nickname for Beth that they’d borrowed from Princess Elizabeth, but writing that felt too … well, Maisie wasn’t in the mood to be quite so nice to her family yet.
She wrote instead, “Sending love to you and Beth,” handed over the card, and sprinted for the truck.
It wasn’t comfortable, bouncing around on the hard seats in the back of the Bedford, listening to the engine whine and the gears grind as the driver urged the vehicle higher and higher into the Cairngorm Mountains, and Shandford Lodge was soon far behind them. They passed through pretty villages like Laurencekirk and Aboyne, and eventually reached Ballater, where they dropped off half of the lumberjill load, including Catherine and Anna, who tumbled out with hugs and promises to write.
It was certainly beautiful countryside, the road looping over steep and majestic hills, and through wide swathes of treeless wilderness. Soon, though, a thick fog rolled over the road, blocking the view.
They stopped for the driver to have a smoke, and so they could disappear behind a gorse bush to have a pee. As they climbed aboard again, the driver told them that it wasn’t so much fog as a low cloud on a high road, which crested hill after hill as it rose and fell. Either way, they spent the next part of the journey peering into a thick curtain of mist. The air grew colder, and Maisie was glad to have her heavy WTC-issue coat. She’d been sitting on it to cushion the bumps, but since a bruised bum was preferable to frostbite, she now wrapped the coat tightly around herself, and Dot did the same with hers, as they huddled together on the bench. Had they really swum in a loch only yesterday? Maisie shivered at the thought.
The truck gradually wove down from the mountains, to where the countryside was flatter, warmer, and sunnier, with the road passing through dense woodland shade at times, and at others giving them glances of the sparkling River Spey. They dropped Mairi, Mary, and Cynthia at Advie, near Grantown-on-Spey, which left only Maisie and Dot in the back, and at last, they reached Carrbridge and Maisie felt a rush of excitement. In a matter of minutes, she would be a real lumberjill in a real forest camp, and her real life would begin.
Beyond the last stone house in the village, there was a hand-painted sign pointing to a track going off to the right, which said simply NOFU. Maisie would have thought no more about it but for the appearance of two men walking out from that track and onto the main road, talking animatedly and paying no attention to the three-ton truck hurtling toward them.
The quick-thinking driver threw the wheel, and the Bedford lurched, missing the men, but slamming Dot and Maisie hard against each other. The driver swore loudly, and Maisie heard shouts from behind. She looked back, expecting to see raised fists and angry faces, but instead, the two men were waving enthusiastically and shouting something at the truck. Before Maisie could stop her, Dot was waving back.
“Dot, don’t!” Maisie grabbed her friend’s hand.
“Why not? They were only being friendly.” Dot retrieved her hand from under Maisie’s and started waving again. “See?”
Maisie looked back as one of the men—the darker-haired of the two—lifted one hand in the air, flourishing a lit cigarette, and bent low in a deep, if slightly unsteady, Jacobean bow.
Neither girl could suppress their laughter at this ridiculous gesture, even as they were again bumped together when the driver negotiated a tight turn up another track between high hedges. Back on the road, the blond man shoved against his still-bowing friend, knocking him off-balance, though somehow the dark-haired man managed not to fall. As they disappeared from view behind a hedge, the two of them were wrestling like little boys after school, apparently having already forgotten about the girls in the truck.
Something dawned on Maisie then. She knew the dark-haired man with the broad smile and the deep bow. She’d seen him before, she was sure. After the swerve, the men were already some distance away, so she hadn’t gotten a close look at his face. But his dark hair and his lopsided gait as he walked were triggering something in her mind. And that smile was somehow so familiar.
As they pulled up in front of two large log huts, set at right angles to each other with other smaller huts beyond, the puzzle piece slipped into place. The man looked exactly like the American chap—or had he been Canadian?—who had danced with her a few weeks ago in Brechin, the awful dancer, the one who had left her in the lurch. But what were the chances of it being him? And if it was, what the hell was he doing here?
The driver killed the engine, and Maisie and Dot clambered down, stretching their aching muscles and looking around for any sign of life.
Maisie dismissed the idea that she knew the man. It couldn’t be the same chap—that would be ridiculous. They were hours away from where she’d met him and the coincidence would be too great.
But what had that chap’s name been again? James, or Jack? Maisie tried to tell herself she couldn’t quite remember, all the while knowing that was a lie.
She knew his name. It had been John. John Lindsay.
Just then, a girl appeared, coming at a trot around the corner of the farthest hut. She looked to be only a year or two older than Dot, and she was tall, with a wide smile and a healthy tan, her brown hair loosely plaited into two thick braids. She was wearing WTC overalls, but also a brown leather jerkin, sleeveless and with wide pockets, out of which were hanging several leather straps.
Pulling the straps out of her pocket, she smiled and waved at them as she approached.
“Hello, everyone!” she called as if to a crowd, instead of only three people, and Maisie could now see that what she held was a horse’s bridle. “Come on, let’s find you somewhere to dump your things. You all look exhausted, and I bet none of you would refuse a cup of tea. No sugar, I’m afraid. We haven’t had any for a couple of weeks now.”
She picked up Dot’s suitcase and made for the hut on the left. “But we did get some honey on the sly from Mr. Macallan at the farm this morning, and that’s almost as good, isn’t it?”
She turned and grinned over her shoulder, clearly delighted to have found a way around the strict sugar-rationing rules. Dot followed along, apparently so mesmerized by the girl, she didn’t even object to the girl carrying her bag.
At the door of the hut, the girl turned, seeing only then that the driver had followed too.
“Sorry, love!” she said to him cheerfully. “You can’t come in here, since it’s our dormitory hut, but if you go into the mess hut through that door there, I’ll get this pair settled and come over to get a brew on. Is that all right?”
The driver nodded, and as he walked in the direction she had pointed, he pulled cigarettes and matches from his pocket and lit up.
Turning back, the girl said, “As I said, this hut is where we sleep, that one there is the mess hut and kitchen, and then at the back is the lavatory and shower block, or the Blue Lagoon, as we like to call it around here.”
Maisie and Dot laughed at that and the girl looked delighted.
“Oh, almost forgot! My name’s Nancy, and today, I’m your Auchterblair welcoming committee. On any normal day, though, I look after the horses.” She waggled the bridle at them. “Actually, only one horse now, since we lost Elsie.”
“Lost her?” cried Dot. “Oh no! How did she die?”
“Oh, no, she didn’t die. No, we lost her to the camp at Grantown. But we’ve still got Clyde. You’ll meet him in the morning, sweet old chap.” Nancy
