Christmas on the Home Front

by Roland Moore

  Reaching the fence, they started to sort the planks of wood and posts on the ground into a rough approximation of the fence they planned to build. Joyce counted out nails as Connie idly swung the mallet round like a gunslinger from a western.

  ‘Here, do you think I could test your reflexes with this, Iris?’

  ‘Not flaming likely. You’d break my leg.’

  Iris and Connie dissolved into a fit of giggles.

  ‘Will you two stop mucking about? I want to finish this job before Christmas day.’ Joyce was grinning too as she placed the nails into different pockets ready for the assembly.

  They had lived through five wartime Christmases and it was getting hard to remember the ones before. Or at least it was getting hard to remember them without them being painted as halcyon days when everything was perfect. But there was no denying that those pre-war Christmases had plenty of food and presents; they were times you didn’t have to scrimp and save your rations for the big day; when turkeys and chickens hung in the butchers’ windows and you could take your pick; times when you could put on a pair of stockings without having to think about faking them with an eyebrow pencil to draw the seams.

  Each Christmas since had seemed to present more challenges. As people became adept at scouring the shops for sought-after rations, basic goods for Christmas became harder to source. You really did have to be an early bird. This year, like the ones before that she’d spent on the farm, Joyce had put aside some of the sixteen shillings she was paid by Finch since September. This nest egg, together with money from the other girls, could enable them to buy a decent ox heart or some beef cheek from the butchers – plus other food and drink for the Christmas period. But it wasn’t always easy to save.

  ‘Sorry I haven’t put any into the pot for a few weeks,’ Joyce looked apologetically to the others. ‘Finch said there’s been a delay in getting the wages from the government.’

  ‘Ah there’s always a delay.’ Iris shook her head. ‘But we’re all in the same boat. Finch pays some of us one week, and the others the next. He’s always catching up with himself.’

  ‘I think he’s betting it on the horses.’ Connie offered a devilish smile. They laughed, but in reality they knew that the one thing Finch would never be dishonest about was their wages. He valued what they did on the farm and was happy that it didn’t personally cost him anything to have them doing it.

  They worked in silence for a few minutes, concentrating on excavating the holes for the fence posts. It was hard to dig down into the frosted soil; the clay underneath was solid and unyielding.

  ‘Oh, I had a look for some dried fruit,’ Joyce said, apropos of nothing. ‘For the Christmas cake. We’ve got enough sugar put by for the icing, but there will be no point doing it without fruit in the middle.’

  ‘If there’s none around, my mum cuts up apple and puts in a few raisins.’ Iris mimed the act of cutting an apple, just in case they didn’t understand what she was saying.

  ‘Where did we get it from last year?’ Connie asked.

  ‘Finch got it from Birmingham. Mind you, he had to wait forty minutes in the queue for it. Do you not remember all the swearing when he got back? Very festive!’

  Connie laughed, shaking her head. ‘I don’t listen half the time.’ She lodged a fence prop into the first hole.

  ‘Very wise.’ Iris held the base of the prop. ‘Some of those words were an education.’

  ‘So can we send him over to Birmingham this year?’

  ‘There’s no way he’ll do it.’ Joyce hammered in the post as Iris and Connie kicked in earth around the base. ‘Is that vertical? It doesn’t look very vertical.’

  ‘Yes! It’s vertical.’ Connie squinted at the post. ‘It looks wonky because your head’s at an angle!’

  Joyce smiled and straightened her neck and assessed her handiwork with a fresh perspective. The post stood proud and upright in the hole. She watched as the other women finished tamping the earth down around it.

  ‘Maybe there will be dried fruit in the village?’ Iris ventured; her open and childlike face full of hope.

  ‘No, Mrs Gulliver and all those harpies will have snatched it all by now.’ Connie frowned. ‘Face facts, one of us will have to go to Birmingham at the weekend.’

  ‘Sounds like you’re not volunteering?’ Joyce smiled.

  ‘You’re correct. I don’t mind drawing lots though. Loser spends all day waiting in the queue.’

  ‘Deal.’ That sounded a good arrangement to Iris.

