The Silent Christmas

by M J Lee

  Nobody answered, all three of them just staring into the embers of the brazier, now with a white ash frosting the burning wood.

  'Sergeant.' It was Captain Lawson, who had crept up on them silently again through the slime. 'Fritz is a bit friendly this evening. Make sure the sentries stay alert. Two hours on, four off.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Keep the bombs handy, but don't lob any into no-man's-land without my express orders. Understood?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Carry on, Sergeant.’

  Captain Lawson moved on past them, sliding down the rest of the trench towards C Company.

  Bert turned back towards them and mouthed 'bloody idiot'.

  'He's not a bad sort. I've known worse,' said Harry.

  'He's young and he's stupid. Barely out of school trousers.'

  ‘Writes a diary and poetry, so I've heard.'

  'Poetry?' exploded Bert.

  'Heard it from his batman. Sits there staring into mid-air with a book in front of him and a stupid look on his face. Occasionally, he leans forward and writes a few words.’

  'Are you sure it's poetry?' asked Harry.

  'That's what his batman said. Mind you, John Wainwright – that’s the batman’s name – was never great at reading. Went to school with him, I did.'

  'Poetry,' muttered Bert, shaking his head. 'Just what we bloody need. A soldier who writes poetry. What use is that to anybody?’

  Seconds later a bullet crashed into the wood above their heads. Instinctively, they ducked as a few splinters flew through the air.

  'That's what we need, a good sniper. Not a bloody poet.'

  'Shh...' Tom stopped him from talking, '...listen.'

  'Hello, Tommy.'

  The voice was far away, coming from the German trenches.

  'Waiter, bring me cream cakes,' shouted Harry, cupping his hand near his mouth and stretching up towards the top of the parapet.

  'Very funny, Tommy. Not all waiters in Germany, I was a mechanic in Manchester.'

  'Well, I never...' said Bert.

  'I thought I recognised the Manchester accent,' said Harry.

  'What are you doing over there?' shouted Tom over the parapet.

  There was a long pause. 'Fighting, just like you. Merry Christmas, Tommy.'

  'Merry Christmas, Fritz.'

  Then it all went quiet. Above them, a half-moon peered from behind the clouds and a harmonica in the next platoon began playing Danny Boy.

  ‘Manchester...' said Harry. 'I wonder if he supports United or City?'

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Friday, December 22, 2017

  Central Library, Manchester

  Jayne examined the leather object closely. It was about nine inches in diameter and concave in shape, the leather stiff and wrinkled with age like the skin of an old man. It seemed to be divided into sections and was hollow on the inside. A few stitches had come undone from one of the sections and, peering inside the dark interior, a decayed piece of what looked like string was resting across a rubber tube. ‘I haven’t a clue what it could be and I'm not an antiques dealer, Mr Wright,' she said, handing it back.

  'I know, but that's why we came to see you. My other son Chris found it when we were clearing out the attic in Mum's house. She died a week ago...'

  'I'm sorry for your loss.' Jayne found herself mumbling the words. Why was she always embarrassed when somebody mentioned death in her presence?

  'Mum had a good life, a long life. By the end, I think she wanted to go to meet my father, his granddad.' He patted the boy on his head. 'We think this belonged to him. It was wrapped up in a chest in the attic.'

  'I think you should take it to a good antiques dealer. I'm sure he'll be able to tell you what it is.’ Jayne tried to edge past him, but he stood his ground.

  'There's something else we found with it that I want you to see.'

  From the interior of the Tesco bag the man produced a round silver object, the colour on the surface slightly faded and tarnished with age, as if somebody had been rubbing their thumb over it. The number 35 was embossed in the middle.

  ‘It looks like a coin.’

  ‘Or a button,’ piped up the young boy.

  Jayne pursed her lips. ‘You could be right, Martin.’

  'That's what Chris thought too. We found one final thing in the chest.’

