Christmas on the Home Front

by Roland Moore

  ‘It is clear outside. It is just these two.’

  ‘So treat your injuries, whatever they are; make contact with your people and get out of our lives.’ As the words hit home, Joyce saw Siegfried offer a small grimace.

  Perhaps she’d gone too far.

  Emory strode over to her and yanked her head back by the hair. Joyce let out a gasp.

  ‘You will speak when I ask you something. Not until then. Do you understand me?’

  Joyce nodded.

  Emory released his grip and smiled, perhaps enjoying his power over her. Joyce didn’t like men like him.

  ‘Now, you will help me with my injury.’

  As if to back up this request, Siegfried produced the first aid kit from the cupboard and placed it on the kitchen table in front of Joyce. Now it was time for Joyce to test the skills she had learnt volunteering for shifts at Hoxley Manor.

  ‘It’s best if we do this in the bathroom.’

  ‘You will not try any tricks. Otherwise the other woman will suffer. Do you understand?’

  ‘I understand.’ Joyce kept Emory’s gaze.

  Emory indicated for Siegfried to untie her and Joyce felt the shirt go limp around her wrists. She flexed her hands, getting the circulation back into them. Emory nodded for her to stand. Joyce moved away from the table, taking the first aid kit with her. Emory followed her up the cramped staircase.

  The bathroom was cramped with both of them in it. She turned her head as Emory struggled to take off his shirt. It wasn’t prudishness that made her look away, rather a desire not to engage in any sort of familiarity with this vile man. She could smell body odour and dampness. How long had he been sleeping rough? Joyce couldn’t remember when she had seen the firefight in the sky that had brought their plane down, but she thought it had been several days ago.

  He sat on the toilet seat and proffered his right arm towards her. The forearm was relatively unharmed, but from near the elbow joint the skin was peeling and blistered, turning brown and then black as it neared the shoulder. The bicep had a circle of shiny blood in the centre and Joyce supposed that it might be a puncture wound. She couldn’t see anything sticking out of it, and mentally heard Doctor Channing saying that such a wound was a clean wound. It was difficult to know how much of the upper arm was dirt, skin stained with aviation oil or actual burn damage. Joyce knew that her first job would be to wash it to find out.

  ‘This might hurt.’ Joyce ran water into the sink.

  ‘It had better not.’ Emory’s left hand held the pistol against his thigh, the barrel rubbing against the fabric of his trousers in agitation and nervousness.

  ‘I will try my best. But I’ve got to clean this.’

  Tentatively, Joyce soaked a flannel in the basin. Was it too hot? Too cold? She knew she had to get it the correct temperature. She ran some more cold into the sink, in case.

  Joyce pressed the flannel against Emory’s upper arm, avoiding the actual wound. He winced. He pushed the barrel of the gun hard against his leg.

  ‘Sorry.’

  Emory nodded, accepting that she hadn’t applied undue pressure on purpose.

  As carefully as she could, Joyce washed the arm, dabbing at the more damaged parts of the skin. She pressed the flannel near to the wound and Emory clenched his teeth to cope with the pain.

  ‘I’m going to have to do that bit.’

  ‘All right.’

  As Joyce cleaned the biggest wound, the water in the basin tinged red as she squeezed out the flannel.

  ‘How did you do it?’

  ‘When we were shot down. The fuel. It got onto me as it caught fire. There was no way to get it off. I patted at it; tried to put it out. But I couldn’t really do it until I was on the ground.’

  Joyce nodded. Now wasn’t the time to tell him that her John had been in the RAF.

  A rush of adrenaline turned her stomach. She couldn’t wait until this was over so she could get to Leeds and find out that it had all been a mistake. Yes, that’s what she had to focus on. She’d hold onto that thought and in the meantime, she would do all she could to get these airmen to leave Pasture Farm.

  ‘How is it?’ Emory asked. For the first time since she’d met him, she saw a hint of vulnerability in his eyes.

  ‘Honest answer?’

  Emory nodded, his face turning serious.

  ‘It needed dressing sooner. I think it may be infected. See the redness here? It hurts you every time I touch it, doesn’t it?’

  ‘You must treat it.’