  Joyce considered for a moment and nodded. ‘Go on then.’

  Connie scoured the ground for some twigs and found three of a similar size. She broke one of them, so it was shorter and bunched the three in her closed hand for the others to pick.

  ‘Whoever gets the short one has to go.’

  ‘Who goes first?’ Iris asked.

  ‘Shall I do it?’ Joyce volunteered.

  ‘Go on, Joycie, be lucky!’ Connie proffered her hand with the sticks clenched in her fist. ‘Or don’t! Actually don’t be lucky at all. I don’t want to be lumbered!’

  Joyce took a deep breath and pulled out a twig. To her relief, it wasn’t the short one.

  ‘Thank goodness for that.’ She jumped up and down and taunted Connie and Iris with her twig.

  ‘Look at her! It’s like she’s won a flaming Oscar!’

  ‘Just you and me then, Connie.’ Iris’s face was taut with concentration.

  ‘You and me, Iris.’ Connie moved her closed hand towards the youngest Land Girl. Iris mumbled to herself as she looked at both the twigs. For her part, Joyce had no idea which was the shortest but she was just glad she was out of the running.

  Iris cautiously plucked a twig from Connie’s hand.

  It was the short one.

  Connie laughed and Iris’s face fell in mock anger. Joyce suspected that Iris didn’t really mind the prospect of a trip to Birmingham. It would be a chance to look in the shops. She could queue for the dried fruit and then perhaps stop for a cup of tea and a cake in Butler’s Tea Rooms near the station off Stephenson Street.

  Butler’s Tea Rooms.

  Joyce hadn’t thought of that place in years.

  Why had it popped back into her head now?

  She’d only been there once herself back in November 1940, before she joined the Women’s Land Army. And although the tea and cake had been lovely, that visit had turned out to be an unhappy experience. She thought back to that time. It had been the day before she discovered that her home in Coventry had been destroyed in the blitz of the city. So by rights, that afternoon in the tea room should have been the last time she’d been truly happy; unburdened by the effects of the war, unburdened by loss. But something else had happened in the tea room that had marred even that final sunny day.

  She’d been away in Birmingham with John. Ostensibly it had been a business trip as John was scheduled to see a motorbike parts manufacturer for a discussion about supplying the Triumph factory where John worked in Coventry. But John and Joyce had used the opportunity to turn it into a mini-honeymoon – after all, they’d not managed to get away after their wedding. They’d stayed in a small hotel and John had gone to his meeting leaving Joyce alone. She’d looked at the wallpaper with its busy design of roses and vines, flicked through the bible on the bedside table and, bored of waiting, had decided she needed some air. Butler’s Tea Rooms had been visible from her window and she’d seen a steady procession of well-dressed people amble inside for afternoon tea. Joyce decided to put on her best clothes and join them. Why shouldn’t she live a little?

  When she arrived at the tea rooms, Joyce was dressed in her smart dress – an eggshell blue frock with a white collar and a white belt blooming out to a full skirt. She sat at a table for four, her handbag occupying the seat next to her. She imagined she was a toff as she surveyed the smart and impressive establishment with its central atrium where a grand piano stood on the black and white tiled floor. Tables were arranged all around with a sele
ction of large potted plants to add a splash of colour. For some reason the lower section was closed, so Joyce was seated on a table on the balcony that overlooked the atrium. All around her, other patrons sat around tables, chatting and smoking. On the plate in front of her was a business card for Butler’s Tea Rooms. Joyce put it into her purse as a memento. And while a proper toff wouldn’t have done that, Joyce didn’t care. Then she perused the menu and ordered tea and a sponge cake. The elderly waiter explained in a low voice that would have conveyed the reverence of a funeral parlour that the cake was made with dried egg and honey due to rationing. Joyce had assumed that would be the case and said she didn’t mind.

