by Roland Moore
‘What was that dish that Annie always made?’ Joyce knew that Esther would come up with something to wind up Finch.
‘Oh, old shoe surprise? That was her signature dish, wasn’t it?’ Esther scratched her chin as if recalling the details. Finch shook his head in bad-tempered annoyance before she’d even finished the sentence. Everyone laughed. Except for Finch. Maybe he really was worrying about what he would get in Leicester …
As the laughter died down, conversation turned to the big celebration. Iris mentioned that she would go to Birmingham to get the dried fruit.
‘Oh, good luck with that.’ Esther speared her last piece of meat onto her fork.
‘I might go with her.’ Martin looked anxious.
Iris gave him a curious look.
‘In case it’s heavy?’
‘I can still carry it if it’s heavy, thank you very much!’ Iris grinned.
Esther looked at her son’s disappointed face. He was trying so hard to make an impression on young Iris. She suspected that Iris knew that he liked her and it warmed Esther’s heart to see Iris throw Martin a warm smile.
‘You can come if you like.’
‘Yeah.’ Martin nodded, as if he might consider it. ‘I might do then.’
‘It’s nice we’ll all be together, isn’t it? Fred will be back from Leicester. My John will be home, all being well,’ Joyce put her cutlery on her empty plate.
‘I won’t be here.’
They were so unused to hearing Dolores talk at mealtimes that it took a moment for everyone to register it was her. All eyes turned to where she was pushing her food around her plate, avoiding eye contact.
‘What’s that?’ Esther fixed her eyes on Dolores.
‘I won’t be here for Christmas day. I asked Lady Hoxley for permission. I’m seeing my sister.’
‘You’ve got a sister?’ Joyce was surprised
‘Yes.’ Dolores sounded indignant. ‘I must have mentioned her.’ Then Dolores turned her attention to a boiled potato on her plate as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. Joyce rolled her eyes at Esther and Iris and they struggled not to burst out laughing. As if Dolores had mentioned anything about her private life! They’d been trying for ages to find out something – anything! – about her.
When the meal was finished, Joyce helped Esther wash up. As Joyce dried the dishes, she watched the rivulets of condensation that criss-crossed down the kitchen window.
‘Martin’s sweet on Iris, isn’t he?’ Joyce placed a dried plate on the counter.
‘Yes, bless him. I hope they have a good time in Birmingham.’
‘They’ll have a whale of a time.’
Joyce hoped that John would be back in time. Yes, she had to hope. But if he wasn’t then she would do her best to enjoy things no matter what. And like most things in Joyce’s life, she was familiar with making the best out of a bad situation.
As she got ready for bed, Joyce pulled her bedroom curtains across and noticed that Finch was talking outside to the soldiers from the Home Guard. There were three of them, all old men she couldn’t remember the names of, wearing uniforms and carrying a variety of salvaged and hand-me-down weapons. With the curtains closed, she didn’t give them any further thought. As sleep drifted over her, she didn’t make the connection that these men were searching for survivors from the German plane crash.
Chapter 5
Four days to Christmas.
Siegfried wasn’t sure that he’d had a wink of sleep. They’d bedded down behind a tree tucked away on the edge of a country lane and it had been so cold that Siegfried was relieved to find that he was still alive in the morning. He jumped up and down and flexed his arms to shake out the cold from his limbs. Emory seemed to take things in his stride, rubbing his hands together to warm them up. Siegfried assumed he was conserving energy, which was the right thing to do. He wished that they could find some food soon. The hunger had gone from his stomach, replaced by a grim determination to keep going.
The airmen made their way along the lane, staying on the edges by the hedgerow. After a mile or so, they spotted another farmhouse on the horizon. Smoke was belching from its chimney. The homely Cotswold bricked property looked inviting and Siegfried was about to enter the gate when Emory pulled on his shoulder.
‘Look, over there,’ Emory whispered.
In the field to the rear of the building, Siegfried could see people working the land. There were perhaps twenty or so women wearing green and brown uniforms, their heads in scarves. Around them were a couple of men, who seemed to be smoking and shirking their duties.
