Christmas on the Home Front

by Roland Moore

  ‘Won’t be a minute!’ She stalled for time. ‘I’ll just get the key.’ She patted at her cheek and nose with the tea towel and tried to straighten her hair as best as she could.

  Siegfried moved quickly to the parlour where he spoke to Emory. She heard a few whispered words in German and then Siegfried returned with the key. He threw it to Joyce and then made his way to the staircase, hiding himself in the recess at the bottom. She could still see him as he nodded for her to open the back door. Then he disappeared from view.

  Joyce glanced at the table; four places visible to anyone who cared to look. Esther may have cleared the plates, but the glasses, napkins and side plates were still there.

  But there was no time to change that.

  Joyce felt her stomach fall into her boots. She wished she could run away, but there was no alternative way out. With a heavy heart, she put the key in the lock and opened it. She affixed her best false smile as she let the cold air and her old friend in.

  Connie looked shocked at the sight of her. Joyce could feel that her nose was bleeding.

  ‘Joyce?’

  ‘I’m all right. You shouldn’t be here, should you? There’s no need for you to come out here today.’

  ‘What sort of friend would I be if I stayed away?’ Connie smiled. Joyce noticed her smile falter as she noticed the signs of the struggle in the kitchen. A knife and fork and napkin lay on the floor by the sink; along with an overturned chair.

  ‘What’s happened here?’

  ‘Nothing. Look you should go.’

  ‘Joyce?’ Connie wasn’t having it.

  Joyce realised that she had to make something up to explain it, ‘I fell off my chair, that’s all. I’d had too much carrot whiskey. You should go.’

  A drop of blood dribbled from Joyce’s nose. Connie’s face showed that she didn’t believe this story for an instant. Joyce struggled not to crumple into tears.

  ‘Please …’

  ‘No.’ Connie’s voice was soft, but resolute.

  And at last, the two friends looked at each other with a silent understanding. Joyce knew that Connie realised something was badly wrong here.

  Connie reached the door and gave it a knock. As she did so, she heard something – cutlery maybe – clatter to the tiled floor inside.

  And did someone groan? No, that must be her imagination. Don’t be daft, Connie.

  She waited for an answer and wished she’d brought some sort of gift with her. She should have smuggled a bottle of Mrs Hewson’s dandelion wine along with her. It was rancid stuff, but it did the job. And beggars couldn’t be choosers when there was a war on.

  Connie moved closer to the glass and stood on tip toes to see through. Like the kitchen window, it was heavy with condensation from the oven and she couldn’t see anything inside.

  But then the door opened.

  Joyce stood in front of her. It wasn’t a warm welcome. In fact, Joyce looked like she wished it wasn’t Connie stood there. But that was fair enough. Connie wouldn’t stay long if they didn’t want her to. She just wanted to show her support, that was all.

  Joyce looked more dishevelled than she’d expected. Her clothes looked crumpled and her hair was a mess. Connie moved inside the kitchen and looked at Joyce properly in the light. Her friend looked haunted, pale and bruised. Why was she bruised? Yes, her cheek was swollen.

  There were four places at the table. What was going on? Everyone was away, weren’t they? It should only be Esther and Joyce in the house. Maybe Martin and Iris had come back from Shallow Brook Farm and—

  Then she saw the blood trickling from Joyce’s nose.

  ‘What’s happened here?’

  ‘Nothing. Look you should go.’

  ‘Joyce?’ Connie knew that nothing didn't cause damage to people's faces.

  ‘I fell off my chair, that’s all. I’d had too much carrot whiskey.'

  Connie looked at her friend. She could see in her face that it was a lie. But why was she covering up? She had every right to be honest in this time of grief; every right to take ownership of anything she had done during her trauma. Even it was knocking over a chair in anger or frustration.

  ‘You should go.’

  A drop of blood dribbled from Joyce’s nose. Connie didn’t believe this story for an instant.

