Christmas on the Home Front

by Roland Moore

  But Channing wasn’t going to give in that easily.

  ‘As I say, I don’t think it’s a sensible idea for her to go to the farm.’ He stared directly at Connie, as if to implore her to see sense and do the right thing; to do what he wanted.

  ‘Well, maybe we could bring Joyce to the vicarage then?’ Lady Hoxley looked from Henry to Connie. Connie realised that she wasn’t going to give up until she got her own way and would do everything she could to find a way for Connie to see her friend. Connie liked this kind side of Lady Hoxley.

  ‘Fine, I’ll take her to the farmhouse.’ Channing’s harsh tone surprised all of them. Henry and Connie exchanged a look, thinking this must be overspill from a previous argument or some other problem between the pair. Perhaps the morning hadn’t gone so well for them …

  ‘There we are then.’ Whatever she was feeling inside, Lady Hoxley’s public mask didn’t slip for a moment. Whatever annoyance she felt with Richard for snapping at her wasn’t going to be acknowledged in a village hall in front of everyone.

  Connie nodded her thanks.

  ‘I don’t have much petrol. But I suppose I’ll have enough to take you there. Goodbye, Reverend.’

  Channing shook Henry’s hand, placed his trilby on his head and walked out into the crisp late afternoon air. Lady Hoxley said her goodbyes and wished everyone a happy Christmas.

  ‘I’ll send Richard to the vicarage to pick you up.’ She gave Connie a tight smile, then she too left the village hall. Henry moved to give direction to some of the volunteers who were clearing up, but he turned to speak to his wife as soon as Channing and Lady Hoxley had gone.

  ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’

  ‘I’ll be fine. I’ll stay at the farmhouse tonight and come back tomorrow sometime. That way I won’t get tired and no one will have to come back for me today.’ Connie was relieved that she was going to see Joyce. She’d worried about her since she heard the news about John and that concern had escalated following the telephone conversation.

  ‘Will you be all right clearing up all this?’

  ‘It’ll be fine. Please pass my deepest condolences to Joyce, won’t you?’

  Connie pecked him on the cheek and made her way outside to where clusters of pensioners were saying protracted goodbyes, enjoying making the warm-hearted companionship of their lunch last that little bit longer. As her eyes adjusted to the unnaturally bright afternoon light, she watched as Channing and Lady Hoxley moved off towards the town square, their outlines silhouetted as they walked. There was a physical distance between her elegant frame and his tailored shape. And Connie wondered if Lady Hoxley was waiting for the right moment to lay into him about his earlier behaviour. Connie knew that’s what she would do if she had a beef with Henry. Or maybe posh people didn’t behave the same way …

  ‘I don’t know what’s gotten into you today, Richard.’

  As soon as they were out of earshot of the people outside the village hall, Lady Hoxley’s carapace of calm had cracked. ‘Surely there’s no danger for Mrs Jameson to be moving around. After all, she’s been helping to run the pensioners’ lunch and she’s been singing songs at the piano. All of that looked quite exerting.’

  Richard Channing nodded. He would appease Lady Hoxley with some medical jargon later, obscuring his own true thoughts about the matter. It was a simple problem that he was facing, and he had to face it alone. The logistics were troubling him. Tomorrow morning, he was due to go to Pasture Farm to collect the German airmen. The last thing he wanted was for another person to be added to the equation; another hostage for the airmen to navigate. It was hard enough that he’d have to deal with Joyce Fisher and Esther Reeves, without someone as spirited and unpredictable as Connie Carter being there too.

  Why couldn’t Connie do as he advised?

  People were always messing up his plans. That’s why he had to do the things he didn’t want to do.

  Channing also had some marginal concern towards his patient. Of course, he didn’t want harm to befall her or indeed any of the women stuck in the middle of this nightmare. But the majority of his concern was concentrated on saving his own skin. He’d already gone over and over in his head all the things that he could think may happen when he went to the farm tomorrow. Adding the volatile Connie Carter to the mix wasn’t helping the ulcers that were gnawing in his stomach.