‘Too many people,’ Emory decided. The airmen moved silently away into the countryside.
Alfred Barnes prided himself on being the best fertiliser salesman in the Midlands. He’d been doing it since 1937, well before the war started, and he’d amassed a sales record that made him the envy of everyone at Edgar Varish and Sons. He knew he was in line to be a manager soon. Mr Varish had promised that the position would be on the cards soon. Yes, soon. Supplying goods for farms meant that most farmers and small holders knew his name. They’d greet him and offer him a cup of tea. Most of them knew that he didn’t partake of alcohol, so they’d stopped offering him a small tipple. That made things less awkward when he had to decline their offer. They also knew that he was no fan of blue humour. In fact, Alfred was happiest if they stuck to discussions about business while he was there.
He didn’t much like how things had changed since the war started either. Now he had to liaise with the government department of agriculture to ensure that the fertiliser was distributed fairly and evenly, so that more farms could benefit from it during their difficult times.
Today he had the usual number of appointments, each marked on his clipboard. Only one had been ticked off. He knew this would be one of his last working days until after Christmas, so Alfred wanted to ensure that he got everything done. He sighed when he realised that Frederick Finch at Pasture Farm was on the list. That man always tried to pull some trick on him. Whether it was fiddling the order so he got extra bags of fertiliser or whether it was setting up some poorly thought out practical joke, Finch was a pain. Alfred made a mental note to try to deal with that Esther Reeves woman. She was always sensible.
He steered his Albion CX6N lorry into the lane leading from Gorley Woods to Pasture Farm, when it spluttered and hiccupped in the road. It was a long vehicle with an awning covering the back and a powerful engine in the cab upfront. Grinding to a halt, Alfred found he couldn’t start it again. Damn it. That was going to mess up his schedule. He mopped his brow with the blue and white spotted handkerchief, before cramming it back into his breast pocket. Alfred was known for his flamboyant handkerchiefs. He liked the colours but he also recognised that they could sometimes be a talking point with a customer; a way of breaking the ice. A way to lead to a new sale.
He got out of the cab and flipped open the bonnet. The engine was smoking. He didn’t know anything about engines but he was sure they weren’t supposed to smoke. Alfred waved his hands at it, like a maiden aunt in a Noel Coward play, until the smoke dispersed. A low hiss was coming from somewhere. Alfred noticed that the radiator of the engine was sizzling.
He looked around to work out which way to walk.
That’s when he saw two men walking at the edge of the lane.
‘I say! Could you chaps help me?’ Alfred waved.
The men looked strangely startled. Then in horror, Alfred Barnes realised that their collars had German emblems on them and that one of them looked injured. These must be the airmen that everyone was looking for. Oh, that wasn’t good news.
Alfred bolted to get to the cab of the truck.
Siegfried saw him first. He tapped his captain on the arm, and Emory saw the bookish little man running towards his truck. Emory reacted immediately, setting off as fast as he could to intercept him. Siegfried wanted to say something, perhaps to question whether this was a good idea. Would it be better to run away and hi
de? But the die was cast and he had no choice but to follow his captain’s course of action.
‘Stop! Emory shouted, his thick German accent momentarily stopping the man in his tracks. But then the man found his senses, opened the door to the cab and climbed in. Frantically he tried to start the vehicle. Siegfried knew he couldn’t get far, not least because the bonnet was up, obscuring any view from the driver’s seat of the road. He’d have to drive blindly along the lane, hoping to put enough distance between himself and the Germans. But as it turned out, he wasn’t going anywhere. The truck wouldn’t start, the engine cranking over and over, like a coughing man. Slowing down, Emory realised he didn’t have to rush. He pulled the man from his chair before he had a chance to close the door.
‘Please, please, no!’ The man squealed as he fell onto the rough tarmac of the lane. Emory unhooked his gun from his belt and pressed the barrel to the back of the man’s neck.
‘Who knows you’re here?’
‘What?’ The man stammered, clearly terrified.