  He reached into the bag and brought out a piece of paper shaped like a luggage tag with two thin pieces of string running from a reinforced hole at the top. One side of the tag was printed with a green design and strange angular lettering. On the other side, a name and address were written in an ink that had browned with age:

  Tom Wright 12725

  22, Elgin Street,

  Stalybridge

  Beside the address in a different hand, and larger, were the numbers 3-2. These numbers had not faded so much with time.

  David reached over and tapped the tag. ‘This was tied to to the leather object. Tom Wright. That was my grandfather's name. He died when I was a young boy in 1976. I don't remember much about him. He didn't speak a lot, a quiet man, worked all his life as a postman in Stalybridge until he retired. After that, he worked on his allotment. I always remember him smoking his pipe, though. Can still remember the smell today. It's funny how things like that stay with you – smells, I mean.'

  Jayne liked this man and his son, but it was the week before Christmas, she hadn't bought any presents yet for Robert, her dad, or Vera, his new wife. She hadn't even ordered the turkey and they were coming to her house for Christmas dinner. Her father had accepted the invitation even though he knew she wasn't the best cook in the world. At least the wine would be good. She had saved a couple of bottles of Chateau Lynch-Bages as a special treat.

  '...so you see, that's why it's important to us.'

  She realised the man had been speaking all the time she had been thinking about making Christmas dinner. 'Sorry, I missed that.'

  The man swallowed and began again. 'My other son, Chris. He's in hospital at the moment. In Christie’s.'

  The name of Manchester's hospital for treating cancer sent alarm bells ringing in Jayne's head. 'I hope he's not too poorly.'

  'Juvenile leukaemia.'

  'I'm sorry.'

  'He was diagnosed last month and they took him in three days ago. He'll be in over Christmas, starts chemo after the holiday. We're off to see him this afternoon.'

  'I'm very sorry, Mr Wright. How old is he?'

  The man's eyes went down to the floor. ‘Fourteen. He's my eldest.'

  The young boy spoke. 'You see, we promised Chris... I promised Chris that we would find out all about the button and the label and the leather thing we found in our grandfather’s trunk. It was going to be my Christmas present to him.'

  'But we've looked everywhere on the internet and can't find anything about them. And we haven’t even got a clue what this is.’ He held up the leather object. ‘We were in town doing some late Christmas shopping and saw you were giving a talk and came along. Can you help us, Mrs Sinclair?'

  Jayne sighed and shook her head. 'I'm sorry, Mr Wright. An antique dealer could do far better than me. At least he would know what this is.'

  'But it's the label that's important. It's got my grandfather's name on it. You could find out what it is by researching him, couldn't you?'

  Jayne thought for a moment. She could perhaps perform a quick search on the man's grandfather, at least find out his background – it wouldn't take long. But it was Christmas and she had so much to do...

  Her phone rang.

  'Excuse me.' She delved into her handbag. Where was the bloody thing? The sound of ringing was becoming louder and more persistent. Where was it?

  The young boy tapped her on the arm and pointed to her laptop bag. The ringing was coming from inside there. She checked the name on the screen. It was Vera, her stepmother.

  'Hi, Vera—'

  'It's Robert, he collapsed. They've rushed him to hospital.'

  CHAPTER
FIVE

  Friday, December 22, 2017

  Macclesfield General Hospital, Cheshire

  'We can't go in yet. The doctor's examining him.' Vera blocked Jayne from going through the door into the ward.

  'What happened? Is he okay? What's wrong with him?'

  On hearing the news, Jayne had rushed out of Central Library and ran to her car, which was parked nearby. It had taken her fifty minutes to drive to Macclesfield Hospital, where her father had been taken. She was sure she had accelerated past at least two speed cameras in the drive down the A523, but she didn't care. All that mattered was Robert. Was he still alive? She wanted to talk to him one more time. To tell him how much she loved him.

  Vera took her by the arm. 'He's not been feeling well for the last few days. Said it was difficult to breathe. I thought he had a spot of winter flu, nothing to worry about. Then this morning, we'd had our breakfast at the home and were walking down the corridor to the TV room to do the crossword – you know how much Robert loves to do his crosswords – when he just collapsed. I thought he'd had a heart attack. Luckily Matron was there and she called the ambulance. We went straight to A&E and they admitted him within an hour. We were lucky there was a bed free.'

