Christmas on the Home Front

by Roland Moore

  She topped up their tea. Emory raised the mug without thanking her. At least, Siegfried nodded when she filled him up.

  Emory got up suddenly. The shock of the movement and the harsh grating sound of the chair going back on the terracotta tiles startled Joyce. He took his book and his tea through to the parlour to resume work.

  After a few moments, Esther got up and began to put the plates and mugs into the sink. Joyce guessed she would busy herself with the domestic chores to keep her mind off things. She should be in the fields, working today. But there was no way these men would let her have free reign by going outside.

  Joyce looked at Siegfried. Unaware of her gaze, he craned his hand into his upper pocket on his boiler suit and removed some tobacco and rolling papers and went to work making a cigarette. He was barely more than a boy. Tall and rangy with hair that was short at the sides, but which was probably on the edge of flouting regulations at the front. Still, all the time he kept it swept to one side, he was fine.

  ‘What would you be doing in Germany at Christmas?’ Joyce thought it would pass time to make conversation. And she might find out something useful. Esther stopped momentarily to listen, intrigued herself.

  ‘Family things,’ Siegfried shrugged, perhaps unsure of how much to share with these enemy women. ‘We would go to church. My mother and grandmother. We’d thank God for our lives.’

  Siegfried smiled, comforted by the memories of his family.

  ‘What about your dad?’

  ‘He is not with us.’ Siegfried spoke carefully as if the emotions were still difficult for him.

  ‘When did he die?’

  ‘What?’ Siegfried looked confused. ‘No, he is not dead. He ran off with someone else.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Siegfried waved it away as he finished making his cigarette. ‘We would have a big meal when we return from church. Although not as big since the war started.’

  He got up from his chair and reached over to his knapsack. He removed some matches and sparked his cigarette to life. Fugs of blue-grey smoke soon filled the kitchen. Esther winced as it went up her nose.

  ‘We were going to have a big meal on Christmas day.’ Joyce watched his reaction.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yes, but some bugger stole our chicken.’

  Esther looked tense. Had Joyce gone too far?

  Then Siegfried smiled, as he sucked in air past the cigarette. Joyce smiled, relieved that he’d allowed her to joke. There was empathy there. Perhaps Siegfried was a young man who wanted this over as much as Joyce did. It could be good to get this boy on her side, to form a bond with him. It could be useful.

  Richard Channing emerged from his room in a dark grey hound’s-tooth patterned suit and straightened his tie. He’d chosen a crimson pattern in a nod towards Christmas even though he despised the whole affair. But Ellen enjoyed it, so he felt he should make an effort and today would be the lunch at the village hall. Two days before Christmas. The sound of a Christmas record wafted through the house from a distant room. Channing stopped to admire the Christmas tree in the lobby of the main entrance hall before glancing up and down the corridors. From the hospital ward he could hear a man shouting out in pain. It provided a darkly comic juxtaposition to the jolly Christmas music that was playing. Channing resisted the urge to check on his patients. He knew the nurses on duty would alert him if he was needed. Besides Doctor Gorman was on shift today and despite his inexperience should be able to handle most problems.

  Channing walked slowly down the hallway, enjoying the sound that his brogues made on the parquet flooring, towards the source of the Christmas music.

  As he got closer, he could tell it was Bing Crosby’s ‘White Christmas’.

  Channing hated that song, having heard it too many times to remotely enjoy it anymore. Every Christmas event, every party, every drinks soiree seemed to have played it since it was released a couple of years ago.

  Christ, it seemed like longer.

  But when Channing opened the door to the drawing room and saw Ellen’s happy expression, he gave a warm smile as if she were playing his favourite song in the world.

  ‘I thought I’d get us in the Christmas spirit.’ Ellen flashed her eyes as if she was doing something shockingly decadent. But then Channing supposed that for her, this was a decadent and self-indulgent departure. Here was a woman who spent half of her time fundraising for the war effort and half of her time worrying she wasn’t doing enough for the war effort. It wasn’t enough for her that she had leased out some of Hoxley Manor to the Americans for their military hospital, she felt troubled by the half she still lived in. Channing supposed that the act of having money and power in these troubled times was enough to make her feel guilty. And nothing would assuage that guilt.