  He hoped he wouldn’t be forced to hurt anyone. Not again. No, as long as no one forced him to do anything bad, it would be all right.

  Within the hour, as Connie sat in the vicarage listening to the radio, a well-maintained four-door Ford 7W Ten pulled up outside the window. It was a dark green 1937 model, but it hadn’t been driven much judging by the good condition of the bodywork. An attractive vertical grille was sandwiched between two bulbous lights that stood off the mud shields on stalks like bug eyes. Connie didn’t know when Channing had acquired the vehicle, but she hadn’t seen him in it before. He slunk out of the car as if he’d rather have stayed inside and Connie detected a weary expression on his face. She met him by the front door wearing her crimson two-piece suit; a Sunday best outfit to which she had added a fox fur stole in an attempt to appease any medical concerns about her ‘catching a chill’. But Channing didn’t seem bothered about medical matters. He gave her a cursory smile and silently opened the passenger door for her.

  Connie climbed in and then Channing got in his side. He smoothed down his trousers and sighed. Connie had seen this behaviour before in men. They usually did such actions when they had something on their mind; something that needed saying. Hating awkward silences, Connie thought she’d help winkle it out in her own inimitable way.

  ‘What’s wrong, doctor?’

  ‘Nothing.’ The word that came out of his mouth was in direct contrast to the unease in his eyes and the slight sheen of sweat on his forehead. ‘I don’t think you should go that’s all.’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘It’s not you. It’s Joyce. You see when people suffer bereavement, they sometimes need time to adjust. Their recovery is improved if they don’t have people coming in and out all the time. They do better if they’re left to their own thoughts.’

  Connie was no medic, but this sounded utter rubbish; hastily constructed jargon to fob her off. She inhaled and her derision displayed itself as a snort.

  Channing bristled, his eyebrows tensing in barely-suppressed anger.

  ‘She’d still be going over it, again and again though. Whereas if I’m there and Esther’s there, we can talk about it when she’s ready and, I don’t know, make cups of tea for her when she wants them.’

  Then Connie added her own bit of wisdom, ‘Henry says that bereaved people can never have enough tea. And he knows; he’s done enough funerals.’

  Channing rubbed his face in his hands, before focusing on the windscreen.

  ‘Very well, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  Connie thought this was an odd and slightly unsettling thing for him to say, but she didn’t probe the matter. Instead, she watched as he started the Ford and they pulled away. They drove to Pasture Farm in silence.

  When he pulled up in his car outside the vicarage, he hoped that Connie might have fallen asleep. As he mulled over the minimum amount of time he could give it before driving off, Connie opened the front door and waved cheerfully at him. As she walked over to the car, Channing mustered the strength to get out and open the door for her. As she got in, he shut the door. Knowing he was obscured by the angle of her seat, it was the only moment he could allow himself to show what he felt. His face showing a flash of anger.

  Why were they forcing him to do this?

  As he started the engine, he thought about damage limitation. What would be the best thing to do?

  His first thought almost made him utter a small laugh, but he fought the urge to express it. Yes, his first thought was to drive them off the road. If they both had a car crash then he’d never have to go to Pasture Farm. And by the time he wa
s patched up, the German problem might have resolved itself. Or someone else from the network might have picked them up. Yes, that would preserve Channing’s cover.

  That would be one solution.

  But he dismissed this fanciful and desperate idea. It was a risky strategy as he may hurt himself more than he bargained for in the crash.

  But it might stop Connie Carter.

  No, he had to put that option out of his mind and think of something more sensible; something with fewer random factors involved in the outcome.

  The car clattered along one of the country roads leading out of the town. The frost and rain of the last week had left large furrows either side of a central ridge and Channing’s car was finding it tough going. They jolted from side to side as he made his way slowly forwards; the weight of the gun in his pocket brushing against his leg as they went over each bump.

  Channing’s mind was working feverishly to solve his problem. Connie was looking uneasy.

  ‘Very well, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  The words echoed in his memory.

