by Roland Moore
Gwen worked at the factory as a secretary. She had heard that the factory would be closed and that alternative premises would be found for motorbike production. If the Luftwaffe knew the location of the factories, it would only be a matter of time before they came back to finish the job properly. And next time, everyone might not be so lucky.
Joyce and John held hands under the table. Where was the bomb now? And what happened to that brave soldier?
‘I might go for a pint to celebrate not being blown to bits,’ Charlie exclaimed, loading his fork with a large lump of gravy-soaked mash.
‘We’re supposed to be saving!’ Gwen protested.
‘But one pint won’t hurt.’ Charlie looked aggrieved.
‘It wouldn’t be one pint would it?’
‘The trouble is, you don’t trust me, do you?’
‘Not when it concerns you counting how many pints is one!’ Gwen gave him a rueful look.
John and Joyce smiled across the table at one another.
After the meal, the family played pontoon. Doris was cheating but blamed it on her poor memory about whose go it was. No one believed her, but no one like to say anything. They shared a pot of tea and listened to the wireless as they played. It was a nice, relaxing evening after the events of the day.
That night, in their room, John slipped off his braces and prepared to get into his pyjamas. Joyce applied cold cream to her face at the dressing table. Outside in the street, she could hear a woman and man laughing as they tumbled back from the pub. Someone down the road yelled at a yapping dog to shut up. In the room next door, she could hear the sounds of Charlie trying to persuade Gwen to have sex. She wasn’t in the mood for it and he was grumbling. Their voices were muffled by the wall but still audible. It was a familiar argument that Joyce had inadvertently eavesdropped many times before.
‘How are we going to get you pregnant if we never do it?’ Charlie moaned.
‘I don’t want to get pregnant yet. I want us to be in our own place.’
‘Make up your mind. You want a baby, you don’t want one.’
‘I don’t want one until we’re away.’
‘Come on, it’ll take nine months though even if we strike it lucky tonight, won’t it?’
‘We’ll still be here then.’
‘Shut up.’
‘No, you shut up.’
There was what Joyce presumed was an awkward silence. Then she heard them both get into bed and the bedside light being turned off. There were no other noises and she assumed that Charlie was scowling in the dark about his lot. She turned to see John waiting in bed for her. His boyish face was smiling, relieved to be home, but even more relieved to be in their private corner of the house. But there was a weight around his eyes which she hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t the result of having completed four long shifts in a row, as he’d done that many times. It was something else.
‘I was lucky today,’ he whispered as Joyce neared the bed.
She nodded, knowing full well how relieved she’d been when she’d seen he was all right. He turned off the bedside lamp and Joyce slipped into bed next to him and pulled the eiderdown around the pair of them. John hugged her tightly, as if he didn’t want to let her go. Joyce wondered if they would make love tonight. She enjoyed it even if it meant having to be quiet. Even though she recognised the double standard, she’d be mortified if Gwen and Charlie listened in on what they were doing. She kissed John, feeling his warm lips press against hers. But he didn’t respond by kissing her more passionately. Instead, he stroked her hair away from her eyes as they looked at each other, their eyes glinting in the semi-darkness. This was their time, alone with each other; a silent corner of tranquillity in the hustle and bustle of the world’s problems. She knew what was troubling him. She spoke softly in his ear.
‘The war’s getting closer, isn’t it?’
And now, four years later, they were still living through it. She had been right. The war had got closer than she’d ever imagined. The brutal and extensive bombing of Coventry had left the city ablaze and had taken her mother, Gwen and Charlie. The raw desperate pain of the loss had faded, and Joyce felt a strange numbness as she thought about her family. Sometimes she had difficulty picturing their faces and had to concentrate. She wished she had a photograph. Joyce lay in her bed in Pasture Farm, listening to an owl hoot in the distance. She wished that John was back from Leeds. She wished they would be back together again. He was all that mattered now.
Chapter 6
Three days to Christmas.
Siegfried Weber hadn’t slept properly but he found himself rousing from a strange, shallow half-sleep, cold and exhausted with a headache pounding in his temples. The overalls he’d taken from the bookish man’s truck hadn’t given much warmth. Emory and Siegfried slept in a ditch a mile from Pasture Farm. The road was very quiet and the chances of being spotted sleeping in the ditch were slim. The downside had been the inch of icy water in the well and Siegfried had had to arch and wedge his body on the side to avoid it soaking into his clothes. Emory seemed to have had a better night’s sleep, supported by some rocks in his area of the ditch. But they had both woken in a bad mood; grouchy and uncommunicative. As Siegfried went off to see what food he could find, he felt relieved to be moving his legs and taking deep breaths. It was easier to be awake than trying to sleep; listening for every sound; nervous of every shadow. Siegfried jumped over a stile into a field. There was one ray of sunlight in all this. He felt less conspicuous in the boiler suit than his uniform.
The dead man’s clothes.