‘Who knows you are here?’ Emory repeated, pulling the man’s collar to bring him up to his knees. The man threw a frightened expression to Siegfried and the young German tried to offer a smile of reassurance that everything would be all right if he cooperated. Just do as the captain asked. But the bookish man didn’t seem to be comforted, perhaps viewing the smile as a cold indication of detachment.
‘My company, they told me to come here. They know I’m here.’ The man looked desperate. He was lying. Emory pressed him against the side of the vehicle and shook his head slowly, as if unsure what to do next. Siegfried wished that they had run when they’d had the chance. It was too late now.
Some days change your life forever and Siegfried knew that today was one of those days.
‘I cannot let you go.’ Emory looked serene, thoughtful as if untroubled by the consequences of the words he was uttering.
‘Yes, you can. I won’t say anything, I promise. I just want to get home, you know?’
‘We are at war. I am the enemy. Of course, you will say something. Do you think I’m stupid?’
The man shook his head quickly. He licked his lips nervously, unnerved by the barrel of the pistol that was pointing at the base of his neck.
‘Maybe we should just …’ Siegfried trailed off, as Emory turned to him. There was ferocity and fear in the older man’s eyes. This was all snowballing into a massive and difficult problem for him and he was running on raw adrenaline. Siegfried didn’t trust him enough for him not to lash out at him if he continued to question his actions.
‘Just what?’ Emory spat, perhaps knowing that whatever suggestion Siegfried was about to make wouldn’t help.
‘Why don’t we give up?’ Siegfried closed his eyes so that he didn’t have to see the loathing and contempt in the older man’s eyes. ‘We’re starving, we’re not going to get away.’
‘Yes, we’d look after you. In the camps. You wouldn’t have to worry.’
‘They will kill us.’ Emory glowered at their hostage. ‘We give up and they will shoot us like dogs.’
‘No, we wouldn’t. We’d lock you up, but we’d look after you until the war was over. The camps have food and they’re nice.’
‘You expect me to believe that?’
Siegfried had heard the tales of what happened to Germans who surrendered, and he was inclined to believe what the bookish man was saying. There were rules about warfare and what happened to prisoners. But he knew that Emory was coloured by his experiences in the Great War; his thoughts skewed by having fought this enemy twice. He feared that Emory believed the German propaganda tales about executions and torture.
‘Take off your suit!’
The man looked confused. What was happening? It took Siegfried a moment to realise too. Of course! They needed clothes and this man’s suit would roughly fit one or them.
‘Take it off!’
‘Yes, all right.’
Siegfried glanced into the cab of the truck and noticed that a boiler suit was scrunched in the footwell of the passenger seat. That would be useful.
‘We could take that too.’ Siegfried indicated his findings.
‘Good.’ Emory kept his eyes on the man. ‘Get it.’
The bookish man removed his jacket, fumbled off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. He was wearing a vest underneath and Siegfried could see the goosebumps on his arms appearing as the December air reached him. A small paunch extended from the bottom of the vest; his eyes wide with terror. The man looked a pitiful sight.
‘You take what you want, I won’t say anything,’
Emory ignored his words and collected up the clothing, draping it over his wounded arm. Siegfried noticed that he winced as he added each new item to the load. In his other hand, Emory kept the pistol trained on their prisoner.
The man pulled down his trousers, revealing his shaking hairless, white legs. He stumbled out of the bottom of the trousers and handed them to Emory. The older German handed the gun to Siegfried.
‘Watch him.’ Emory stripped off his own clothes. As he peeled off his shirt, Siegfried noticed that Emory shuddered as the fabric snagged on his wounded arm. Seeing it without the covering of a shirt, Siegfried could appreciate how painful it must be. The arm from the wrist to the shoulder muscle was badly burnt, the skin festooned with blisters and angry patches of red and purple. Even the prisoner looked concerned when he saw it.
‘Have you got food?’ Emory fastened the new shirt. ‘Anything to eat?’
The man shook his head and then nodded as if remembering.
‘Sandwiches. For my lunch. You can have them. They’re salad but they’re nice.’