  Why had he said that to her?

  He berated himself for that ridiculous, veiled threat. What was he thinking? It was stupid and it could give the game away.

  By the time they got to the end of the bumpy road and found a road with a passable level of tarmac, Channing had decided what to do.

  Yes, he had a plan.

  He’d drop Connie at the gates of Pasture Farm, drive off and let nature take its course. She’d be walking into the lion’s den, but he’d done everything he could to deter her, hadn’t he?

  ‘But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  Would it make her realise that he knew what was waiting for her? No, he couldn’t afford to over-analyse things. He’d been talking about the healing process for Joyce and how Connie’s presence could harm that, that’s all, hadn’t he?

  Just drop her off and forget about her.

  Yes, that’s what he’d do.

  But there was one thing he hadn’t planned for.

  As they pulled away on the road from Gorley Wood to Pasture Farm, Connie spied a lorry parked at the side of the road. It was blackened and burnt out, but the livery of Edgar Varish and Sons, Fertilisers was still legible on the tailgate. She recognised it from when it would make deliveries to Pasture Farm.

  ‘That’s Alfred’s lorry.’

  And as they pulled level to it, Connie waved her hand at Channing. ‘Could you stop please, Doctor Channing?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Please stop! I know the man what owns it!’

  Barely masking his annoyance at this unexpected delay, Channing put his foot on the brake and eased the car to a halt on the other side of the road.

  ‘I’ll see what’s happened.’ Connie pulled open her door and got out. ‘I won’t be a moment.’

  Channing watched her cross the front of the car and head over the small road to the lorry. From this angle, he could see that there wasn’t much left of it. The metal framework on the back was still intact but blackened and charred. Most of the engine had been lost in the fire. The cab was blackened but the livery was still readable on the door.

  Idly, Channing wondered what had happened to it. The fire didn’t look that recent, maybe it had happened a couple of days ago. As Connie checked the cab and walked around the vehicle, she glanced back and Channing and shrugged.

  Did she expect to find the man she knew inside? She seemed to have a grim fascination in finding out, but Channing was sure that a body would have been removed by now. After a moment, Connie seemed to reach the same conclusion, but she remained standing at the front of the cab, a look of bafflement on her face as if working out what might have happened to Alfred Barnes.

  And Channing had a new idea suddenly.

  He removed the brake and moved the car slowly forward off the verge on his side of the road and positioned it centrally in the lane. Connie looked over. He hoped that she would think he was getting the car in position to move off when she was ready. He eyed her in the wing mirror as she walked away from the truck.

  He could reverse now and knock her down.

  That would stop her getting in the way and complicating things tomorrow, wouldn’t it?

  Leave her for dead.

  He could tell everyone that he last saw her at the gate of Pasture Farm. That’s where he’d delivered her to see her friend Joyce. No, he didn’t know why she had wandered down the road to Gorley Wood. No, he didn’t know what had happened to her.

  A tense smile spread on the doctor’s face as he played this scenario out in his head.

  But could he get away with it? The impact would dent the rear of his Ford, linking him to the crime. That would be hard to explain. Unless he was lucky enough to hit her without denting it – in which case he might be all right.

  But it was a big risk.

  The seconds spent deliberating robbed Channing of the impetus and opportunity to complete the crime. He couldn’t act in such a reckless, spur-of-the-moment way. Not again.

  His luck at getting away with murder wouldn’t last surely?

  Connie reached the passenger side of the car and got in, not realising how close she had come to being flattened.

  ‘There’s no sign of Alfred.’

  ‘I daresay he got out before it exploded. Did you know him well?’

  He asked the question, not because he was particularly interested in the answer, but because he wanted the normality of conversation to fill his head rather than his exhausting thoughts of murder. The human brain wasn’t made for such thoughts and the accompanying continued rush of adrenaline that came with them. He felt as if he’d had far too much coffee, the veins in his temples pulsing. As he drove along the country lane, the burnt-out truck receding in his wing mirrors, he enjoyed the feeling of normality as Connie’s chatter washed over him.