  ‘Please …’ Joyce was biting her lip; struggling not to cry. Connie could see the panic and fear in Joyce’s eyes; the implicit, unspoken underlining of Joyce’s words, the universal sign of someone straining their eyes to be as wide as possible as they talk to you. It was a silent warning. She was telling her to run away, to save herself from something awful.

  ‘No.’ Connie wasn’t going anywhere; not when her friend needed her. It wouldn’t have been right to leave her. Mind you, none of this seemed right.

  Later, Connie would realise that she might have been able to walk away at that moment. If she’d have turned on her heel, nodded to Joyce’s request and gone, she’d have left the farmhouse none-the-wiser as to what was happening. She could have avoided all the conflict to come if she’d taken Joyce’s words at face value. But Connie was a good friend, so she didn’t go immediately. Instead, she asked one more question.

  ‘Tell me what’s happening.’

  And that question meant that the time to walk away was over. From that moment on, Connie would be trapped in the same waking nightmare as her friend.

  She’d taken a fork in the road.

  Some days change your life forever.

  ‘Tell me what’s happening.’ Connie seemed to look deep into her soul; as if she already knew everything there was to know.

  Joyce tried to stop her face from crumbling. She’d tried to look neutral, to give nothing away. Not like when she used to play cards at home with her mum and Gwen and Charlie. Then her face was an open mirror to the cards in her hand. She didn’t want Connie to see the worry and the fear. She wanted her friend to get out and go back to Henry, her loving husband. Connie had already come off worse from meeting these two airmen, and Joyce didn’t want her to experience any more pain at their hands. But Joyce couldn’t stop her face from giving it away. She couldn’t stop her voice from trembling slightly and betraying her. She wished she could have acted better at that moment.

  Out the corner of her eye, she saw Siegfried rising from the stairs. Connie hadn’t noticed as the young man slowly and stealthily made his way behind her. The chance to get Connie to leave was gone. Joyce wished there had been another way.

  There was nothing else for it. Joyce had to warn her friend. That was the least that she could do.

  ‘Connie, you’ve got to get out!’ Joyce screamed the words, making Connie startle slightly. But then Connie noticed from her peripheral vision the young man in the overalls coming towards her. Did she recognise him from when she’d been knocked off her bicycle? Connie moved quickly towards the back door and got a hand to the doorknob, before Siegfried caught her.

  Connie raised a hand to block Siegfried as he tried to grab her, but he had his arms locked around her before she could fully raise it. Emory appeared from the parlour, holding a frightened Esther at gunpoint. Connie snarled in anger. She struggled as if she was a landed eel, but Siegfried had pinned her arms. Connie’s struggles were futile. She tried to bring her head down on his to head butt him away, but he was too low against her body. Joyce stood helplessly, powerless for now, knowing that Esther might be shot and Connie hurt if she intervened.

  ‘Get off me!’ Connie shouted.

  ‘Stay still!’ Siegfried shouted back.

  Connie tried to twist and tried to knee him in the face, but again she was at the wrong angle to make it land and for a moment it looked like they were engaged in a strange and ludicrous dance.

  Finally, his weight managed to pull her over and they landed on a heap on the floor, with Siegfried still gripping her and Connie landing on her bottom. He took a step back, breathless, and viewed the fiery eyes of Connie Carter as she stared balefully up at him.
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  ‘Stay down there if you don’t want to get hurt!’ Siegfried snapped.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  ‘You are our prisoners.’ Emory pushed Esther towards the farmhouse table, where she pulled out a chair and sat compliantly. She knew the routine.

  ‘If we do what they say, we won’t get hurt, lovey.’ Esther looked pleadingly at her. Connie glanced at the two strange men. Did she believe Esther’s reassurances? Joyce looked like she’d already been hurt.

  ‘You’re the airmen. You’re the bastards what knocked me out.’

  ‘We can do worse things than that if you don’t cooperate,’ Emory flexed one his hands, tensing it into a fist. Joyce noticed that Siegfried looked uncomfortable; once again perhaps showing signs of compassion that the older man lacked.

  ‘What is your name?’ The older German moved slowly closer.

