Christmas on the Home Front

‘Seems to be a rural area,’ Siegfried offered.

‘Less chance of them finding us. We should move mainly at night. We need to send a message. Get help.’

‘Who will help us here?’

Siegfried found the notion that the British would help them absurd. Surely any British person would want to imprison or harm them?

‘There are networks. People who sympathise with us.’ Emory’s attention was taken by a plume of smoke in the distance. A cottage, perhaps a mile away, was burning a fire.

‘Isn’t it too risky?’ Siegfried followed his commander’s gaze.

‘We don’t have an option. We’ll steal what we can and get away. Ready?’

Siegfried nodded and the two men set off across the field, the most direct route to the small cottage. Siegfried felt conspicuous in his uniform, but Emory was striding forward across the ploughed ground seemingly without such concerns.

Soon they had reached the perimeter of hawthorn hedge that surrounded the cottage. Within the perimeter, the grass was overgrown, and machinery parts were sprawled about. The cottage itself was a single storey building with a thatched roof and two windows and a green door that needed repainting. Emory and Siegfried crouched behind the hedge, watching for signs of movement.

The door opened and a burly, bald-headed man in a cable-knit sweater appeared. Siegfried didn’t fancy their chances against him in a fair fight. But then he saw that Emory was gripping his service-issue knife. It wouldn’t be a fair fight. Siegfried got his knife out too and gripped it tightly. The man from the cottage stood still for a moment, a plate of potato peelings in his hand. Had he spotted them? Then he arched his back and belched before moving across the garden. When he reached the end, he tipped the peelings into a compost heap and went back inside.

‘What do you think?’ Siegfried whispered.

‘He would have clothes.’

They both knew it was risky to venture inside. What if the man was not alone? And even if he was alone and they overpowered him, Siegfried knew that the alarm would be raised, and people would be on their trail. No, they had to be careful and not leave a trail of destruction. Not unless they had no other option.

‘He’s growing something near the compost bin.’ Emory pointed to where potatoes and cauliflower were growing. ‘That would keep us going until we find something better.’

Siegfried nodded. He liked the idea of stealing a cauliflower more than the idea of facing that man in a fight. Emory indicated for Siegfried to move forwards. There was no gate, so Siegfried moved into the garden, keeping low and near to the house so that he couldn’t be seen from the windows. Emory was keeping look out. Siegfried reached the edge of the cottage. There was no choice now. He had to go across about ten feet of open garden to reach the vegetable patch. Taking a deep breath and clutching his dagger, Siegfried ran in a crouch across the area. He reached the patch, not daring to look back. He scanned the food on offer and pulled up a cauliflower. Tucking it under his arm, he ran back to the comparative safety of the side of the cottage. He waited a moment, listening for any movement. When he was satisfied that no one was going to burst out of the door, Siegfried ran back to the perimeter opening. He ran through and Emory joined him in a sprint away from the cottage. When they reached the abandoned car, both men were out of breath and giddy with the excitement of their small victory.

Siegfried tossed the cauliflower to his commander, who used his knife to break it apart. They ate hungrily, crunching down the raw vegetable. Siegfried suspected he would get indigestion, but it was better than being hungry.

When they had finished, the men got back into the old car. They would wait until dusk before venturing out again. Siegfried gripped the knife and allowed a light sleep to take him. He could feel the cauliflower settling uneasily in his stomach. But it didn’t matter. He knew they would both feel better for their meal. The men took turns to nap and keep watch. Siegfried was soon bored of looking at the cramped confines of the car and felt that he knew each inch of the dashboard and steering wheel; each rip on the musty leather seats. But eventually after the longest day in his life, dusk began to fall.

And when it did, Siegfried became aware of a tiny squeaking sound in the distance. It was too rhythmic to be a mouse. No, it was a bicycle. He roused the dozing Emory and they listened together. Someone was nearing the end of the lane. Quietly, Siegfried got out of the car. Emory followed, gripping his knife. The unseen rider’s foot slipped off the pedal and Siegfried heard them spin without resistance. A moment later the rider had control of the bicycle again – and was getting closer and closer. There was no avoiding the inevitable confrontation. Siegfried picked up a small branch. It might be a better weapon to use at a distance.

And they waited.

A few minutes later a dark-haired woman with pale skin and deep brown eyes cycled into view. She was dressed in a crimson coat and had a magazine tucked under one arm. Abruptly, she stopped cycling when she saw the two men waiting.

A look of fear crossed the face of Connie Carter.

Chapter 3 (#u542e71d4-2386-536d-b3a6-0d5b5b9006c8)

Six days to Christmas.

When Joyce woke she was aware that it was later than it should be. The sun was higher than she expected, and the sky was a vibrant slate-blue colour that signified it was far beyond dawn. Usually when she awoke, it was as if the sky hadn’t been coloured in for the day. There was no denying that she had overslept and, disorientated, she fumbled for her wristwatch from the bedside table and squinted to make out the time.

