Izzy's War

by Isla Dewar

  Harry was a Clydesdale, and seemed immense – seventeen hands. It turned to look at Elspeth, showing the whites of its eyes. She stepped back. Frazer pushed her forwards. ‘Don’t let her see you’re afraid. She’ll take advantage. And watch your feet. If she stands on yer toe, you’ll know all about it.’

  Elspeth asked if that’s what happened to him. ‘I’ve noticed you limp.’

  ‘Yes. Broke my foot.’

  ‘Goodness. Didn’t the doctor set it properly, then?’

  ‘Doctor? What doctor. I couldn’t afford a doctor. Just kept my boot on, that’s the best way to fix a foot.’

  Elspeth stepped nearer to the horse, looked her in the eyes.

  ‘That’s the way. You’ll do fine. Better than that Avril. She was a bit scatty. Though, it’s a pity she died.’

  ‘Avril isn’t dead.’

  ‘No. But she’s got TB. She’s as good as dead.’ Frazer pointed to the floor, jerked his head towards the door. ‘Get on with your work.’

  Elspeth, bent double, heaving a shovel-load of dung out through the stable door, pointed out that she’d never groomed a horse in her life.

  Frazer said he could see that. ‘City girl. No use to man nor beast. I’ll get you a box.’

  Thinking that perhaps there was something she should have brought with her and hadn’t, Elspeth said she’d nothing to put in a box.

  ‘It’s to stand on. How else is a wee thing like you going to reach up to a horse the size of Harry.’

  Days faded into more days. Elspeth got used to her new routine – up before dawn, walking to the stables, lighting her way with a tilley lamp, shovelling shit before breakfast. By April, the world was softer, warmer, greener, birds sang and Elspeth was working well at her new job. She loved her horse, spoke to her, sang to her, asked Frazer why she’d been given a boy’s name.

  ‘Don’t like girly things,’ he told her.

  Sweeping Harry’s flank with a handful of straw, Elspeth said, ‘Ah. So is Frazer your first name or your last?’

  Frazer said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, which?’ Elspeth asked.

  ‘Both.’

  ‘You’re Frazer Frazer?’

  ‘Yes, but I only use one of them. Don’t need them both.’ He was leaning at end of the stall watching Elspeth work. ‘It was my mother did it to me. She always wanted a boy called Frazer, so when I was born that’s what she called me even though my last name already was Frazer. See women, daft, all of them.’

  ‘Oh, you know that’s not true,’ said Elspeth. She started humming a Mozart aria from The Marriage of Figaro. ‘So, when I’m talking to you, am I calling you by your first name or your last?’

  ‘Depends,’ said Frazer. ‘If you keep asking me bloody stupid questions, it’s my last. If you sing that song again, it can be my first.’ He gave her a swift happy sight of his two teeth.

  Elspeth smiled back. ‘You like Mozart, then?’

  ‘Seems like I do. Who’d have thought it?’ Then, in case she got too familiar, he said, ‘Don’t forget it’s Friday. You take the dung to Duncan.’

  The days were longer now. The girls worked till five in the afternoon, sleeves rolled up, arms showing the first blush of sunburn. Evenings, they strolled by the river that ran through a small meadow at the edge of the forest, yelling encouragement at the Newfies who stood on the bridge hollering and hallooing, beating their chests before diving into the water ten feet below.

  ‘Showing off,’ Elspeth said. ‘I’m not impressed.’

  ‘I am,’ said Lorna. ‘Some of these men have lovely bodies. I like a man with a lovely body.’ She sighed. ‘Not that any of them would look at me. Who wants a deformed woman?’

  Lorna had returned to the camp a few days after losing her finger. Unfit for work, she’d spent two weeks hanging about with very little to do, waiting for her hand to heal. Now she was back in the forest, Duncan had moved her to the roadside, measuring timber for pit props, saying she wasn’t to be trusted with an axe.

  ‘That’s one good thing to come out of all this. No more snedding.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Elspeth. ‘Look on the bright side. Besides you’re not deformed. There’s just a little bit less of you.’

  ‘Still,’ said Lorna. She looked over at Tyler Bute. He yelled at Elspeth to look at him and, wearing only a pair of underpants, launched himself off the bridge, clutching his knees as he hurtled downwards, hoping for a spectacular splash. He landed. A spray of water drenched the people on the banks.