  ‘Connie. Connie Carter.’ Then she corrected herself. ‘I mean Jameson. Connie Jameson. I’m married. What’s your flaming name?’

  ‘If you want to see your husband again, you will help us? Do you understand?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Connie’s belligerent expression was firmly in place on her face. Joyce realised that Emory was wary of this new prisoner. She knew from bitter, recent experience that Emory was at his most dangerous when he felt threatened. As a good friend, she knew she had to tell Connie to ride this one out. She had to be less confrontational; for now at least.

  But Connie’s expression wasn’t softening or showing signs of being more compliant. Instead, her mouth was open in what looked like disgust and disbelief. What was she playing at? What was she doing?

  Connie was transfixed by the blue and white spotted handkerchief that poked out of Emory’s breast pocket on the suit that didn’t fit him. She knew that the suit belonged to Alfred Barnes of Varish and Sons, the fertiliser salesman.

  As Siegfried went to help her up, she pushed him away. His overalls had a small badge sewn into the pocket – the Varish and Sons logo. These two men must have had something to do with Alfred’s lorry being torched. What had these monsters done?

  ‘Did you kill Alfred?’

  The question caught them off-guard.

  ‘Who?’ The older German shrugged.

  ‘The man whose suit you’re wearing. Those overalls are his too, aren’t they?’ Connie put her hand to her face, realising what they had done. It was made even worse by the fact that they didn’t even know Alfred’s name. He had just been a random man who had got in their way; a life that they’d ended because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  ‘You will sit down and be quiet!’ Emory’s rage made Esther flinch. Eyeing him with contempt, Connie pulled out a chair and sat at the kitchen table. Joyce sat down too. Siegfried locked the back door and moved off to have a talk with Emory; the two men staying in the doorway of the parlour so they could keep an eye on their captives. After a moment, they came back, and Emory spoke.

  ‘You will all go upstairs.’ Emory’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘What?’ Esther looked confused, unnerved.

  ‘To the bedroom. Now!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Do not ask questions!’

  Connie got up from her seat. Tentatively, Esther and Joyce did the same. Emory waved the gun to chivvy them along.

  Dutifully, the women moved up the narrow staircase, with Emory a few steps behind them. He motioned with the gun for them to go into Joyce’s bedroom. Connie and Esther went inside, but as Joyce went to follow, he grabbed her arm.

  ‘Hey, leave off her!’ Connie rounded on him.

  ‘Shut up! You will not get another warning.’ Emory closed the door.

  Connie heard the key turn in the lock and listened to the sounds of Joyce being dragged across the landing. It sounded like they were going to the bathroom. Connie heard the bathroom door slam. What was happening?

  ‘Let me out of here!’ Connie banged on the door.

  Esther sat on the bed, a lost expression on her face. Connie noticed her lack of resistance.

  ‘Here, it’ll be all right, you’ll see.’ Connie hoped that she could believe what she was saying was true.

  Joyce was pushed into the bathroom with enough force to make her tumble towards the bath. Emory came in behind her and closed the door.

  ‘What do you want?’ Was he going to continue the beating that he tried to give her in the kitchen? Or – Heaven forbid – was he planning something worse?

  ‘You will dress my wound.’ Emory tucked the gun into the waistband of his suit. He pulled off the jacket and threw it over the edge of the bath before rolling up his sleeve.

  Joyce felt palpable relief.

  ‘Yes, of course. I’ll need to get some more bandages, from the first aid kit.’

  ‘Where did you put it?’

  ‘It’s back under the sink in the kitchen.’

  Emory considered this for a moment before giving a curt nod. Joyce emerged from the bathroom and moved down the creaking staircase. Siegfried greeted her at the bottom with a curious look.

  ‘I need more bandages. From the kitchen.’

  ‘All right.’ Siegfried made way for her.

  Joyce went towards the sink, feeling him watching her. As she bent down to open the cupboards underneath, she was aware that his attention had switched back to the stairs. He shouted something in German up to Emory and waited for a reply. Joyce took the bandage that she needed from Esther’s tin and closed the cupboard. She stood up and noticed the breadknife on the draining board.

