by S Block
Christmas lunch at the Farrows’ was a muted affair. Stanley and Stan had spent the preceding week taking as much game as they could off the land, keeping what they needed and selling the rest to Brindsley’s. Customarily an opportunity for kicking off their work boots, letting their hair down, and drinking a little too much, this year’s Christmas was haunted by the ghost of the German pilot. Or so it felt to Steph, whose mood set the tone for everyone else. She sat at the table watching her husband and son tear through plates of rabbit and potatoes, wondering what kind of meal the Hauer family would be having. She tried to imagine Stanley’s chair empty at her Christmas lunch and it immediately brought a large lump to her throat.
Stan kept an eye on Steph to make sure she was coping. She had returned from her evening at the WI in good spirits. Contrary to his own belief that she shouldn’t have spoken to the meeting about what had happened, it actually seemed to have been helpful. But while it had done the trick in keeping the village’s interest at bay, it hadn’t had the same effect on Steph’s own conscience, and her spirits seemed to have flagged by the following morning. Stan didn’t know what to say or do.
‘Nothing you can say,’ Steph told him. ‘Just have to live with it.’
‘But how can I help you do that?’ Stan asked, nonplussed. ‘One minute you seem back to your old self, the next you’ve gone right back down.’
‘You can start by not asking how I’m feeling all the bloody time.’
That’s how things stood during the Farrow Christmas lunch – Steph trapped in guilt; Stan unable to stop wishing he could do more to release his wife from what seemed to him to be a prison of her own making. Stanley barely noticed any of it, locked in imagining what it would be like to wear the uniform of an English soldier, and carry a rifle, and use it against an enemy who always had the same face in his mind’s eye – that of Christophe Hauer.
No presents were exchanged, and nothing was said during the meal.
*
At the Campbell house, Christmas lunch had the potential to be just as sombre as at the Farrows’, but for the determination of Kate, Laura, and Dr Rosen to make it a celebration of Will for themselves, yes, but chiefly for Erica. As the various dishes came and went, each of the young women took it in turns to tell their favourite stories about Will. Some simply praised him to the skies for being a wonderful father and husband and mentor, while others affectionately mocked one or other of his idiosyncrasies – the fact that he liked to keep his pipe in his mouth long after its tobacco had been consumed so as to chew thoughtfully on the mouthpiece; or the way he used to fold over corners of pages of The Lancet or other scientific publications he read so as to be able to return to the favoured article at a later date; or the fact that he used a secret rating system for malingering patients, based on how long they could remain in the consulting room before Will felt able to gently prise them out of the surgery.
‘I was amazed to discover that he categorised the entire village by a scale of minutes per appointment,’ Myra told the others. ‘He knew which patients were fine with five minutes of his time, and which didn’t feel satisfied unless they’d had ten or fifteen.’
Erica nodded. ‘He always said the five-minute crowd subsidised the fifteen-minute crowd,’ she said, ‘believing ten minutes was a good average to aim for.’
Eventually, the conversation about Will dropped, as his absence suddenly struck Kate and she stopped speaking mid-sentence and started to cry. Once she had recovered, Dr Rosen revealed that owing to her Jewish faith this was the first Christmas lunch she had ever experienced. The Campbells were curious about how she found it.
‘I like it very much,’ Myra said. ‘Though I have to admit I was expecting more mention of Jesus.’
‘We leave him at church,’ said Laura.
‘Did you see Tom?’ asked Erica.
Laura nodded. ‘We said hello.’
‘How did you feel?’
‘He made his decision for himself, which I respect. I made mine for myself, which he respects. I think. I have a lot of work ahead of me, so . . .’
Laura trailed off, glancing at Kate, who knew Laura had broken off with Tom because of what she saw her go through with Jack.
‘What do Jewish people usually do at Christmas, Myra?’ Kate asked, changing the subject.
‘Nothing much,’ Myra replied. ‘We have plenty of religious festivals to celebrate, sprinkled throughout the year, so we don’t exactly feel left out.’
