by Roland Moore
‘So what do you think they’ll do?’ Connie voice was a whisper. She didn’t want to wake Esther or be overheard by their captors. Neither of them could be certain that the occasional creaks on the landing were just the sounds of an old building settling on a cold day.
‘They’re sending messages using the wireless,’ Joyce replied, keeping her voice equally low. ‘They think someone will come for them.’
‘Who’s going to come?’
‘Just like there are evasion lines in France for our airmen, there’s something similar here. Although I don’t think it’s as well organised as the French one. I don’t know.’
Joyce couldn’t help but think about John as she spoke about evasion lines and France. They’d brought her husband back to her. No, she couldn’t think about that now.
A house fire in Leeds.
John was asleep inside.
She had to shut out those stupid lies. She had to focus on escaping from this situation. She had to focus on saving Esther and Connie.
‘How long will they have to wait then?’ Connie asked.
‘I don’t know.’ Joyce shrugged. ‘They can’t get incoming messages on the wireless. So they may have been sending the messages to no one.’
‘So we could be holed up in this room for days?’
‘No.’ Joyce had an air of defiance in her voice. ‘It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow. Finch and Iris, Frank and Martin will all be back. Whatever happens, things will be bound to change when they do. And the home guard will resume searching too.’
‘But will they come here?’
‘Horace came the other day to tell us what was going on. He was surprised to hear there were two airmen out there.’
‘Why was he surprised? I told Doctor Channing that a few days ago.’ Connie found that strange. ‘You’d think he’d have got the message out to the people doing the search, wouldn’t you?’
‘Maybe he was busy.’
‘Too busy to do something important like that? Seems odd.’
Joyce shrugged in agreement. Yes, it was strange that the message from Channing hadn’t been disseminated to all members of the Home Guard. But then she couldn’t be sure that some of them had been told and forgotten, thanks to the fog of old age and the preoccupation of the impending Christmas celebrations.
‘Still, they know now. And I’m sure they’ll come round here again to check on us.’
The level of confidence was high in her voice, but the truth was that she wasn’t sure. The fact was that the Home Guard might not come back again. What if the search was called off? Or what if they were following leads that led them far away from here? And if they did come back, would they make it in time?
‘We can’t wait.’ Connie had reached the same conclusion. ‘We’ve got to have a plan to get out of here, Joyce.’
Joyce nodded. She leant forward and spoke even more softly and told Connie about the breadknife downstairs and her plan to smuggle it upstairs. She told her that she needed to be wearing her gumboots to smuggle it up here. Connie had an idea.
‘The chickens – the layers – we’ll need to collect the eggs and check on them. If we can both get out there, we’d be wearing our boots. And then one of us could smuggle the knife up here, couldn’t they?’
‘Then we’d have a weapon at least.’ Joyce closed her eyes, thinking it through.
It sounded a good plan. Or the start of one at least. She felt slightly re-energized by having Connie here. Esther seemed lost; a woman retreating inside herself until the danger was gone. At least Connie would give her someone to discuss her plans with, someone who could veto the more dangerous or risky ones; someone with whom she could share the responsibility of escape. She had a partner; a friend who would be looking out for her.
‘We’re assuming they’ll care about the chickens though!’ Joyce was playing devil’s advocate.
‘They will if there’s no other food in the house.’ It was Esther’s voice. She’d startled both of them as they had assumed she was asleep. She swung her feet off the bed and yawned, glancing at the darkening window. Esther closed the curtains and then sat on the end of the bed so she could join in the hushed conversation with Connie and Joyce.
‘So we get the knife up here. And then I suppose we threaten them to leave. Is that what we do?’ The truth was that her head had been so muddled that she’d been too exhausted to think far beyond that. It wasn’t much of a plan.
Connie shook her head. ‘Trouble is that they’ve got a pistol, haven’t they? If only we had a gun – that could even the odds.’
Then Joyce told them what she’d seen in the tool shed.
‘Finch bought a shotgun, remember? When he went to buy that flaming pig, he came back with a shotgun. It’s in his tool shed!’