  ‘Fool,’ said Elspeth. ‘What gets into men? They think because they can leap off a bridge you are going to sleep with them?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lorna. ‘It’s optimistic. I like it. At least someone jumps into the water for you. Who is going to do that for a woman with one finger missing?’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Elspeth. ‘You’ve got a lovely body.’ She nudged Lorna’s boobs. ‘You think a man’s going to be interested in your fingers when you’ve got them?’

  They wandered on, watched a trout jump, silvering out of the water, catching flies.

  ‘At least our snedding days are over,’ said Lorna.

  ‘Thank God,’ said Elspeth. They sighed. Elspeth sang a snedding song, ‘I’ll never sned again. Unless I sned for you-oo-oo.’ Lorna linked arms and joined in.

  On Friday, as always, Elspeth joined Lorna for lunch. The horse came with her, grazing on the trackside grass, and, from time to time, nudging Elspeth for the carrot she knew Elspeth had in her pocket. ‘Steal them from the cookhouse,’ she said. ‘I’m hoping to diminish supplies so they have to get something else to put in our sandwiches.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Lorna, ‘I’m getting quite partial to carrot sandwiches.’

  ‘I’m not,’ said Elspeth. ‘When this war is over, I’m never going to eat carrots again.’

  ‘They’re good for you,’ said Lorna.

  ‘So are cheese and eggs and smoked salmon and lots of other things that can go in sandwiches.’

  Lorna agreed. Though, she’d never eaten smoked salmon in her life. They sat on a log, swigging their tea, looking about them, enjoying the day. From somewhere far off, a cuckoo called. Nearby, birds chirruped in the trees, high above a buzzard cried.

  ‘I think I’m going to quite like working out here in the summer,’ Elspeth said.

  She loved working with her horse. She ran along beside it, pulling logs from the clearing where they were felled to the trackside where they were measured and loaded onto a lorry. Her only worry was that the horse knew the job so well, she felt she was hardly needed. It knew where to go each morning, and contentedly trotted back and forth all day. This job, after months of snedding, was bliss.

  ‘I’ve got a date tonight,’ said Lorna.

  ‘Really, who with?’

  ‘Freddie Tait.’

  ‘A Newfie,’ said Elspeth. ‘I love a Newfie, a bonnie bonnie Newfie,’ she sang.

  Lorna smiled.

  ‘Where are you going? Dinner at the Savoy, then dancing at a club, and you in your best evening dress?’ asked Elspeth.

  ‘We’ll probably walk in the woods. Maybe explore some old track we don’t use at the moment. I thought I might wear my dungarees, though I’ll roll them up. Show a bit of leg.’

  ‘That’ll do the trick. Men can’t resist a woman in rolled-up dungarees. You might get a cuddle.’

  ‘I like a cuddle,’ said Lorna.

  ‘So do I,’ said Elspeth.

  ‘You could come if you want,’ Lorna offered.

  ‘What? And play gooseberry. I don’t think so. Besides it’s Friday. And, as you know,’ she jumped up, spread her arms and shouted, ‘FRIDAY NIGHT IS DUNG NIGHT.’

  Lorna asked what Duncan did with all that horse manure.

  ‘Who knows?’ said Elspeth. ‘Every time I take a new load down to his cottage, the old load is gone.’

  After supper, Elspeth loaded the barrow – old, wooden, chipped green paint – with the usual mix of dung and straw and set
off for Duncan’s cottage. It was a downhill journey, and the load heavy. The barrow was slightly out of control. It wobbled. But, the air was warm, balmy. Birds sang – a blackbird, a thrush, somewhere. There were rustlings, stirrings in the forest either side of the road. Deer, Elspeth thought, but they wouldn’t emerge till after dark. She sang her trundling song, ‘My Old Man Said Follow the Van’.

  Duncan wasn’t home when she arrived. She emptied the barrow at the usual spot, looking round from time to time. The silence here unnerved her. The breeze shifting in the trees and the wood pigeons calling somehow made it louder. She had the feeling someone was watching her. Relieved to be finished, she started back to the stables. A short way up the road, Tyler was waiting for her. ‘Come to help,’ he said.

  ‘You’d have been more welcome if you’d helped when the barrow was full.’

  ‘True,’ he said. ‘But I can help now. Get in, I’ll wheel you home.’