After lunch, Laura went up to her bedroom to study, while Kate, Erica, and Myra retired to the parlour to listen to the King’s speech on the wireless. They dozed through the first part, finding his thin, carefully modulated voice a little soporific. They only perked up when the King altered his tone from the general to the specific, and tried to be both reassuring and rousing about the war.
‘. . . I am confident that victory is assured,’ the King said, ‘not only by the prowess of the Armed Forces of my Empire and of those of my Allies, but also by the devotion of the Civil Defence Forces and the tenacity and industry of my people. These are now enduring, where they live and labour, the perils as well as the hardships of war. The staunchness of the men of the Merchant and Fishing Fleets has added lustre to the ancient traditions of the sea. The resistance of my people has won the admiration of other friendly Powers. The relations of my Government with that of the United States of America could not be more cordial, and I learn, with the utmost satisfaction, of the ever-increasing volume of munitions of war which is arriving from that country. It is good to know in these fateful times how widely shared are the ideals of ordered freedom, of justice and security . . .’
Kate and Myra silently noticed Erica looking longingly at Will’s armchair. Almost as soon as the broadcast was over, Erica excused herself and ran upstairs to her room, closed the door behind her, lay on the bed, and began to sob so loudly the others could hear.
Kate and Laura – following the same instinct – went and stood outside their parents’ bedroom, wondering what they should do. Was it better to go in and try to console their mother, or leave her to her grief?
After a few minutes, Erica stopped crying and the girls heard no further sound from within. Prompted by her sister, Laura carefully opened the door and looked inside. There, she saw their mother curled up asleep on the bed, holding the pillow from Will’s side of the bed tightly against her slight frame. She looked at Erica and could see that her face was still wet from crying so hard. Laura recalled a saying her father had once told her. ‘We’re born alone and we die alone.’
At that moment Laura realised that we have no choice but to also grieve alone.
*
The gales of laughter filling the dining room at Teresa’s house were not entirely directed at her first attempt at Christmas lunch with all the trimmings, but it probably accounted for seventy per cent of it. The remaining thirty per cent was due to the copious amount of wine Teresa, Nick and Annie had consumed while they waited for what seemed like an age for Teresa to cook the turkey. Knowing how tortuous was the route by which Nick had acquired the bird, involving at least two connecting RAF flights from Norfolk, Teresa had been determined to make sure she didn’t ruin it by overcooking. Consequently, she undercooked it by at least two hours, so Christmas lunch inexorably slid into Christmas dinner. Not that Nick or Annie seemed to mind. With the threat of air raids lifted for three days, Nick welcomed the opportunity to subside with relief into relaxed good cheer with his two favourite women, and soon found himself sinking without trace in a heated but well-lubricated debate with Annie about whether females could make competent fighter pilots.
‘It’s never going to happen, so why don’t we talk about something that might?’ he said, smiling broadly, blinking slowly.
‘It’s never going to happen unless we talk about it!’ said Annie, aggrieved. She turned to Teresa for support. ‘You agree, don’t you?’
Teresa hadn’t given the subject a moment’s thought, and felt
immediately conflicted. While she didn’t want to contradict Nick in his area of expertise, she couldn’t think of a reason why women shouldn’t be fighter pilots if they could match the prowess of male counterparts.
‘Wouldn’t women lack the necessary killer instinct . . .?’ she asked tentatively.
‘Utter nonsense . . .’ Annie muttered. ‘The RAF doesn’t recruit killers, it recruits future pilots who can be trained to kill in combat. So why not train women too?’
‘Well,’ said Teresa, ‘if it’s simply a question of training—’
‘It isn’t simply a question of training, darling . . .’ said Nick, trying not to sound patronising, and failing appallingly.
‘Is it because we lack the requisite stamina for the job? Is that what you’re going to trot out next?’ asked Annie, jumping in before Nick could dominate the conversation. ‘Because I can tell you as a veteran flyer of planes from one end of the country to the other, in all weathers, without a parachute . . . that’s complete nonsense. As is the idea a trained woman can’t pull the trigger in exactly the same way a trained man can. Do you think I would hate a German pilot up my backside trying to kill me any less than a chap would?’