  ‘I don’t have the medicines.’

  ‘Then you will find some alcohol or something and wash it with that!’ Emory was breathing heavily. Joyce didn’t know whether he was angry at the diagnosis or angry at her lack of medical supplies. Perhaps he was angry at everything.

  ‘I’ll have to go downstairs.’

  ‘Hurry. And be quick.’

  Joyce ran downstairs. Esther was still tied to her chair and Siegfried was standing near her. Both of them looked round at her sudden reappearance.

  ‘I need some carrot whiskey. For the wound.’

  ‘In there.’ Esther nodded towards the cupboard under the stairs.

  Joyce ran to it and flung the door open. A bottle of carrot whiskey was near the front, nestled next to a mop and bucket. Joyce went to take it, but then she spotted a small tin drum of cleaning fluid. She’d seen Finch use it to clean his tractor parts at the kitchen table before mealtimes, much to Esther’s annoyance. It was dangerous stuff, and Finch, not the most safety conscious of men, always wore gloves.

  But the cleaning fluid was orange.

  The same colour as the carrot whiskey.

  Joyce risked a glance back towards the kitchen.

  ‘Have you found some?’ Siegfried called.

  ‘Just looking,’ Joyce replied, playing for time. Could she tip some cleaning fluid into the whiskey bottle without them hearing? Could she then use it to overpower Emory and enable her to grab his gun?

  Siegfried moved towards her.

  No, no, no. There might not be time.

  ‘I’ll find it in a moment.’ Joyce could glimpse Esther out of the corner of her eye. Esther looked terrified. It was one thing Joyce risking her own life. What did she have to lose? But it wasn’t fair to risk Esther’s.

  Joyce took the bottle of carrot whiskey and closed the cupboard. She went back upstairs and cleaned Emory’s wound as best as she could, before drying it on a clean towel. Then she dressed it using the gauze and bandages from the medical kit. She was shocked to see how much she needed to cover the area, but her patchwork of lint squares eventually did the job; a makeshift eiderdown of first aid. Joyce taped a bandage to the gauze, got Emory to lift his arm, and wrapped it round and round until it was secure. Emory was wincing in pain. It hurt him to raise his right arm. She’d remember that it hurt him. It might be useful.

  Finally, Joyce finished with two large safety pins to keep everything in place.

  ‘Better?’ She asked.

  Emory nodded, offering no concession of a smile. Joyce supposed she had done as he had asked, that’s all. As far as this man was concerned, she was viewed as ‘the enemy’. Joyce viewed him the same way. The boy had some compassion, but this man was like the Nazis in the public service films they saw in the screenings at Hoxley Manor.

  Joyce handed Emory his shirt. She made a big thing of cleaning the sink and tidying up her supplies so she didn’t have to help him on with it. He fastened the buttons, straining to get them across his belly. The shirt didn’t fit him. Why didn’t it fit?

  Stolen clothes.

  Of course! John had had to ditch his RAF uniform when he was in France. These men had done the same. But where had Emory and Siegfried’s clothes come from? She hoped they were stolen from a washing line.

  By the time, Joyce and Emory got downstairs, the kitchen window showed a grey-blue sky as evening started to fall. The frame of the window was etched in condensation. Joyce realised that Esther had been freed from
her bindings and was heating up some soup. Siegfried sat at the table, looking exhausted and distant. Emory rummaged through the drawers in the Welsh Dresser and found some of Finch’s cigars. Joyce knew that these were dated from before the war had started. She was never sure what special occasion Finch was saving them for …

  He picked up Esther’s matches and lit one, inhaling deeply. He coughed slightly but looked pleased, relaxed, as smoke filled the kitchen. He offered the box of cigars.

  ‘Come on.’ Emory billowed smoke, ‘It’s nearly Christmas Day.’

  He seemed to find this amusing and coughed as he laughed. Joyce didn’t feel like laughing. If they didn’t leave, this looked like being the worst Christmas of her life.