  Joyce smiled at some people who were crammed in around a table nearby. She indicated the three free chairs at her own table, wondering if they would like to spread themselves out, but they were too busy chatting to notice her gesture. To her surprise, when Joyce turned back to her menu, a woman was already sitting down with her. The woman was catching her breath as if she had run from somewhere and had seemingly appeared out of thin air. She was a similar age to Joyce but stick-thin and glamorous despite her shorter hair and lack of makeup. She wore a simple black suit with trousers. On her shoulders sat a fur wrap, making her ensemble a curious mix of business and evening attire. Joyce noticed the worn cuffs on the woman’s jacket and wondered if the woman was down on her luck.

  ‘Hope you don’t mind.’ The woman had an accent that was hard to place. Was that a faint Manchester twang? ‘Say if you mind and I’ll move. But they didn’t have any other tables, see?’

  ‘I don’t mind.’ The truth was that Joyce would enjoy having someone sit with her. It would save her having to keep reading the menu to pass the time. ‘I’m Joyce Fisher.’

  ‘I know.’ The woman stared straight into Joyce’s eyes.

  Joyce felt her mouth fall open in total shock.

  ‘How could you—?’

  ‘No, I’m joking,’ the woman laughed. ‘I’m always doing that. You should have seen your face!’

  ‘Yes, well,’ Joyce replied grumpily. She didn’t enjoy practical jokes. She remembered when her brother-in-law, Charlie, had excitedly claimed that John had won a prize in the Mayor’s raffle and made him get dressed up for a non-existent prize-giving ceremony. John had found it funny, but Joyce hadn’t appreciated it.

  ‘I’m Alice Ashley.’ The woman extended a black-gloved hand across the table.

  ‘I know,’ Joyce countered half-heartedly, feeling slight irritation at this woman’s manner. Hopes of passing the time with someone’s company she might enjoy were diminishing.

  Alice smiled back, amused at Joyce’s comment and seemingly not noticing any weariness in her new companion’s voice. Alice promptly collared the passing waiter and ordered a pot of tea.

  ‘Why were you running?’

  Alice looked perplexed for a moment as if she’d forgotten how she had arrived. ‘Oh, it was raining.’

  ‘Was it?’ Joyce hadn’t seen any rain on the windows and there had been no sign of drizzle on Alice’s shoulders or hair. She contemplated picking up the menu again and shutting out her irritating guest.

  ‘Sorry if I annoyed you.’ Alice had obviously picked up on Joyce’s mood. ‘I’m always annoying people. I think I’ll say something funny and it normally backfires on me. Sorry!’

  ‘That’s alright. I suppose we all need a laugh, don’t we?’

  ‘Yes, we do!’ Alice grinned, lines appearing at the corners of her mouth. Their tea arrived and the waiter arranged the pots and cups and saucers for them. He nodded and glided off to another table. The chatter in the room provided a reassuring and convivial ambience, but it made Joyce acutely aware of her own lack of conversation.

  ‘So, what do you do, Alice?’ Joyce poured them both a cup of tea.

  ‘I work on a production line. Hence the gloves.’

  She pulled one of her long black velvet gloves off to reveal a set of stubby fingers adorned with sticking plasters and small cuts. ‘I move around a lot, but at the moment I’m here in Birmingham. They move me where I’m needed. What about you, Joyce Fisher?’

  Joyce did her best to hide her annoyance. She never liked it when people used full names when they didn’t have to. It reminded her of being back at school.

  ‘I work in a salon,’ Joyce lied. She wasn’t sure why she said it. Perhaps it was to make it sound grander than it was, when the reality was she did the hair of friends and neighbours in her mother’s front room. Perhaps she felt a little embarrassed that Alice was doing proper war work and she wasn’t.

  ‘You never do!’ Alice exclaimed.

  Was she accusing her of lying or was she surprised?

  ‘Yes, I do.’ Joyce felt a little uncomfortable. Alice must have sensed that she had crossed the line again and endeavoured to put things right.

  ‘Oh sorry, I wasn’t saying you didn’t. I just – well, I’m in need of a hairdresser.’

  Joyce glanced up at the woman’s hair and decided that what it needed was to be given a thorough wash. Black strands hung limply down from where they had escaped a carelessly affixed hairband.

  ‘Well, if I had my things I could help you, but they’re back in Coventry.’