He’d been haunted all night by thoughts of the bookish man, scrabbling desperately to escape, his body slumping down on the road. He had to think of other thoughts otherwise the images would upset and overwhelm him. He’d fought back tears as he didn’t want Emory to hear him sobbing. It was strange. He’d never thought much about the bombs he’d dropped and the lives that had been lost on the raids. But seeing the grubby and messy death of a man right in front of him had been far more traumatic. Siegfried hoped he’d never have to watch someone die again.
Soon Siegfried came to the fields that bordered the farm. He moved quietly into the yard and reached the chicken coop and knew what he had to do.
After breakfast, as Joyce got her boots on, Esther and Joyce flipped a coin to see who would telephone Henry to invite Connie for the day. The shilling spun on its axis near the edge of the kitchen table before falling king side up. Esther won. She went off to make the call as Joyce headed outside. They had decided to flip a coin as there were two tasks that needed doing. Phoning Connie was the pleasant one. Joyce now had the less-pleasant task of catching one of the chickens. It wasn’t something that she had ever done before. On the rare occasions when they’d eaten chicken, Finch had completed the gruesome task of catching and killing the bird. He knew that they shouldn’t be eating chickens because of the loss of egg production, but he squared it with himself by only taking the poor layers. Mind you, if the War Office found out, he’d be in a lot of trouble.
Joyce watched her breath billow into clouds as she wrapped her coat tightly around her. The freezing fog of last night had given way to a clear, crisp day. Mist had settled in white blankets in the fields around the farm, but Joyce could still make out the smudged charcoal outlines of the trees on the perimeter. She moved across the yard and came to the chicken coop where the two eldest birds were kept.
To her surprise, the door to the cage was open and there were no birds inside. Maybe Finch had forgotten to close it properly? Joyce looked round. Perhaps a fox had got in? Maybe that fox she heard in the night had done this. But she would have expected to see feathers everywhere, the signs of a struggle amid the carnage.
Joyce turned round, looking for the chickens, but there was no sign of them. She headed towards the lower field to see if she could see anything around the side of the house.
Siegfried had a chicken in his arms; holding it tightly so it couldn’t flap its wings again and mak
e that godawful noise. He would have killed it in the coop, but he wasn’t sure if that would make more noise. He walked quickly across the field, his boots finding potholes that were invisible thanks to the mist. His ankle had already wrenched in one and he was going carefully now – despite his speed. He knew he had to get away before the theft was spotted. He knew that he had a plan.
When he got to the stile at the end of the field, he clambered over, nearly losing a grip on the bird. Siegfried adjusted his hand to get a firmer grip as he jumped to the ground on the other side of the stile.
Behind, across the field, he could make out the shape of a woman. Was she wearing a Land Girls great coat? She was looking around, searching for the chickens. Siegfried only had one; the others had escaped and run round the back of the farmhouse. He didn’t want to follow in case he was spotted.
He had a plan.
He knew that he was too hungry to think properly, and that Emory was in too much pain to think straight. So he felt that a hot meal would revive them both. They couldn’t afford to make any more stupid mistakes.
Siegfried didn’t want to kill any more people.
He knew that they didn’t have long before that murder was discovered. Maybe the soldiers had already found the burnt-out truck and the body. His only hope was that they might assume the truck had caught fire and killed its driver in the blaze. He hoped they wouldn’t see the blood further up the country lane that would give a lie to that idea.
He ducked low as he crept away, confident that the mist would obscure him from the girl in the field.
Lady Ellen Hoxley took a small bite from her piece of toast, dusted her lips with a serviette and laid the slice back on the china plate. She was distracted by the morning’s post, a small bundle of different coloured letters sitting alongside The Times. The newspaper spoke of the latest reports from the fronts. She hoped that this infernal war might be over soon. Some recent victories had seemed to be decisive, but she didn’t want to get her hopes up. Ellen picked up the letter knife and ran it along the fold of one of the items of post. It was a letter with a pink envelope.
An invitation to a garden party in Buckinghamshire from Lord and Lady Davenport. Ellen wrinkled her nose. She was under the misapprehension that Lord Davenport had died. She decided she might go if Richard could attend with her. She disliked going to social events on her own. And ones far away from home meant that she could be more open, within the limits of respectability, about her relationship with the dashing doctor.
Where was he?
Another breakfast that he’d missed. Ellen consoled herself that he was fully committed to his job. That was a blessing and she understood that all their jobs had to come first during these difficult times.
She scooped up another letter and ran her knife along it.
A small brown envelope.
Ellen’s mother had had a saying that no good news ever came from a brown envelope. And sure enough, this one yielded a bill to be paid: a piano tuner’s invoice for the work he’d done a couple of weeks ago. It was cheaper than Ellen recalled it would be, so that was a small mercy.
She took another bite of toast before proceeding with the next letter. This one was a letter from her sister, Diana. Ellen flicked through densely written pages of handwritten emotional blackmail.