  Chapter 9

  As the grey streaks in the sky slowly turned to black and people around the country thought about their preparations for Christmas day, Joyce helped Esther to wash up the soup bowls at the sink. They had been untied on the understanding that any resistance would be met with considerable force. Joyce had promised to behave, even though she wasn’t sure if she could keep that promise. The two men had left them momentarily. Emory had locked the back door and taken the key in his trouser pocket. They were in the parlour and Joyce could hear their mumbled conversation but couldn’t see what they were doing. They talked German when they were together. Every now and then, Siegfried would glance around the door to see what the women were doing.

  Esther hadn’t spoken since they’d been alone. She seemed transfixed by scrubbing at the bowl in her hand, a repetitive and perhaps reassuring action. Joyce took the bowl from her, smiled and dried it.

  ‘We’ll get through this,’ Joyce whispered.

  Esther nodded, but it was obvious she didn’t believe her.

  ‘We’ve got through so much before,’ Joyce added.

  ‘How can you be like this?’ Esther voice was cracking. ‘What with getting the telegram and everything? I should be the one pulling you – pulling you through it. Not the other way around.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Joyce placed the bowl on the counter. She didn’t feel anything. Not yet. Maybe it was all on hold and the dam would break later. For now, she wouldn’t give those men the satisfaction of seeing her vulnerability. It would all be under lock and key until they were gone. They didn’t deserve to see her thinking about the fate of her beloved John. But did she believe they could get through this?

  The farm had never seemed such a remote place and they had never seemed so alone.

  But they wouldn’t be alone!

  Connie was coming tomorrow.

  The thought panicked Joyce. They couldn’t let her come here.

  ‘We’ve got to warn Connie.’

  ‘Oh my god, yes.’ Esther’s eyes darted around as she thought of a solution.

  Joyce knew that the last thing Connie would want was to be confronted by the men who had left her in hospital. But how could they warn her? They couldn’t get to the telephone and it was doubtful that one of them could run the length of the yard to the gate without being shot in the back.

  ‘What are you women talking about?’ Siegfried ambled into the kitchen, breaking up Joyce’s thoughts.

  ‘Nothing,’ Esther looked up.

  ‘What are you doing in there?’ Joyce indicated the parlour.

  ‘What did my commander say about asking questions?’

  ‘It’s just I might be able to help.’ Joyce looked him straight in the eye. Siegfried shifted uneasily. Joyce enjoyed that she could cause this reaction. After a moment’s thought and a quick glance back towards the parlour, Siegfried spoke.

  ‘We are converting the radio to transmit. We need some other components.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘You want to help us?’ Suspicion tinged his voice.

  Joyce nodded. ‘Sooner you transmit, sooner you get out of our house. Why wouldn’t I want to help?’ She was surprised at herself now. She suspected that such an attitude would have earned her punishment from the older man, like before, but the younger one seemed kinder. Could he be their key to ending this nightmare?

  Siegfried left the room. Joyce heard the men speaking in German, presumably discussing her offer. Emory raised his voice; he didn’t seem happy at his junior officer taking advice. After a moment, both of them came back. Emory’s shirt sleeves were rolled up and he had a piece of electrical wire in his hand. He mopped the perspiration from his brow with the back of his left hand. Joyce noted that he was keeping his right hand lowly slung. It was clearly still hurting him.

  ‘You will get us the things we need?’

  ‘If we’ve got them, yes. Finch has got all sorts of junk out in his shed.’

  ‘Finch?’

  ‘The man who runs this place.’ She’d mentioned his name before, but they hadn’t remembered. Why should they?

  The Germans conferred with each other, both raising their voices. After a moment they came back with their plan of action. ‘We shoot her if you betray us.’ Emory crossed towards the sink and pushed Esther into a chair. She gasped in shock as she sank into it, narrowly avoiding crashing to the floor.

  Joyce nodded. ‘I’ll take you to the shed.’

  Seeing the fear in Esther’s eyes made her realise the severity of the situation. She decided to be obedient and non-confrontational, for now.