‘Then we use the knife to distract them while one of us runs to the tool shed. Then we use the shotgun to get rid of them!’ Connie’s eyes were blazing as the idea took hold.
Joyce liked the euphemism of Connie’s last words. That could mean anything from driving them away from the farm or shooting them. Joyce thought she’d be happy to see them gone, by whatever means was necessary.
‘When do you think we should try to get the gun?’ Esther stretched her neck to relieve a knot in it.
‘We could do it when we collect the eggs first thing tomorrow morning. And we use the egg collection tonight to get the knife up here into the room.’
The three women agreed; it sounded a workable, if perilous, plan. But what plan wouldn’t be perilous? The egg run tonight – they’d get the knife. The egg run tomorrow – they’d get the gun.
‘Now we’ve got to hope they like the idea of an egg for breakfast.’ Connie was smiling. Joyce laughed and found that the laugh threatened to morph into heaving-shouldered crying as her body tried to let out all the anxiety and stress of the last few days. She let it come. Connie and Esther hugged her as the sobbing subsided. Joyce kept insisting that she was all right, but then she’d find herself crying some more. Esther told her to let it all out. It was for the best. She couldn’t keep it bottled up.
An hour and a half later, Emory and Siegfried stood in the bedroom doorway looking at the three women in front of them. Joyce and Esther had catnapped while Connie kept an ear out for their captors. And when Connie heard the men coming up the stairs, she woke her friends.
‘You will come downstairs.’ Emory moved to one side.
‘Why?’ Connie stood up.
‘Because we tell you to.’
‘We need you there in case anyone comes to the door this evening,’ Siegfried explained. ‘And we’d appreciate it if you would cook us something to eat please.’
Emory glowered at his companion. Joyce assumed he didn’t see the need for politeness. He obviously preferred the more heavy-handed approach, as she’d seen.
‘We don’t really have much food in.’ Joyce was laying the first stage of the plan.
‘Then improvise.’ Emory turned to go.
‘We could collect some eggs from the chickens. Make an omelette.’
‘Very well,’ Emory left the room and Siegfried waited for the women to gather themselves. They all trouped downstairs.
When they reached the kitchen and Joyce started to put on her boots, Emory had an idea.
‘Why don’t you kill a chicken?’ To Emory it was the most obvious thing in the world. Joyce didn’t have an answer to that. These men were hardly likely to respect the law of the land and observe the rules of rationing.
‘We could. But we still need to collect the eggs.’
The men conferred with each other. Finally, Emory nodded and pointed at Joyce.
‘You come and do it. The others will stay.’
‘It’s a big pen,’ Connie piped up. ‘It’s a two-person job.’
‘Let her help me, it’ll be quicker with two of us.’ Joyce tried to modulate her voice, so it was a throwaway statement, and not the most important thing in the world.
‘No,’ Emory wasn’t having it. ‘You will d
o it on your own.’
This was going wrong.
This would scupper the first part of the plan. How was Joyce going to get the knife from under the sink if she was alone with these men? She needed someone else with her to act as a distraction. She couldn’t slide the breadknife down her gum boot without being spotted otherwise. But what could she say without it raising Emory’s suspicions? As Joyce pondered what to do, help came from an unexpected source. Siegfried spoke in German to his commander, before repeating it in English for the benefit of the women.
‘We keep Esther hostage in case there is any trick.’
‘Fine,’ Joyce suddenly felt awkward that she’d agreed Esther’s fate as flippantly as it was deciding who wouldn’t have a second biscuit at teatime.
‘Yes, that’s fine,’ Esther put on a brave face. ‘The important thing is that it’s done. Otherwise we’ll have nothing to eat the rest of the time you’re here, will we?’
She sounded like a landlady speaking to her guests rather than a hostage speaking to her captors. But for Joyce a different message was being conveyed. Esther was saying that she was happy for Joyce to go. She was saying that their plan was the most important thing. For them to escape, they had to execute the plan.
Joyce and Connie moved to leave, with Joyce wearing her gumboots. Connie was still wearing her high-heels and her crimson suit. It wasn’t suitable attire for mucking out the chickens, but they didn’t exactly have a choice in the matter. The men weren’t likely to give them time to change.
