Yank.
And in West Palm Beach, Florida, she went to the hairdresser, had manicures, and he took her shopping, promising her the moon when his divorce was final and even more than the moon as soon as the war was over.
His house—now all hers—was filled with paintings, books and memories. The sunlight filtered through the French doors which led out onto the lanai overlooking the gardens where the lawn fell away down to Lake Worth. She lounged in a wicker chaise under the gnarled sea grape aware that an occasional submarine was cruising the Inland Passage south to Miami. She felt personally protected by the superior American Navy. And she was grateful not to be in gloomy Scotland because everything was bigger, brighter, better in the States.
In early 1944, Roosevelt was slowly lifting the rationing that had been incredibly austere just a year earlier. Sugar could now be had but decent Scotch was still impossible to find because, she had heard, that cases and cases of the lovely stuff were stockpiled in Cornwall for the invading Allies’ pleasures. Phyllis knew she’d have to wait for the end of the war to see Scotch again. She missed it more than the meat and butter.
But she knew and everyone knew that D-Day was imminent, huge Life magazine photos of the accumulation of men, armaments and ammunition were not just published, they were flaunted: Just take a gander at this, Krauts. We’ll get every last bloody one of you.
She gloated along with the Americans, clinking her highball (a distilled-in-the-USA rum), saying things like ATTA BOY, and A-1 and GEE-WHIZ. She felt blessed to be an American now and no longer just a refugee from her viper’s nest of a home in Aberdeen.
“Okey dokey,” she said and took a sip, shuddering at the dark memories around her Scottish family in Aberdeen.
A short year before, in need of a job and out of cash, she had found herself in Canada where the Canadian National Railway had deposited her: Dawson Creek, Mile One of the Al-Can Highway, the Trans-Canada to Alaska super road. Finding work wasn’t difficult to come by as even the Canadians had sent their prime men to fight for freedom. On the second day, she had been taken on as a receptionist for a small town lawyer named Bailey in Dawson Creek when Russell pushed through the office door on serious business. It had been a muddy spring in 1943, “The Road” (as they called the Al-Can Highway) had been completed to Big Delta, Alaska. By this time, the men had all been moved north, leaving a wake of abandoned road equipment littering the muddy countryside.
The place looked derelict and the pay wasn’t great. Then in he came.
She remembered glancing up when Russell strode over to her desk, breezing past three disheveled workers who were seated along the walls, obviously waiting to see the same man.
“I need to see Bailey right away,” he demanded.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said slowly, taking note, for he was clean shaven, an alien here in Shit-Creek Canada where razor blades were unknown. Both the town and the men had the look of utter collapse; the residue of men working the lumber camps rarely bathed.
The Road had been completed, 1,590 miles in eight months and eleven days—an incredible feat for National Defense. When it was over, 10,000 troops had scrapped their mess tents and bulldozers and had moved on. The bone yard of kinked refuse they left behind was a veritable semblance of the war—hostile, rusting and dangerous. Chucked supplies that had been double-ordered; the wastage was huge. Blankets burnt, road equipment driven off precipices, kerosene heaters bulldozed under while prefabricated huts had been set afire. Dawson Creek was now a ghost town of empty barracks and flattened campgrounds. A parts yard for scrap metal. It was the picture of war.
When the road dust settled, Bailey’s legal business picked up steam—bankruptcies, and wills. Prostitutes and thieves now piled into his cramped office. He’d been the one to spot the advantage of owning a lumber camp to feed The Road. Highways always require nearby lumber, and government checks did not bounce. He didn’t have to look farther than the closest trout stream to find backing for such a profitable enterprise. Russell Watson Barclay stood midstream in his waders with a good head on his shoulders and money in his pocket.
Bailey had found his mark.
“He knows me. Tell him Barclay is here. Get on it, please. I’m in a hurry.”
“I do not believe you have an appointment, Mr. Barclay.”
“All hell’s breaking loose at the camp. Bailey and I own it, fifty-fifty.”
“Please have a seat. These others have appointments and you will simply have to wait your turn, Mr. Barclay.” She guessed he might be forty, not quite old enough to be her father. His younger brother, perhaps, and she smiled at the thought. He might even be a naughty uncle.
“Miss…”
“Phyllis.”
“Phyllis, I need Bailey. I need him now, on the double.” He must have been impressed by her hair. Back in Scotland red hair was not exceptional but everyone here in Canada commented on it. But she was done with Aberdeen. Now she needed a new pasture.
“Please have a seat, as I said.” She stopped midsentence because his eyes were a leaf-green color, greener than her own.
“It won’t be long,” she added, suddenly moved to placate him.
“If he cans you for this, for making me wait when, as I said, all hell is breaking loose in camp, the cooks walked out, the men all laid down their tools.” he paused for a reaction and got none.
“As I said, I guarantee you’re going to get fired and that you’re going to need a meal, so I’ll take you out for a steak. Let him know I’m here. Please, Phyllis. Be sweet now.”
Then he added. “If not, I’ll see that you’re fired.”
She was young, twenty-one, and she had not run up against privilege before. Not in this manner, at least. He had turned it into a contest. “Just take a seat, sir,” she said.
“I’m still buying you dinner.” And so he sat down, staring at her, muttering to himself. Eventually, his turn arrived and he strode past her, his back straight. As it turned out, he had been a welterweight champion at Princeton when Dempsey and Tunney were stars. That alone accounted for a great deal.
Both he and Bailey emerged from their conference quite agitated as they passed words between themselves regarding the burgeoning strike. Barclay then called across the now empty waiting room, “What brings you here to Dawson Creek anyway, Phyllis?”
“Asthma,” she replied, leaving off the part about lacking the fare to make it all the way to Vancouver. That and the unpleasantness over an affair with Roger, a married man in Aberdeen. Her past year’s history teacher, in point of fact.
“I’m ready to make good on my promise,” he said, aware that she had not yet been sacked.
“Find a replacement for her,” he advised Bailey well within her hearing. “If you can.”
For dinner, he took her to the only restaurant in town. It had a single sign in the window, so it was called the Help Wanted and it was little more than a truck stop for the lumber trucks. Everyone always needed help. But the cash for slinging hash was low, and what women were there were all prostitutes. A dollar a minute, easy pay for something that wasn’t even work. The men chose between lumberjack and soldier. The women opted for whatever paid quickest.
She