  ‘Coventry?’ A frown crossed the woman’s face.

  ‘Yes, have you been?’

  ‘No. It’s just—’ Alice seemed distracted, troubled even. And then it seemed she didn’t want to talk at all. ‘Sorry, I should be getting back to work.’

  ‘Oh right, yes, of course.’

  Alice stood up and downed the rest of the tea in her cup. She pulled her fur wrap close around her shoulders.

  ‘It was nice to meet you Joyce Fisher.’ Alice offered her gloved hand for a shake. Joyce obliged, rising slightly out of politeness.

  ‘And you, Alice Ashley,’ Joyce sat back down again and watched the thin woman snake her way around the tables towards the exit. What a curious woman.

  It was only when Alice had gone that Joyce realised she hadn’t left any money for her tea. The cheek of the woman! Had it been intentional? Some older businessmen, with shirt buttons straining because of too many expensive dinners inside them, were making their way into the café. Joyce realised that the establishment was gearing up for the evening crowd. She’d better go to meet John and find out how the meeting had gone.

  Joyce called the waiter over.

  ‘Can I pay please?’

  The waiter nodded and totted up the total for two pots of tea and a slice of cake. Joyce pulled her handbag across onto her lap and opened it.

  Her purse was missing.

  Joyce felt her heart sink.

  ‘Penny for them?’

  Joyce was aware of Connie waving a work-gloved hand in front of her face. They were huddled around another new fence post and Joyce had been working without engaging in what she was doing; her mind firmly back in 1940. She batted Connie’s hand away.

  ‘Oh, I was just thinking back.’

  ‘You don’t want to do any thinking.’ Connie looked horrified. ‘Henry says I should read more books to make me think more. But I can’t lose myself in a book like he can. I joked that we’d have to pulp all his books for the war effort.’

  ‘I was remembering when I last went to Birmingham.’

  ‘That’s alright then. That sort of thinking’s allowed.’

  ‘The next day I went back to Coventry and saw what had happened.’ Joyce looked lost in her memories.

  Connie touched her friend’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry. It can’t get any easier thinking about that, can it?’

  ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘We should raise a glass to your mum and your sister, eh? At Christmas lunch. The least we can do.’

  ‘That would be nice. Thank you.’ Joyce still couldn’t believe that her family had been wiped out in such a devastating way.

  The women worked in silence for a bit. By lunchtime, half of the fence had been done and they trudged back to the farm for a sandwich and some hot soup
.

  The car hadn’t moved in years. Three of the tyres were missing and the fourth was flat; its rubber caressing the contours of the woodland track underneath. Bindweed grew around the chassis, poking through the radiator grill like insistent green fingers. And even though one of the back doors was missing and the seats were mouldy with fungus, the car had provided somewhere for Emory Mayer and Siegfried Weber to snatch a few hours of sleep in relative shelter. The woodland around them was similarly overgrown and Siegfried doubted that anyone came out here often. He’d still slept lightly, half-listening for any sounds; the call of foxes in the night startling him at several points. Emory had been on the back seat, covered with a filthy blanket that they’d found in the boot of the car. From the seats in the front, Siegfried couldn’t see if his captain had slept, but whether he had or not, Emory had stayed still for several hours. Similarly, Siegfried had tried to conserve his energy. His teeth had chattered throughout the night and he’d prayed for the sun to come up quickly.

  Now it was seven in the morning and daylight was beginning to push back the winter darkness. Siegfried sat still in the driver’s seat of the car, his circulation coming back to his cold fingers. Idly, he wished that he could drive the vehicle all the way back to Germany. He thought of the work he’d done early in the war; the blissful safety of the dairy farm in his hometown of Coswig on the bank of the Elbe. All he had to worry about then were the sores on his hands from the milking equipment and the barking voice of the farmer who would talk about meeting quotas at any opportunity. Such easy times!

  Siegfried imagined that the fields beyond the woods would suit dairy farming. The terrain didn’t look too different from Coswig and it was easy to imagine himself at home. Oh, how he wished he was at home.