  Channing tried to push aside thoughts of amateur psychology and crossed to the sofa where Ellen was sitting. She was making a paper chain and invited him to take some sections.

  ‘I’d love to.’ Channing wanted to appease her and so took the strips of paper. The war effort had meant that paper couldn’t be used for non-essential things like wrapping Christmas presents or making decorations, and Channing noticed that these chain links had fragments of recipes on them.

  ‘One of my mother’s old cookbooks.’ Ellen preempted a question that Channing hadn’t planned on asking.

  ‘How long have you been up?’ Channing had noticed that a large spool of finished paper chain was on the floor by the side of them, looking as if a snake had coiled in on itself.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She looked at the clock for guidance, but it didn’t give her an answer. ‘Would you like a sherry? As it’s nearly Christmas day, I think we’re allowed. As long as it doesn’t make us tipsy for the service.’

  The service. Ah, yes.

  Henry Jameson would conduct a special service for the old folk attending the lunch today. And Channing and Lady Hoxley would be expected to attend.

  ‘I’d love a sherry. Thank you.’ Channing watched as Ellen moved across to the drinks trolley, her slim hips sashaying back and forth in her simple eggshell blue dress. He wanted her. How long would he have to wait until they could consummate their love for each other? Ellen was understandably cautious after losing her husband and Channing didn’t want to rush her, but still.

  Bing Crosby was still singing.

  He knew that their relationship was an open secret in the village with him finding groups of old women suddenly going silent when he appeared unexpectedly. Everyone knew and yet Channing was forced to maintain this charade. He wasn’t allowed to hold her hand in public. Kissing would be out of the question. The most contact he could hope for was to place a guiding hand on the base of her elbow when they were out and about.

  Still that was all right for now. Channing’s relationship was a useful diversion, nothing more. He was here for work.

  Bing Crosby had reached the end of the song. Channing let out a little hurrah inside his head. But as Ellen brought his sherry over, she repositioned the needle at the edge of the record and the song started over.

  Suddenly he understood how Sisyphus felt.

  The telephone rang. Ellen carefully placed her drink on a side table, cleared her throat and lifted the receiver.

  ‘Hello? Helmstead Six Two Three.’

  At first the person on the other end didn’t speak and Channing detected Ellen’s confusion.

  Then the caller said something.

  And the line went dead.

  ‘Hello? Hello? Who is this?’

  Ellen replaced the receiver and returned to the sofa. She seemed confused by the whole business.

  ‘Who was it?’ Channing was instantly on edge, struggling to keep a lid on his emotions.

  ‘A man, but I think he was disguising his voice.’

  ‘Really?’ Channing tried to disguise his discomfort. ‘And what did he say, Ellen?’

  ‘Well, it didn’t make sense. He said New Market. What does that mean? There’s no horse
racing today, is there?’

  Channing was lost in his own thoughts; Ellen’s words flowing over him like static from a radio. The time had come. The code word had been used.

  ‘Richard?’

  She was staring at him.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing, I was thinking that’s a dashed odd thing to say, isn’t it?’ He took a big slug of sherry, feeling it coating his gums. ‘Anyway, we should get back to the paper chain, shouldn’t we?’

  Ellen picked up the chain and resumed threading the new links onto it. Channing helped her for a while, but after half an hour he stood up as if he’d forgotten something. He knew he had matters to attend to.

  ‘Oh no!’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’ve just remembered I was supposed to help Doctor Gorman with a patient. I won’t be long, I promise.’

  ‘Very well.’ Ellen sounded disheartened. He knew that she couldn’t stop him from seeing a patient, not with her keen sense of public duty. The action may even deepen her respect for him. Look – good old Doctor Channing puts his patients first! He caught a wry grin appearing on his face and sent it packing before Ellen could spot it.