Siegfried took the gun from Emory and watched Esther as Emory left. ‘See you in a moment.’ Emory made his way through the door.
‘Wait a minute.’ Joyce needed to complete the next stage.
‘What is it?’ Emory was annoyed at the delay.
‘I need something for the eggs. Something to put them in.’
As Joyce moved to the sink, Connie smiled at Emory with an awkwardness as if they were too strangers who had made too much eye contact while waiting for a bus. She knew how to get someone’s interest and that’s just what she intended to do.
Emory was distracted by Connie as Joyce opened the cupboard under the sink. Emory glanced back at Joyce. Connie knew she had to try harder to hold his attention.
‘Do you think I could have a look outside on the step for some boots? I’m going to mess these lovely red shoes right up,’ Connie indicated the length of her heels in a bid to distract him. She knew that the turn of a heel could sometimes stop Henry from writing his sermons and she hoped it might have a similar effect now. And indeed, Emory looked momentarily interested in her shapely legs, before he returned his interest to Joyce.
‘Well, can I have a look?’
‘What?’
‘For some boots?’
‘Go on.’ Emory unlocked the back door and opened it for Connie. She made a big play of looking around by the mat and the boot scraper. Dolores’s boots were there. Connie picked one up.
‘These are too big for me. That Dolores has got feet like skis. But I don’t know what choice I’ve got really, do you?’
Emory shook his head, focusing his full attention on her.
‘You keep your shoes. I won’t have any messing around.’
‘There will be plenty of mess around if I keep these shoes on,’ Connie replied, buying Joyce more time.
Joyce slid the breadknife from the cupboard; making sure she didn’t make a sound as she hid it down her gumboot. She stood up, before remembering that she’d said she was looking for an egg basket. That was the cover story! Don’t blow it now. She scooped up a small wicker basket from the cupboard and closed it. She smiled at Emory and Connie, holding up the basket as if it was a trophy.
Mission accomplished.
The two women followed Emory out to the yard. Joyce hoped that her hidden weapon didn’t ride up out of the top of her boot as she walked, so she ensured she took measured steps as she walked towards the chicken coop. This pen was a good deal larger than the one in which Finch had kept the birds destined for the table. The coop contained thirty-five chickens and the structure was showing signs of wear and tear despite having been built only four years ago. But then Finch had been the man who had built it. The roof had warped by a few degrees, meaning that heavy rainfall would leave a small pond of water above their heads. Joyce always wondered if it would give way when she was inside, soaking her to the bone. Some of the wooden uprights had been painted with green paint, but some were still bare wood; a job half done. Most of them were stained dark with water damage.
Connie tottered into the enclosure and collected the eggs, placing them in Joyce’s basket. Emory watched them keenly, remaining at the entrance to the coop, as their figures receded along the long, narrow building. The whole place smelt of damp and chicken feed. The hens were clucking excitedly as the visitors investigated the egg traps. Emory sauntered over to the chicken nearest to him. He scooped it up and tried to clasp it between his good arm and his body, but the bird was flapping its wings in agitation. Finally he managed to subdue it.
Joyce glanced back and saw him leave the enclosure. She could see his shadow against the window, caught in the light of the farmhouse. He performed a quick and brutal action with his hand and the hen in his arms stopped moving. Joyce busied herself with the eggs and noticed that her trouser leg had ridden up slightly, exposing the handle of the knife. Quickly she pulled it down again.
With enough eggs to look convincing, the two women walked towards the entrance and met Emory coming in. The dead chicken was clutched in his left-hand; blood specks were on his knuckles and his cheek. He threw it towards Connie, who managed to catch it before it splatted against her best suit.
‘’Ere mind out!’
‘Prepare this to eat,’ Emory ordered, before marching back to the farmhouse. Connie brushed herself down and holding the chicken she followed him. Joyce checked again that the knife was still concealed and moved after her.
