was probably all for the good that she’d had to move on. This endless war wasn’t all bad; it gave the likes of her the chance to shift around a bit. And as long as there were a few houses here and there, these woods would suit her better, sprawling on for miles as they did.
Connie stepped off the train and quietly joined the throng of nattering girls as they trailed off the platform towards the station entrance. This wasn’t like any station she’d seen before, more like a rundown bus shelter, really. There was none of the bustle you’d see at Coventry station of an evening, even with the war on. It gave her the creeps, but she’d keep her opinions to herself for once. She needed to behave, make a good impression; this next billet mattered like none before.
Her hand was cold against her own cheek and smelled of grit and fumes.
‘Girls, girls! Gather round, please.’ The crowd piped down and Connie shivered into the weird silence. No sirens, no machines whirring, no shouting over them. It was so bloody quiet. There was a muddy little road in front of them, stretching into the murky light. All around, closing in on them like enemy troops and swallowing up the day, were trees. So many trees! She thought there would at least be a proper town or two here, but it seemed to be the arse end of nowhere. Her stomach tipped again despite herself.
A woman with a horsey face and hair the colour of gutter-water stood in front of them beside a small, wiry man with a flat cap. He was leaning heavily on a stick even though he didn’t look that old. And he was missing a finger. Connie stared, pulling her coat around her. It was cold for April in the shadow of the trees.
‘I’m Mrs Marsh, your Area Rep for the Women’s Timber Corps. Congratulations on your recruitment – the WTC has proven far more successful than we’d imagined. This …’ she tipped her head towards the man ‘… is Mr Watkins, the timber foreman here in the Forest of Dean and your boss for the next few weeks. Training starts tomorrow. Right now, we need to get you gals to the hostel.’ Horsey-woman clapped her hands and the bloke called Watkins moved forward.
What was that behind him? One of the other lumberjills, shiny and keen in her stiff new overalls and beret, beat her to it and called out.
‘But that’s a horse and cart!’
The wiry man spoke up. ‘Course it’s a horse and cart. What d’you expect, a chauffeur-driven car?’
If Connie ended up on that contraption she’d be sick again for sure. She made her way towards the bossy woman who was checking them off on a clipboard as the dozen or so girls clambered into the cart. When Connie didn’t say anything, or move, the woman looked up, brow furrowed in irritation.
‘Name?’
‘Constance Granger. But you don’t need that for this. I’m not getting on behind that thing, and I’m not going to no hostel.’
Horse Face’s pen dug into the clipboard so viciously it was a miracle she didn’t break the nib. ‘All Timber Corps trainees live in the hostel until their permanent locations come through at the end of training. Didn’t you read your recruitment materials?’
Connie almost laughed at that, but this was no laughing matter. She’d heard the ‘permanent billet’ thing before. She’d met Land Girls who’d been stuck in a hostel for months, all crammed in together and freezing their bits off. If they thought she’d put up with that, they had another think coming.
The wiry man stepped forward. He had a limp to go with that missing finger and a faded blue neckerchief that clashed with the brown check of his flat cap. He might not take kindly to her pointing that out, though.
‘Everyone goes to the hostel to begin with. It’s not so bad, you’ll see.’
She scowled at him and stifled a yawn. She was worn out after all the time in this country air. Everywhere she looked there were trees closing in on her. God knows what they were supposed to do with them, in this timber corps of theirs.
‘When do we get out in the woods?’
The wiry man laughed and jutted his chin at the trees all around them. ‘How much more forest do you want? You’ll be out there soon enough. But only if you’re in that hostel tonight.’
She squared up to him with the last of her energy. Nobody told her what she did and didn’t do. ‘What if I won’t?’
Horse Face laughed and Connie fought the urge to pinch her. ‘It’s a proper question. There must be billets somewhere.’
‘Not for you trainees. If you don’t want to stay, that’s up to you, but you’re on the next train out of here, and that’s not till tomorrow, so you’ll have a long night alone on this platform. And there’s rain coming.’ As she turned away, she pointed up at the thickening cloud, low against the endless trees.
Connie didn’t mind a fight, but she knew when she was beaten. And a bed was a bed. She peered at the horse and turned to this Watkins fellow. ‘He’s not going to bite me, is he?’
‘What’s he want to do that for? Better things to eat out here than stroppy wenches.’ But the man’s smile was kind, and for the first time since they’d got off the train her shoulders dropped a tiny bit. This might work out after all.