  ‘I’ll meet you at the church.’ Channing felt some small relief at leaving Ellen and Bing Crosby to it.

  At Pasture Farm, as the Germans busied themselves with the radio, Joyce and Esther sat in the kitchen. Esther asked what they should cook for lunch.

  ‘Do you think we should bother?’ Joyce asked, indicating their guests, who they could see working in the parlour, shirt sleeves rolled up. The constant sound of Morse code being sent was beginning to aggravate Joyce; its rhythm a backdrop to her thoughts. It seemed like it had always been there, that tap-tap-tap noise.

  ‘I think they’ll expect food, won’t they?’

  ‘I suppose. What have we got?’ Joyce asked. Esther went to the larder and opened the door. She passed Joyce the items that could appear on today’s lunch menu: five carrots, a large parsnip and three large potatoes. Joyce placed the items on the kitchen table and both women looked at the unappealing pile, trying to pluck a memory of a recipe that might use them. Joyce shrugged. She had nothing apart from vegetable soup.

  That would have to do.

  ‘I’ll help you,’ Joyce offered. She thought that it would take her mind off their predicament, off thoughts of John, and relieve the tense band of pressure that was sitting on the base of her neck.

  The women went to work as the Morse code provided a backdrop to their actions.

  Tap, tap, tap, tap.

  After a few minutes of peeling the vegetables together, Joyce caught Esther’s eye and whispered something in the hope that the Germans wouldn’t hear.

  ‘What time is Connie due?’

  Esther shook her head. She wasn’t sure. ‘It was a vague arrangement.’

  ‘So she might not come?’ Joyce couldn’t hide the hope and excitement in her voice. Connie wouldn’t get hurt that way. And they wouldn’t risk being hurt either in trying to get a message to her.

  ‘She said she would, but I don’t know when.’ Esther dashed Joyce’s hopes.

  ‘Then we need to put her off, don’t we?’

  ‘How do we do that?’ Esther looked perturbed. ‘We can’t very well walk out of here and saunter over to the vicarage.’

  ‘We can telephone the vicarage.’

  ‘They won’t let us.’

  ‘They might.’ Joyce put down the peeler. She walked towards the parlour, with Esther watching nervously from the butler’s sink.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  But Joyce didn’t have time to reply. The Germans looked up as she approached them.

  ‘What do you want?’ Emory eyed her.

  ‘We’ve got people coming. And I thought it might be a good idea if we stopped them. What do you think?’ She looked directly at Siegfried, who was crouched on his haunches trying to strip the insulation off a small wire with a penknife.

  ‘How can you stop them?’ Emory scrutinised her face. Joyce realised and anticipated that they would think it was a trick. She had to be careful.

  ‘I could telephone my friend, Connie. Tell her not to come.’

  ‘I can’t let you talk to anyone.’

  ‘Well you can’t very well do it, can you?’

  Emory smiled and turned to face her, wiping his hands on a tea towel that they’d seconded for their work.

  ‘You must think I am stupid.’

  ‘I won’t say anything out of turn. I mean, if I did, you’d shoot me dead, wouldn’t you?’

  Emory nodded. Siegfried looked more concerned. He touched Emory’s shoulder to get his attention.

  ‘We don’t want more people here, Captain.’ Siegfried looked imploringly. Joyce could tell that the stress of keeping two prisoners was enough of a burden for him. For both of them.

  Emory moved quickly towards Joyce.

  What was he going to do? Was he going to strike her? But the motion was designed to spook her, nothing more. He walked straight past her. She watched as he marched into the kitchen. He strode up to where Esther was peeling the vegetables by the sink, took his pistol out of his jacket and pressed it against Esther’s temple.

  ‘You make the telephone call. If you try to be a hero, I will shoot her.’

  Esther whimpered and Joyce knew that he was deadly serious. She picked up the telephone receiver. Siegfried was standing by her side, close, listening. He angled the receiver so that he could hear too. Then he nodded for her to dial the number.