  ‘I’m not getting in that. It’s been full of dung. It stinks.’

  He had to admit that was true. He disappeared into the forest and came back with several branches of larch which he laid inside the barrow. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Soft and sweet-smelling. Now get in.’

  Elspeth was tired, and a ride up the hill to the stables was too tempting to resist. She climbed in. The larch was fresh, but there was still a distinct smell of horse dung. As Tyler wheeled the barrow, she lay back and watched the clouds and treetops passing above. ‘I like this.’

  He ran, tipping the barrow forwards, then zigzagged back and forth across the road. Elspeth squealed.

  ‘Do you like picnics?’ he asked.

  ‘I love picnics.’

  ‘After this, we’ll have a proper Newfoundland picnic.’

  They left the barrow at the stables. Tyler led her to a small track, the haunt of deer and rabbits, just beyond where the horses were kept. ‘Come.’

  The woods were deep and dense. The only sounds were the odd snapping of twigs underfoot. The smell of pine was thick in the air. Elspeth asked if he knew where he was going. ‘We could get lost in here.’

  ‘I was born and raised in forests, worked in them all my life. I never lose my way.’

  They emerged at a clearing, with the river running through it. There was an area of lush grass, marked by the tramplings of deer headed to the water to drink. The river, which rushed and gurgled further down, was deep and still here. ‘Good for fish,’ said Tyler. ‘And swimming.’

  ‘You swim here?’

  ‘Sometimes, but not tonight. Tonight, we’ll eat.’ He pointed to four small trout lying in a pan on by the bank. ‘Caught them before I came to get you.’

  ‘Isn’t that poaching? You could get jail for that.’

  ‘Only if you tell.’

  She shrugged. She wouldn’t tell. She wanted to eat a freshly fried fish.

  ‘And before you ask,’ Tyler said, ‘the pan is mine. Bought it in the village.’

  Elspeth nodded, then sat on the grass, leaned back and looked around. ‘This is a beautiful spot. How did you find it?’

  ‘I told you, I know trees and rivers. I followed the deer trails.’

  ‘How clever,’ said Elspeth.

  He made a ring of stones in the sandy gravel by the river’s edge, and built a fire in the middle of it. ‘Dry wood,’ he said, ‘the secret of life. Brought it with me.’ He took the fish from the pan, carried them to the water’s edge, gutted them and washed them in the river. ‘Now we wait till the flames die down. Then we cook. Then we eat.’

  She asked how he came to be working in these forests.

  ‘I heard about it on the radio. They needed foresters over here, and I thought it would be a good chance to see a bit of the world and earn some money. Two dollars a day.’

  ‘Two dollars a day,’ said Elspeth. ‘That’s a lot more than me.’

  He shrugged. ‘I’m a trained forester. Why did you come here?’

  ‘Wanted to do something for the war effort. So I joined the Forestry Commission. I liked the uniform and rather fancied being called a lumberjill. I had no idea how hard the work would be. Didn’t think it through. Then, I never think anything through.’

  ‘Do you regret it?’

  ‘When it rains. When it’s cold. It’s not so bad now the weather has turned. When this war’s over, I’m going to have a long deep hot bath, stay in it for hours and hours. I’ll eat oranges and listen to Mozart.’

  They sat and watched the fire. Something moved in the trees behind them. ‘What’s that?’ asked Elspeth.

  ‘A deer,’ Tyler told her. ‘Waiting for us to go away so he can come drink.’ He put the pan on the embers.

  ‘It didn’t sound like a deer,’ said Elspeth. ‘It sounded more clumsy. A twig snapping, trees moving.’

  ‘It was a deer.’

  A trout jumped out of the river, catching flies that danced on the surface. ‘The one that got away,’ said Elspeth.

  ‘You only take what you need. Leave the rest for another day.’

  The air filled with the smell of wood smoke and frying trout. Using the fat blade of his knife, Tyler flipped them over. ‘When I get home, I’ll work in the forest. And on my days off, I’ll do this. Cook fish by the river. Don’t think I’ll ever leave the place again. There, all done.’ He came to sit on the grass beside her, put the pan between them. ‘You’ll have to use your fingers.’

  She tried to break off a piece of pink flesh. Pulled back, blew on her fingers. ‘Hot.’

  He took up a small sliver, blew on it and put it in her mouth. ‘How’s that.’