  All the while, Vera had been speaking in a quiet, calm voice, her hand holding Jayne's arm.

  Jayne took three deep breaths, trying to quieten her beating heart. 'He's going to be okay, isn't he?'

  Vera didn't answer, just patted her hand.

  A doctor and a nurse came out of the room and walked over to them. 'Mrs Cartwright?'

  Vera put her hand up. ’I'm Mrs Cartwright and this is Robert's daughter, Jayne.'

  The doctor nodded towards Jayne but spoke to Vera. 'Robert has a bad case of double pneumonia. We've given him antibiotics and he's on a saline drip. At the moment, we're just using oxygen through a mask, but if his condition worsens we'll have to move him to ICU and put him on a ventilator.’

  'He's going to be okay, isn't he, Doctor?

  The doctor, a young Asian man, looked down at the ground. 'He's comfortable for the moment, but such an attack puts an immense strain on the heart of a man his age. We'll keep monitoring him constantly. It's just a question of time now.'

  'Can we go in and see him?'

  The doctor looked at the nurse, who nodded. 'For a few minutes. He's sleeping and the best thing is for him to rest and let the antibiotics work. If you'll excuse me, I must continue with my rounds.'

  The nurse gestured with her hand. 'Come with me.'

  She opened the door and they stepped in. The room was a four-bed ward, the three other beds occupied by older people who were either sleeping or reading. One bed had the blinds drawn around it. This was Robert’s bed.

  The nurse pulled one side back and allowed them to step forward.

  Jayne's father was lying in bed, a tube attached to the back of his hand from a saline drip above his head. A clear plastic oxygen mask covered his nose and mouth. Two other machines beeped quietly and slowly, monitoring his life signs.

  Lying there unmoving, he looked so vulnerable, so fragile to Jayne. So different from the strong, intelligent man she knew as her father. She felt Vera touch her arm and she looked at her stepmother’s face, the eyes red-rimmed, just about holding back her tears.

  She looked back at Robert and, without bidding, a memory sprang into her mind.

  They both stood outside the doors of Manchester Museum. She must have been 14 or 15, for most of that week had been spent arguing with her mother. It was the typical type of fight that teenagers get into with their parents. Her skirts were either too short or too long. Her hair then was styled in the curls of Kylie Minogue, which her mother said made her look like a poodle on heat. The final bone of contention was her boyfriend at that time, Gerry. A lovely lad who looked like Jason Donovan and was an apprentice plumber. It was one Saturday morning when it all kicked off.

  'I'm having no daughter of mine having a relationship with a man who spends most of his time up to his elbows in shit.'

  'Mum, he spends most of his time making tea and laying bathroom tiles.'

  'He's too old for you.'

  'He's only twenty-one.'

  'You told me he was eighteen?'

  Jayne had forgotten the little white lie she had first told her mother about Gerry.

  'He's too old. I'm not having it, understand, little lady?'

  'Oh, I can see you're not having it, that's why you're so irritable all the time.'

  Her mother stared at her for a moment before the arm came round in a wide arc and struck Jayne on her face. The blow didn't hurt but the shock did. How dare her mother strike her? She went to lift her own hand when Robert caught it and ushered her out of the house before she did any real damage.

  They ended up at Manchester Museum.

  'Look, lass, your mother means well. She cares for you.'

  'Hitting your daughter across the face is a funny way of showing it.'

  'Sometimes, people can't say the words...'

  'By people, you mean my mother?'

  'She loves you, Jayne.'

  'How do you put up with her, Robert?’

  As her stepfather, she had always called him by his Christian name. Her biological father had walked out on them when she was only three months old. Robert had married her mother three years later and, for Jayne, he was the only father she had ever known.

  'I love your mother. Always have done, always will do.'

  'Despite her temper?'

  'Because of her temper.'

  'You're a strange man, Robert.'

  'And I love you too, always remember that, lass.'