‘Get them.’ Emory nodded encouragingly. Siegfried watched keenly as the man leaned into the cab and reached under the seat. He could make out a small metal lunch box there.
Alfred Barnes didn’t know how he’d get out of this one. Coming face to face with the enemy was the last thing he thought would happen. He thought he’d bought himself some time by being compliant and handing over his clothes. And during that time, he’d tried to get his terrified brain to focus on the dilemma of how he was going to get out of here alive.
He knew that his pleas for them to leave and for him to say nothing weren’t going to cut much mustard. These were desperate men. They were hungry, dirty, tired and scared. The older one looked like he was injured and he seemed unpredictable. Alfred knew he had to be especially careful of that one.
As he watched the German get dressed in his clothes, he pondered his options. Could he trust that they wouldn’t hurt him? Maybe if he complied with everything they wanted, they would run off and let him go. They didn’t want to be murderers, did they? Alfred knew that this was a massive gamble. These were desperate men and they’d already sneered at his idea about them letting him go. The young one had smiled in a cold way that Alfred assumed meant that that option wasn’t on the cards.
Could he escape? The truck wasn’t working, so he couldn’t drive off. That meant that if he was going to escape, he’d have to run. He’d have to outrun them. And the young one might be faster than him. Also, they had a gun and could shoot him down before he got far. No, escape wasn’t an option.
Could he fight them?
Again, the chances of success with this option seemed slim. There were two of them and they had a gun. Alfred knew he couldn’t win. He also knew he was running out of time. The older German was pulling on his trousers and fastening them.
Alfred decided on a course of action. It was the only option that had a vague, slim chance of success. It was all he had – and it crystalized in his mind when the older German asked him about food.
‘Have you got food?’ the older German asked as he fastened the new shirt. ‘Anything to eat?’
Alfred shook his head and then nodded as if remembering. He hoped the moment played like he was too upset to think straight and not that he had a plan.
‘Sandwiches. For my lunch. You can have them. The
y’re salad but they’re nice.’
‘Get them.’
Alfred could feel the young man’s eyes burning into him as he leaned into the cab and reached under the seat. Alfred knew that there was a small metal box there. A first aid kit. He hoped that the men would see it and assume it was a lunch box.
Yes, that’s what he hoped.
Alfred reached towards it.
And then his hand found the crowbar that he kept under the seat. It was used to open drums of fertiliser. But today, Alfred hoped that he could use it to catch the men off-balance, buying himself enough time to escape. He couldn’t fight them, but he could lash out and run away in the confusion.
Alfred gripped the crowbar.
Emory tapped Siegfried on the shoulder and grabbed the pistol off him.
‘Hurry up.’ Emory was suspicious about how long it was taking the man to reach the lunch box. Siegfried knew it had barely been a few seconds since the man had got into the cab, but he sensed his captain’s insecurity. Siegfried was caught off guard, distracted by these thoughts as the man lunged from the cab with a loud cry. Something heavy and metallic was swinging towards his head, and Siegfried only had seconds to bring his arm up and duck to avoid it contacting with his head. It glanced off his wrist, and Siegfried shouted in pain.
It was a crowbar!
As Siegfried fell, he caught a momentary look of confusion on the man’s face. He realised that the man assumed that Siegfried would still be holding the pistol. He wasn’t. That mistake would be catastrophic. Emory fired off a shot before the man could swing again and find the proper target. The bullet caught the man in the side of his flank, and he fell messily out of the cab, the crowbar clattering from his hand to the tarmac. Emory checked that Siegfried was all right. Siegfried nodded that he was fine and relatively unhurt, before Emory turned his attention back to the man. The man dragged himself to his feet and stumbled down the lane, gasping for air as he went. Siegfried looked sadly at the pitiful sight of the middle-aged man in his underwear. He was reminded of the rabbit escaping him in the woods, only this time their prey was badly injured and not going anywhere fast. The man fell over, dragged himself up, desperate. He was making murmuring, pleading noises. Emory moved towards him, the pistol in his hand.