It was late by the time they’d prepared, cooked and eaten the chicken. The women had little appetite but ate to keep up appearances. Instead they watched as the Germans stripped the bones. Joyce noticed that Emory was in discomfort, continually wanting to scratch at his injured arm. For most of the time he let it dangle by his side. She assumed that it hurt to raise it up to table height. He was also fighting to stem the sweat that was coming from his forehead, continually dabbing at it with a tea towel. His eyes looked red and rheumy. How long could he last without medical attention?
After dinner, Siegfried thanked them for the meal. He said that they hoped to be gone tomorrow. Joyce said, as pleasantly as she could manage, that she hoped that too. Siegfried smiled, appreciating her attempt at dark humour. He escorted them upstairs and waited outside the bathroom for each of them before securing them in Joyce’s bedroom. She heard the key in the lock and then listened as Siegfried ambled downstairs.
When she was sure that the coast was clear, Joyce pulled up her trouser to reveal the handle of the knife. Carefully she took it out of her sock. Connie and Esther smiled with relief.
Now they had a weapon.
In the parlour, the smog of cigar smoke greeted Siegfried. He fought to stop himself from coughing, instead using his hands to clear the air. The offending cigar, taken from Finch’s collection, was burning in an ashtray next to the prone form of Emory Mayer. He had the back of his hand positioned over his forehead like a Victorian heroine in distress, as he lay on the sofa. Siegfried was worried about his commander.
‘Captain?’
There was no response, just a listless murmur from the older man.
‘Captain? I have locked the women up in their room. What do you want me to do now?’
‘Sit down,’ Emory’s voice was weak. ‘Sit down and talk to me.’
‘You must be strong for a little longer, Captain,’ Siegfried hoped the words would encourage him, and was surprised when Emory lashed out a meaty hand and grabbed him around the back of the neck, pulling him towards him. Siegfr
ied could see the strain playing on Emory’s face as he did this. It wasn’t easy for him.
‘Don’t tell me what to do.’
‘Sorry. I meant that I’m sure we won’t have long to wait until they come for us.’
‘What if they don’t?’
‘They will.’
‘What if we’ve been sending the message and no one has heard it? What then, eh?’
‘We must believe that someone has heard it, sir.’
‘I wish I had your optimism.’ Emory let go of the boy. ‘But what if no one comes?’
Siegfried took a deep breath. He knew what he hoped would happen. And he knew that Emory wouldn’t agree. Did his commander really want him to voice what that was? He knew he had to say it for his own sanity.
‘Maybe then we give ourselves up?’
Emory smiled in a manner that said that would never happen.
‘No, we wait until lunchtime tomorrow, then we leave,’ Emory struggled to focus his tired, burning eyes on Siegfried. ‘It is Christmas soon. People will be distracted with their preparations. We should be able to get a long way before they find us.’
‘All right. And what do we do about the women?’
Emory pondered this for a moment. The longer the silence went on, the more fearful Siegfried became of the answer. And when Emory eventually spoke, Siegfried felt his stomach knot in anxiety.
‘They could lead the soldiers to us if we let them live.’
‘But Captain—’
‘We shoot them all.’
Siegfried was shocked, and he struggled not to show too much on his face. He knew that Emory would get angry if he showed compassion to the enemy. Like it or not, this would be the way things would be.
‘If no one comes for us by lunchtime tomorrow, I will shoot the women and we will leave. Now, get some sleep.’ For his part, Emory already sounded drowsy.
‘Yes, Captain.’ But Siegfried doubted that he’d be able to get much sleep that night.
There was only space on the bed for two of them, so Joyce elected to sleep in the chair. They didn’t bother getting undressed. Connie thought they should be ready for an early start, ready for any opportunity that presented itself. They’d played cards for a time. Pontoon was a game that Joyce had played back home, and it was one of her favourites. But none of them could concentrate. Joyce put the cards on the floor and they worked on their plan instead. They’d placed the breadknife in the bedside drawer for when it was needed tomorrow. Going over the plan was reassuring and Joyce felt comforted by it. The more they talked, the more she hoped they’d spot any potential loophole. They discussed the plan of events again and again. Joyce outlined what she thought would happen.