The conversation rolled on as Teresa excused herself to check on the turkey. Standing in the kitchen prodding the finally browning carcass, she looked back towards the dining room and smiled at the sound of the sozzled argument filling the house. She found Nick’s attempts to be more forward-thinking very endearing, even as he usually faltered and retreated into an innate, good-natured conservatism Teresa knew had been bred into him. She equally loved the unapologetic way Annie relentlessly tackled this streak of Nick’s, as if her life’s work was to push and push until he threw up his hands, the scales fell from his eyes, and he suddenly agreed with everything Annie believed was true.
But most of all, Teresa stood smiling at the success she had self-evidently made of inviting Annie to stay at the house to recuperate. She couldn’t deny that there had been several moments when the atmosphere between them threatened to shift from friendship to the temptation to something more. They had each recognised those moments, and they had only happened while Nick was at Tabley Wood. But when Teresa re-established the tone of self-restraint Annie had, like the perfect house guest, followed her host’s lead by going into her room, while Teresa invariably found an excuse to leave the house to allow the atmosphere to cool. As the kitchen started to fill with the smell of a successfully cooked Christmas turkey, Teresa felt content.
Lust is a sin. But I’ve proved I can resist it. You’ve made it to Christmas a happily married woman, Miss Teresa Fenchurch. Who would ever have thought that would happen?
*
The predominant sound rising from the Christmas lunch table at Joyce Cameron’s house was the clink and scrape of Joyce’s silver cutlery against her bone china, as Joyce, Pat and Bob silently munched their way through thick slices of turkey that Bob had secured as a ‘thank you’ to Joyce for taking them in so generously. Both Bob and Joyce were thoroughly enjoying the meal Bob had asked Pat to prepare as her part of their appreciation for all Joyce had done for them.
‘This meat, Patricia,’ said Joyce, ‘um, um, um . . . delicious. Quite, quite delicious. Moist! I’ve been cooking turkey for years, my dear. Literally decades, and I can’t get moisture like this. You must tell me how. You absolutely must! I put a bird in the oven and whatever I do it comes out as dry as a bone.’
Pat glanced across the table at Bob, who smiled at her, pleased that his wife’s cooking was being so enthusiastically appreciated.
‘Pat has some secrets I’m sure she’ll take to the grave,’ Bob said. ‘Don’t you, Pat?’
Pat looked at Bob for a moment, testing his words for ambiguity, finding none.
‘One or two,’ she said, non-committally, smiling shyly.
‘Promise me one thing,’ Joyce asked, wiping her small mouth delicately on her napkin, ‘I shall be your first guest in your new house.’
‘Of course,’ said Pat, ‘we wouldn’t dream of asking anyone before you. Not only that, you must feel free to drop by any time you choose, and treat it like a second home. After all you’ve done for us, it’s the very least we could do.’
Bob nodded. ‘Absolutely.’ He sounded entirely sincere.
Tears welled in Joyce’s eyes. ‘That’s so kind of you both. Since you told me that you have found somewhere and will be leaving, I’ve had moments of distinct panic at being left alone here. Knowing you are nearby, and that I can pop in for a cup of tea and a piece of your delicious cake, Patricia – and you must feel the same, of course – it makes all the difference. Truly.’
‘It isn’t exactly “nearby”, Mrs Cameron. The new house is six miles away,’ Pat said. The distance from everyone she knew made Pat nervous, and she had yet to tell anyone but Joyce about the planned move.
‘Six miles I shall gladly walk to visit you both,’ said Joyce. ‘Or cycle, or catch a bus. Is it on a bus route?’
‘I think so,’ said Pat, none too sure but not wanting to disappoint Joyce.
Bob wrapped his fingers around his glass and slowly got to his feet, the ligaments in his damaged left knee audibly creaking as he reached his full height. The two women looked up at him and momentarily wondered if Bob had to excuse himself from the table for a moment, before realising he was going to propose a toast.