‘If you could see yourself able to send …’
‘As my sister, I’m sure you don’t want to see me turfed out and …’
‘A cheque for fifty pounds or so would make a massive …’
Ellen folded it up and sighed. She would read it later when she felt more awake.
She picked up the last letter.
Another small brown one. This one had a postmark from the War Office and Ellen had seen enough of this type of letter in her time. A telegram informing of the fate of a loved one.
No good news ever came in a brown letter.
Ellen wouldn’t open it unless it was addressed to her. She flipped it over and looked to see whose name it had on the front. She knew it would be for one of the doctors or nurses that worked in the medical wing.
So it surprised her when she saw the name on the front.
It was addressed to Mrs Joyce Fisher.
Ellen realised that subconsciously she’d taken a deep breath. She didn’t feel like eating the rest of her breakfast.
Connie found that she was too unsteady to perch on one leg while slipping her trousers on, so she sat on the bed and hitched them up one at a time. Even the effort of that left her head swimming. Tentatively, she touched the bandage that was wrapped around her head. She still had a headache, but at least she wasn’t unconscious anymore. With the trousers finished, Connie scooped the tangle of her blouse up and set about finding the arms.
Through the green fabric screen around her bed, she could make out a blurred shape as if someone had left an indistinct charcoal outline of a man. It was Henry. She could tell this by the way he was bobbing around nervously.
‘Are you alright?’ He asked for what seemed the twentieth time.
‘I’m fine. I’m not made of bone china, you know.’
‘But you did have a tumble and you should be careful.’
‘I am being careful. I’m putting my blouse on, not defusing a land mine!’
Henry laughed in that way that told her he found the joke funny on an intellectual level at least. He rarely laughed out of helpless spontaneity. Connie supposed it was his prim and proper nature curtailing any desire to let go and relax. Often, she would make it her unspoken mission to make him laugh. And it was always in the hope that she might one day find a genuine amused reaction from him. One day.
Connie finished doing up her blouse. She’d missed one of the buttons, so it didn’t do up straight, but she felt too tired to restart. She smoothed the front panels down and got off the bed tentatively. She draped her great coat over her shoulders. Her legs felt like they weren’t connected to the rest of her.
‘What are you doing?’ The voice asked from behind the screen.
‘Standing up,’ Connie replied.
‘Let me help.’ Henry’s worried face poked itself around the corner of the curtain. Connie let him put his arm around her shoulder to give her support. She was grateful because she felt like her legs might give way otherwise. Henry collected up the small suitcase near the door. He’d placed all her toiletries and clothes inside, along with the large number of get-well cards that people had left for her.
She opened the door for them both and Henry edged her into the corridor.
A wheelchair was waiting. And Doctor Channing was waiting behind it. ‘I thought this might make things easier. Just for a few days.’
‘I ain’t going in no chair.’ Connie kicked up a fuss. But secretly she felt she had to make a protest before giving in. It’s what they’d expect of her. Probably.
‘Nonsense, it makes sense.’ Henry ran his hand across the cushion of the chair as if to show how comfortable it was.
‘Alright then.’ Connie pulled a disgruntled expression as she let Henry and Channing guide her into the wheelchair. When she was sitting Henry put a hand down to scoop up the brake and pushed her along the corridor. Connie was grateful for the sit-down. Feeling as tired as this, she had no idea when she’d be able to go back to work in the fields.
‘What are your plans?’ Channing opened a door.
‘Well, I’ve got to spend most of the day in the village hall today,’ Henry pushed Connie through.
‘Ah, preparing for the big lunch,’ Channing smiled. ‘And I hope you’ll be taking it easy, Mrs Jameson?’
‘Too right.’
‘Connie’s had an offer.’ He looked at his wife. ‘Esther telephoned earlier to invite you to Pasture Farm. They can look after you while I’m hosting the lunch.’
‘Sounds a good solution.’ Channing smiled.
Connie nodded. Yes, that would be good. It would be nice to see Joyce and the others, catch up on what had been happening.
They reached t
he end of the corridor to find Lady Ellen Hoxley standing in a dark blue coat with a matching bag. She looked deeply troubled.
‘I missed breakfast again, didn’t I?’ Channing was perturbed. But she shook her head. She took him to one side, as Connie and Henry proceeded to make their way along the corridor. She waited for them to get out of earshot and then she showed him the telegram addressed to Joyce Fisher.
‘How do I tell her?’
‘Tell her what?’
‘Tell her that her husband is dead.’
Chapter 7
Where had they gone?
Joyce tramped around the edge of the gardens surrounding the farmhouse, but there was no sign of the missing chickens. Could trekkers have taken them? They were the displaced victims who had lost their homes in German bombing raids. No, that would be unlikely. Trekkers weren’t often seen in these parts, tending to stay closer to the big cities in the hope of casual work.