Nine o’clock.

Why hadn’t Esther woken her?

Joyce swung her legs out of bed and padded over to the window. Pulling back the curtains, she could see the morning sun dappling the south field. The tractor stood parked in the distance, its rotavator blades raised skyward as if in silent prayer. There was no one working in the fields and an eerie quietness all around.

Joyce pulled her sweater over her head, walked out the room and made her way downstairs.

‘Esther?’ She shouted.

No answer.

Joyce reached the kitchen. It was silent and empty. A solitary plate sat on the farmhouse table with a single piece of buttered toast. The toast had a single bite mark. Next to it was a mug of tea, half-finished. Joyce ran her fingers against the mug and found it was still warm. Whoever had left it hadn’t left it long ago.

‘Esther?’ Joyce asked the question more quietly this time, a sense of foreboding in her bones. There was something odd about this.

She reached the back door and opened it. The chill of the morning air wrapped round her bare legs and she pulled her nightie down as low as it would go. She slid her feet into her boots that were still on the step from last night.

‘Martin?’ Joyce called across the yard, as she squished her right boot up and down to bring it up at the back as she walked. The yard buildings stood silent, their stable doors open at the top, impenetrable black rectangles that refused to reveal their secrets even to the rising sun.

‘Come on now!’ Joyce shouted, turning round in the yard, looking for any sign of movement. ‘Where is everyone?’

But there was no answer.

Joyce walked along the outside of the stables. She was always unnerved by their dark interiors and resolutely refused to look at them as she passed. She reached the entrance to the farm. The old tin postbox had some letters sticking out of it. The postman had been. And no one had collected it. That was odd.

Joyce took the small bundle of letters. One for Finch. A bill. One for Esther. And one for herself. She placed the other two letters in the crook of her arm and tore open the letter addressed to her. She knew the writing. It was John. He must have sent it nearly as soon as he’d arrived in Leeds. How romantic! For the first time since she had woken up, she felt a smile returning to her face. She scanned the contents of the letter quickly. She would reread it at her leisure later, but for now she wanted to get the gist of it. Feel his words and hear his voice.

John wrote that he was already missing her. He said that he’d arrived in Leeds to find Teddy’s house in a dreadful state. The plates and pots were unwashed and Teddy himself had been wearing the same clothes for longer than was decent. John gave allowances for Teddy’s injury – he couldn’t blame his brother for not being able to do those things – but it was a blessing that he’d arrived when he had so that he could sort things out for him. John recited a litany of the odd jobs he’d done since arriving and Joyce’s eyes scanned the list, aiming to reread it later.

She was reading the rest of the letter, when a chicken burst out from behind the end stable, squawking loudly with a hysteria that spooked Joyce. She dropped the letters and fell backwards against the gate, catching her right wrist on the latch. She felt a stab of pain in her arm and noticed a cut to her wrist. Soon a rivulet of blood snaked its way down to her elbow.

‘Damn and blast,’ Joyce muttered. She scooped up the letters and raised her injured arm and ran as fast as she could back to the farmhouse.

Inside the farm kitchen, Joyce let cold water run over the cut. Despite the amount of blood, it wasn’t a deep cut and the water soon ran clear as the wound clotted. Joyce bound her wrist with the makeshift bandage of a tea towel and looked under the sink for Esther’s first aid supplies.

Twenty-three minutes later, Joyce carefully picked up the hot kettle from the stove with her bandaged hand and poured the water into a tea pot. She was dressed in her Women’s Land Army uniform of trousers, shirt and jumper, her boots laced securely on her feet. She stirred the pot, thinking about the mystery of the deserted farm. It had never been so silent in all the time she had been working here. The small farmhouse was normally alive with chatter and the odd argument, the sounds of Esther berating Finch for his slovenly behaviour. Where was Finch? Esther? Connie? Dolores? Frank?

Of course – Frank!

Joyce remembered that Frank Tucker, Finch’s erstwhile game keeper, would be found only one and a half miles away at Shallow Brook Farm next door. The plan had been for him to take over with Iris and Martin while John was away.

Her brewing tea forgotten, Joyce got to her feet, marched across the yard, out the gate and made her way to Shallow Brook Farm.

When she got there, she was out of breath and the cold air was catching on the back of her throat.

‘Frank?’ Joyce called, her voice sounding croaky. ‘Frank?’ She tried again and this time her voice didn’t fail her.

The darkened windows of the farmhouse resembled blank eyes covered with the cataracts of dirty net curtains. The place had an undercurrent of melancholy and despair about it, forgotten and unloved, unlike the picturesque Pasture Farm. Joyce tolerated being here when John was staying, but when he wasn’t around, the sadness and silence of the place made her feel uneasy.

At first, Joyce thought that this farm too was empty and deserted. She called again for Frank, hearing the shrillness of nerves developing with each unanswered call.