‘I should like to propose a toast to you, Mrs Cameron. For everything you’ve done for Pat and me. You’re a remarkable woman with a generous heart. I know some in the village are scared of you from time to time—’
‘Only because I seemingly put the fear of God into some of the dafter ones . . .’ Joyce said, nonplussed.
‘Well, hand on heart you’ve been nothing but wonderful to us,’ Bob continued. ‘The absolute embodiment of Christian charity. You are a magical woman, Mrs Cameron. And something quite magical has taken place in your house between me and Pat. I’ll leave it at that. Enough said.’
Bob looked across the table at Pat, who was listening attentively, and now smiled.
‘Quite magical. We shall be very sorry to leave, but leave we must before we overstay our welcome.’ Bob charged his glass towards Joyce. ‘To you. The second favourite woman in my life.’
Bob looked at Joyce, then glanced across at Pat to reinforce that he meant she was the first most important woman in his life. Pat dutifully charged her glass to Joyce, who was beaming from ear to ear. ‘Hear, hear,’ Pat said quietly, and took a slug of wine.
‘For my part,’ said Joyce, ‘I shall treasure the memory of your time here for the rest of my days. It has been my pleasure to have hosted such a wonderful couple as you both. And to get a glimpse at the inner workings of a famous writer! Though I am forced to confess . . . I shan’t be sorry to see the back of your rather loud typewriter, Mr Simms!’
‘Yes . . .’ said Bob. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘Not at all. Tool of your trade. But now it’s my turn to make a toast.’
Joyce stood as Bob sat. She raised her wine glass and looked studiously at the Simmses seated before her.
‘To new friendship. May you enjoy the same degree of happiness in your new home as you did in your old.’
Pat looked across at Bob. His eyes met hers for a moment and then appeared to dip with shame. His face flushed red.
He’s changed. I never would have believed it’s possible, but . . . he’s changed. Look at his cheeks. You can’t fake that. Not even Bob at his worst could put that on.
Pat felt an unfamiliar spasm of sympathy for her husband as he suffered in silence for the domestic crimes of their past.
The question is . . . can I?
*
On Christmas night, the temperature dropped quickly as darkness fell on Great Paxford. The looming black silhouette of the church stood guard on top of the hill. Owing to the suspension of hostilities, the blackout was not enforced, and children looked out of well-lit windows,
reminding themselves what their own streets looked like under streetlight. Slowly but surely, a hard frost froze fast over every exposed surface, locking the village into a brief, silvery, silent night.
As they looked out of their windows, wise heads reminded themselves that these unthreatened moments were nothing more than a mirage of peace, and would pass as swiftly as Christmas itself.
Chapter 30
IF THE VILLAGERS of Great Paxford had been determined to celebrate Christmas partly in defiance of Hitler’s determination to break their morale, there was little appetite to do the same on New Year’s Eve. With no allied troops on the European mainland except those captured at Dunkirk, and the resumption of nightly bombing on 27 December, there seemed little to look forward to in the coming year except more of the same, or far worse. In the Lucas household, Teresa, Nick, and Annie shared a solemn sherry at the stroke of midnight, sang ‘Auld Lang Syne’ as a sad lament for friends and colleagues lost over the preceding year, and retired for the night.
Nick dropped off almost immediately, leaving Teresa lying on her back, listening to Annie’s slow movements downstairs. It was during such moments, caught between a sleeping Nick beside her and an audible Annie elsewhere in the house, that Teresa most felt like an actor lingering in the wings to play the part of a happy housewife, while being all-too aware of a longing to be her true self in a world that didn’t feel like a theatre. Though she felt in control of herself, she nevertheless wondered what Annie was doing down there, and whether Annie was thinking about her?
To quash these thoughts Teresa turned onto her side and looked at Nick. She reached out and gently lay her hand on his chest, feeling his warmth. He was without question handsome, funny, extremely intelligent, compassionate and immeasurably brave. She forced herself to look at her husband as she whispered his virtues over and over, until her eyes grew tired, her lids closed, and she too eventually fell unconscious.
At breakfast, Nick asked if Teresa would take a walk with him. When she asked if she should prepare Annie’s wheelchair so that she could come too, Nick shook his head.