  They had gone into the museum and spent hours looking at the mummies in their cases. She realised later it was Robert's understated way of telling her that all the rows would pass. Nothing lasts for ever. These 3000-year-old mummies had once lived and laughed and loved and argued and now they were nothing but shrivelled bodies in a museum.

  He was a subtle man was Robert.

  God, she loved him.

  She felt the nurse's hand on her elbow. 'It's time to leave now.'

  Jayne nodded and, taking one last look at her father lying motionless in his bed, helped Vera leave the room.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Wednesday, 23 December, 1914

  Wulverghem, Belgium

  Overnight the temperature had dropped. Frost rimed the mud of no-man's-land, like whitecaps on a troubled sea. The stench of dead bodies from the German attack five days ago had dissipated, but the bodies still remained, intermingled with the Tommies who had died with them. The corpse of one soldier was still draped over the wire where he had fallen.

  'It's not right, leaving him out there on the wire.'

  It was Harry speaking. He now wore a woollen fleece overcoat, 'liberated' from a sergeant in the Manchesters, who had made the mistake of leaving it hanging on a hook when he went to the latrine.

  'I mean, would you like to be left out there, if you ever copped it?'

  Bert didn't answer. He was busy darning a hole in his sock. His pasty feet with their large horny nails were out of his boots and being aired in front of the fire.

  'Got to look after your feet, them's a man's best friend, they is,' he said, squinting down at the heel of the sock.

  'I thought that was dogs.'

  'It's feet. Keep your feet looked after and they'll look after you.' He stopped darning for a moment and rubbed the end of his big toe, poking his finger carefully between each of his other toes, removing any dirt that had collected there. Then he went back to his darning, ensuring that the repair to the heel was perfect.

  'Fritz is quiet this morning. The ten o'clock hate hasn't started yet.'

  Tom stared at his Borget, a prized possession given to him by Mr Brocklehurst the day he was called up as a reservist and left for the front. 'There ye are, lad. With this you'll always know the time. It's an officer's watch, no tat for one of my workers. Luminous dial so ye can see in’t dark. And d
on't worry, lad, your job will still be here waiting for you when you come back at Christmas. Papers say it'll all be over by then. We'll have chased the Kaiser back down his hole.'

  Now it was nearly Christmas and it wasn't over.

  'Perhaps the Fritz artillery have gone home for the holidays,' said Harry.

  As if on cue, the shells of the Whistling Willies flew over their heads, landing somewhere in the communication lines at the rear.

  ‘No Coal Boxes or Flying Pigs today,’ said Bert, listening to the sounds of the explosions behind them.

  'At least it's not us. Some other poor bastards are copping it.'

  'As long as it's not the cooks.' Bert slipped the sock back over his foot, checking his handiwork. 'An army marches on its stomach. Some general said that.'

  'I thought it marched on its feet?’ asked Harry, his forehead creasing into a frown.

  A sergeant bustled towards them down the trench, keeping his head well below the parapet as the shells whistled over.

  'Mail's come,' said Harry.

  The sergeant was a lifer from HQ Company who had managed to luck into a cushy number as the clerk to the quartermaster. His only dangerous job was delivering the mail to the men when it arrived, which was usually long after it had been sent.

  This time he carried a large hessian sack and dropped it at their feet, rummaging inside. 'You're in luck, lads, special delivery courtesy of Princess Mary.' He brought out three brass tins, each one stamped with the head of a young woman and the letters 'MM' on either side. 'You don't smoke, do you, Harry?'

  ‘Knackers the football, don't it?'

  'This one's for you, then.' He passed over one of the brass tins. 'You two take pot luck.'

  Bert took the tin on the left while Tom took the one on the right.

  'Wright, you got a parcel. Only posted on the fourteenth, they must have run with it from Dover. Special courier, like.' The sergeant laughed at his own joke. 'Harry, you got a box.' He took it out of his sack and stared at the postmark. 'Sent last October.' He smelt the box. 'Hope they haven't put food in. Will be as ripe as a Salford arse if they have.'