  Joyce called the operator. It was strange to hear another person’s voice after the claustrophobia of being alone with these two men for what seemed like weeks. Joyce wanted to blurt out everything, but she knew she couldn’t. Esther looked imploringly at her, her chin puckered like orange peel as she struggled not to lose it and cry her eyes out.

  ‘Hello, caller. What number do you require?’

  Joyce gave the number of the vicarage and asked to be connected. The operator obliged and soon Joyce could hear the telephone ringing. Eventually a woman’s voice answered.

  ‘Hullo?’ It was Connie.

  ‘Hello.’ Joyce felt her throat seizing up, making her voice higher. Emory scowled at her, willing her not to make a mistake. Esther looked moist-eyed. Joyce could feel Siegfried’s breath on the back of her neck. He was close enough that he could listen.

  Joyce was aware that she needed to say something. But it was Connie who filled the void.

  ‘I’m so sorry to hear about John.’

  ‘Yeah, well I don’t think it’s true. He’ll be alright, daft old thing. It’s a mistake.’

  Saying it aloud, under these circumstances, brought a lump to her throat. Now it was Joyce’s turn to try not to cry. She closed her eyes to blot out the light. Doing that often helped her not to cry when she didn’t want to. And it worked today.

  ‘Thing is, I’d rather not have company.’

  Emory nodded his approval.

  ‘You can’t be on your own, Joyce.’

  ‘I’ve got Esther. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Nonsense, I can walk over, and we can talk about your John and everything. Or not talk about him, if that’s what suits you.’ Connie had a steely quality to her voice and Joyce knew it meant that Connie wasn’t about to give in. She’d used that tone on Finch when he was trying to axe their morning tea break – it said that she wanted her own way and she was going to get it.

  She had to do something to stop Connie.

  But what?

  ‘And if you’re worried about lunch. Don’t. I’ll have something at the village hall with the old folks and then come over.’

  Connie had thought of everything, hadn’t she?

  Time was running out. How could Joyce stop her?

  Maybe she couldn’t.

  Siegfried nodded urgently at Joyce to say something. Emory gripped Esther’s arm harder. The void of silence stretched further. If she was too insistent in trying to put her off, Connie might
realise something was wrong. She’d smell a rat.

  That was it!

  She had to make Connie realise that something was wrong but without giving anything away to her captors.

  Could she do it? Could she think of something?

  Joyce glanced back at Esther. The two women’s eyes met. Esther could sense that Joyce was about to do something reckless and potentially devastatingly stupid. But Joyce had to do it. She had to make Connie realise that something was wrong here and that she shouldn’t come. And she had to do it without saying it outright or screaming for help. It had to be a coded message, something that only Connie would know was wrong.

  Then it came to her.

  Joyce realised what she could say, but she still paused for a moment as she weighed up the consequences of saying it. The lives in her hands: Esther at gunpoint and Connie who could be about to walk into the wolf’s enclosure if she got it wrong.

  ‘So I’ll come round late afternoon then, all right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Joyce knew it was now or never. She knew what she had to say.

  ‘Give my regards to your Vince, won’t you? Bye.’

  Esther’s mouth became a firm line and she licked her lip with nervousness; not enough of a reaction for Siegfried to notice, but Joyce spotted it. Joyce returned the receiver to the cradle. She smiled at the two airmen.

  ‘She’s still coming?’ Emory was annoyed. ‘Why couldn’t you stop her?’

  ‘How? You heard her!’

  ‘We have to be ready!’ Emory pushed past Joyce and headed for the parlour. Esther sank into a chair, her legs unable to support her. Joyce went to her and comforted her as the men returned to their work.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  When she was sure that the men would be engrossed again and wouldn’t be listening, Joyce whispered in Esther’s ear.

  ‘Do you think that was enough?’

  ‘Enough to get us all killed,’ Esther snapped, slightly too loudly.