  ‘Lovely. No plates, no forks. But this is perfect.’

  ‘Just a little water to cook the fish, catch the juices, stop it sticking to the pan.’

  She took another piece and then another. Behind them, a small wind shifted through the trees, somewhere far away a fox barked. Trout jumped. Birds sang their last songs of the day. They sat close, sharing their food, licking their fingers.

  ‘Pity we don’t have any wine,’ said Elspeth. ‘Chilled Chablis would be wonderful with this.’

  ‘No, I don’t have wine. But I do have –’ he brought a flat quarter-bottle from his hip pocket ‘– whisky. A mug for you, I’ll use the bottle.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Elspeth.

  He poured a measure into his tin mug, gave it to Elspeth. As she lifted it to her lips, he put his hand over the top. ‘A toast. Can’t drink without a toast.’

  ‘Cheers,’ she said tilting her mug at him. She drank.

  ‘Cheers? Cheers? That’s not a toast.’

  ‘Well, bottoms up, down the hatch, whatever.’ She drank again. Drained the mug.

  He poured her another measure.

  ‘Now a toast from me, a Newfie toast.’ He raised the bottle. ‘I bows towards you –’ he bowed ‘– I nods according –’ he nodded ‘– I catches your eye and I smiles.’

  Elspeth smiled back. They drank. The heat of the fire, the food, the soft evening and the whisky made Elspeth feel giddy. She wiped her fingers on her dungarees. ‘Now I’ll smell of fish and dung.’

  He leaned in close, put his lips on her neck, breathed her in. ‘You smell of fish and dung and water and pine and of being a woman. You smell of being alive.’ He kissed her.

  She forgot her vow never to get involved with a man while working here and kissed him back. Oh, it was good. To be touched, to feel arms round her, stroking her back, fingers through her hair, a body pressed to hers, lips on her lips, his tongue gently in her mouth. She pressed herself against him. Couldn’t get close enough.

  ‘Wait, wait,’ she said. She unclasped the top of her dungarees, slipped out of her working shirt and held out her arms to him. He threw his shirt across the grass, took her to him.

  It was late, the sun sending out last flares of light, a defiant glow before it slipped below the horizon. An owl called, a long eerie note. As Tyler pulled her down onto the grass on top of him, Elspeth opened her eyes. She saw a shape amongst the trees high o
n the hill on the other side of the river, and a piercing glint, final shafts of sunlight reflected in glass. Binoculars, Elspeth thought. But she was too far gone, filled with lust, too eager to make love here in this lush green place and, certainly, too heady with whisky, to care. But, definitely, someone was watching them.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Pork Chops to the Rescue

  TODAY WAS A happy day. Izzy had flown into Yorkshire, delivered a Spitfire, flirted over a cup of tea and sandwich with some Canadian airmen, then been driven ten miles to another base for another Spitfire, which was to be taken to Lichfield, then an Oxford to be taken to Skimpton to be moved on tomorrow. The weather was idyllic, the sky a brazen blue and hardly a whisper of wind. Izzy hummed ‘Whistle While You Work’, admired the view and felt blessed.

  She checked her watch. She was an hour ahead of schedule, and decided to take a detour past the American hospital, scene of her pork-chop orgy. She still felt embarrassed about that.

  She had written to Captain Jimmy, thanking him for his hospitality and inviting him to visit her. He’d accepted and, a fortnight ago, they’d spent the day together in Skimpton. He’d arrived shortly before noon. They’d eaten lunch in the Golden Mallard Hotel. This time, sharing a meal, Izzy had been careful about her eating habits and had politely consumed a modest portion of turbot. Though she cursed herself for being too enthusiastic about the pudding – trifle.

  Afterwards, they’d hired a boat and rowed up the river. Izzy sat at the back, trailing her fingers in the water, wondering, since this was fun, why she’d never thought to do it before. He spoke about his plans for after the war – the house he was going to build not far from his parents’ home, the horses he was going to breed. He was going to keep his life simple, enjoy each day as it came. Izzy, as always, was vague about her plans, mostly, because she didn’t have any.

  Back at the cottage, they’d kissed. Standing at the foot of the stairs, clinging to one another, she’d noticed how expertly he’d run his hand down her back, teased his tongue into her mouth, run his hand back up her back and over her breast, and thought that he was a lot better at this than she was.