  It was too sharp thanks to Finch’s insistence on grinding it on his sharpening wheel.

  Siegfried was still talking, still distracted.

  Joyce picked up the breadknife. It would be a useful weapon to keep to hand in case things escalated. But she needed to bide her time. She couldn’t defeat both of them on her own. She knew she needed to get it upstairs to her room.

  If only she had her gumboots on; the blade could be slid down the boot and hidden easily from view. But here she was dressed in a blouse and trousers with flat shoes.

  Maybe she could slide it down her trouser leg, suspended from the waistband. Yes, that could work if she went upstairs carefully.

  But then she thought about tending Emory’s wound. That would mean she’d be crouching in the bathroom and the blade would clatter out. And unless she was ready to use it, that would be disastrous. If she got into a fight, she needed Connie and Esther to be free from the locked bedroom to even the odds.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  It was Siegfried with suspicion in his voice.

  Joyce ducked down, opened the cupboard under the sink and slipped the breadknife inside. It would have to wait until she was better prepared.

  ‘Just got the wrong bandage.’ Joyce was covering for the delay. She was impressed with how easy a lie could come when she was under pressure. She stood up with a smile, closing the cupboard, the bandage in her outstretched hand; the knife stashed inside the cupboard.

  ‘Come on then, get on with it.’ Siegfried waved her past.

  Joyce ran back upstairs and went into the bathroom. Emory eyed her with contempt. Carefully she pulled his sleeve up away from the bandage that was already in place. There was some staining and as she peeled away the fabric, she could see that something was wrong.

  ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘Of course, it hurts.’ Then he took a more sanguine tone. ‘It feels like it is burning, you know?’

  ‘It’s infected.’ Joyce knew enough from her volunteer shifts at the hospital to recognise the signs. ‘You need to get it treated.’

  ‘You can treat it?’ It was a question not a statement; the first sign of vulnerability.

  ‘Not really. I mean I could wash it again with alcohol and put a new dressing on. But you need a doctor to look at this.’

  ‘Do that. Do those things. Do what you can.’ Emory sighed. ‘The doctor part will have to wait until I am away from here.’

  Joyce washed his arm i
n the sink; watching as he winced in pain. Emory gritted his teeth, breathing fast in an effort to suppress the discomfort. The skin on his upper arm was the crimson red of Connie’s suit, with blotches of orange. Joyce did the best job she could, before binding it tightly; but she wondered what would happen if he didn’t get it treated. He winced as she applied a safety pin to the dressing and the wound was obviously more painful for him than it had been previously.

  After she had finished the work, Emory took her across the landing and locked her in the bedroom with the other women.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Connie asked.

  ‘Yes, just had to dress his wound. I’m so sorry you got dragged into this.’

  ‘I realise now you was trying to warn me, weren’t you? Getting Henry’s name wrong on the telephone. That was a warning, wasn’t it?’

  Joyce nodded.

  ‘I just thought you were confused.’

  ‘Sorry. I wish I could have made it clearer.’

  They listened as Emory stomped downstairs. After a few minutes, Joyce could hear the distinctive tap-tap of the Morse code transmitter in the parlour, the sound of which seemed to carry around the small farmhouse. The worsening state of Emory’s condition had obviously galvanised him to get help. Joyce hoped that someone would answer his call soon so they could be free of this nightmare.

  She looked at the tired face of Esther and the concerned face of Connie. Would they all be kept in this room until it was over? An early evening breeze rattled against the windows.

  Joyce could feel another frost coming.

  Chapter 13

  Esther dozed fitfully on the bed.

  Connie and Joyce sat on the floor at the end of it. Joyce played with the tassels on the eiderdown and watched as the sky in the window frame darkened. She’d waited until Esther went to sleep before discussing what they were going to do. Esther was exhausted and needed to sleep. Connie seemed lost in her own thoughts. From time to time, Connie and Joyce would glance at each other; an unspoken solidarity and strength in the face of the odds facing them.