  Emory gave the pistol to Siegfried and told him to watch Esther. If he wasn’t back in twenty minutes, he should shoot her. Emory followed Joyce out of the farmhouse into the yard. The night was upon them and a barn owl hooted somewhere from a nearby tree. Joyce passed the dark, empty stables, each one with its top gate open like a row of blackened teeth. They reached the shed across the yard. A tractor wheel was lying by the entrance; weeds pushing through the concrete of the yard and snaking through its bolt holes. Finch had promised to dispose of that tractor wheel at least two summers ago. Like most of his promises for home improvement it had been forgotten about. The door to the shed was a peeling white shop door with nine small panes of glass in the upper part, each one with a series of circles in the glass that made it difficult to see through. But even if the glass had been clear, it would have been hard to see inside as the door was filthy with the dirt of farm life. Joyce pushed it open and switched on the light, a single dull bulb connected to the ceiling by a tenuous, over-long cable and some cobwebs. Inside it was an untidy maelstrom of junk: nuts, bolts, washers, tools, electrical cord, fittings, pieces of wood, empty bottles, paint tins, rubber hosing and many components that Finch would term ‘whatsits’. On the far wall was a poster of Vera Lynn, faded and torn. The surface of the workbench could barely be seen and Joyce moved a stack of slightly damp invoices. Had Finch ever paid them? She took down a small metal box from one of the shelves and prised open the lid.

  ‘This is his electrical tin.’ Joyce stood aside so that Emory could search through for what he wanted. As Joyce waited, she glanced absently around.

  And then she saw it.

  The Purdey shotgun propped in the far corner.

  Joyce felt her heart racing. In a split second, she had lost the will to be compliant and the tenacious and assertive woman returned.

  Could she get to it? Was it loaded?

  Emory rustled through the tin, selecting various components as if they were fine chocolates from a selection box.

  There was enough noise to cover her edging towards the gun. But could she crack it open to see if it was loaded? No, that would make too much noise.

  Maybe she could grab the shotgun and pretend it was loaded? Or just use it to batter him?

  She thought of Esther. The thoughts of rebellion subsided as quickly as they’d come. As always, she had to make sure that Esther was safe first. Joyce edged around Emory so that when he turned her body blocked his view of the gun.

  She smiled at him as he noticed her. Emory remained blank faced and handed her several small components. Then he pulled out a drawer from the workbench, wrenching it so far that it nearly came out altog
ether. He sorted through its contents with his hands and removed two metal brackets shaped like small lolly sticks. He put one in the edge of his mouth, dangling it as if he was James Cagney smoking a fag, and tried to bend the other one against the workbench. The metal curved as he applied some pressure and when he’d bent it about twenty degrees from horizontal, he nodded, pleased with his work.

  ‘For the Morse transmitter,’ he announced, pleased with himself. He placed the two paddles of metal into his suit jacket. Scooping up some wire and a soldering iron, he checked that Joyce still had the components that he’d given her. They left the shed, but not before Joyce had given one final lingering look to the shotgun. She was pleased that Finch had gone on his pig expedition now. That gun might yet save their lives …

  In the parlour of Pasture Farm, the front of the radio was laying on the sideboard. The body had been opened out, with wires spilling out like spaghetti. Esther watched the clock nervously. Emory and Joyce had gone outside twelve minutes ago. He’d told Siegfried to shoot her if they weren’t back in twenty. Siegfried seemed unconcerned about the seconds ticking away from Esther’s life. Would he do it? He seemed more stable than the older man, less likely to lose his temper and act rashly. He sat on the chair by the bureau, one arm resting on it, his head slumped from tiredness. Strands of hair fell over his face and she wasn’t sure if he was awake or asleep. One hand still gripped the pistol, but it was pointed towards the floor.

  Thirteen minutes elapsed.

  Esther shifted uncomfortably. The motion made Siegfried look up, his eyes bleary and tired. Maybe he had been asleep. He glanced at the clock.

  ‘I’m sure they’ll be back soon.’ Esther was talking to appease her own anxiety.

  Siegfried nodded. He didn’t look particularly concerned. He rubbed his eyes with his free hand, digging his fingers into the corners in an attempt to wake himself up.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Why?’ Siegfried looked at her with reddened eyes.

  ‘I just wondered. I’ve got a son. He’s a bit younger than you, I’d say.’ She smiled thinking of Martin and wondering how he was getting on with Iris at the other farm.