  Think normal thoughts.

  ‘Alfred would come to the farm, see? He’d supply us with fertiliser. But Finch always played tricks on the poor man. He put brandy in his tea once. And Alfred Barnes is a proper teetotaller, so that wasn’t appreciated! You can imagine!’ Connie looked pensive. ‘I suppose I should say he was a proper teetotaller, shouldn’t I? On account of him being dead, eh?’

  ‘You don’t know that he’s dead.’ The winter sun dappled through the trees onto his windscreen. ‘I can find out from the hospital staff what happened, if you like? They might know.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks.’

  Soon they came to Pasture Farm and Channing pulled to a halt outside the gate.

  ‘I won’t go any further. I don’t want to interrupt if Joyce is settled.’

  Connie nodded and thanked him for the lift.

  ‘I’ll come back for you tomorrow if you like?’ Channing was surprised that he’d said the words, but even as they landed, he realised it made perfect sense.

  Yes, you clever man. There was the subconscious helping him out in his time of need.

  If she agreed, then his return to the farm would now have a perfectly legitimate motive. He would come to collect Connie and just happen to meet the two German airmen. He’d seemingly overpower them and force them to get in the car; before bringing them to safety.

  It sounded perfect.

  And it eased the pulsing in his temples to think of it. He had an alibi; a reason for being at the farm; that he felt comfortable with.

  ‘Well, if it’s no trouble. Thanks.’

  ‘No trouble.’

  Channing watched her out of the corner of his eye as she got out of the car and went to the gate, pulling up the latch. There was no doubt about it, she was a beautiful woman, but one with the coarse nature of an alley cat. He liked her spirit and her mettle.

  As he drove away, he wondered if he’d have to kill her tomorrow.

  Connie was pleased to be away from Doctor Channing. He was a strange fish. She didn’t like his arrogance or his abrupt changes of mood. She’d met too many men who had a violent streak not to
suspect that Channing was capable of similar things.

  She walked along the yard and around to the back door of Pasture Farm. She could see condensation on the kitchen window and idly thought that they must have finished lunch by now. That was fine. She’d eaten anyway at the village hall.

  She reached out to knock.

  Chapter 12

  Everyone froze at the knock on the door.

  All eyes glanced towards it. Emory Mayer brought his hand down towards Joyce’s face, but instead of hitting her, he gently pressed his hand over her mouth to stop her calling out. Siegfried held Esther by the top of her arms as she stopped struggling. The four of them listened. In the glass of the door they could make out a shape; nothing more.

  ‘We’d better answer it.’ Esther’s voice was a tremulous whisper, betraying the fear that gripped her. Joyce couldn’t speak and was finding it hard to breathe with Emory’s hand over her face. He was also pressed against her on the floor, forcing the air from her lungs. Emory shifted his weight, putting a meaty hand out onto the tiles to push himself up. He shot a look of contempt at Joyce as he got off her; a warning to be silent. She knew that this was unfinished business. Emory crossed to Siegfried and they spoke quickly and quietly in German.

  There was another knock at the door.

  Joyce squinted to try to make out any shape in the glass, but whoever was there was standing too far away from the door.

  After the brief, whispered discussion, Siegfried came over to Joyce and helped her up from the floor. Her elbow was bruised, and her cheek was swollen. She realised that a small amount of blood was trickling from her right nostril. Emory threw a tea towel at her.

  ‘You need to get them to go away,’ Siegfried whispered. ‘Get rid of them.’

  ‘We will kill your friend if you try any tricks,’ Emory added. He picked up the pistol and pressed it against Esther’s temple. She squealed in panic. Wordlessly, he clasped a hand to Esther’s mouth and guided her gently back from the sink and through to the parlour.

  ‘Answer it,’ Emory whispered to Joyce.

  Esther’s eyes were wide with panic. Emory closed the door to the parlour. Shakily, Joyce moved towards the back door, but realised she couldn’t open it – it was locked.