by Roland Moore
‘Is your son in this war?’
‘Not yet.’ Esther had palpable relief in her voice.
‘My mother wishes I was not involved either. But here I am.’
Esther couldn’t resist glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece.
Fifteen minutes had elapsed.
Siegfried must have noticed her nervous look.
‘Don’t worry. I will not shoot you.’
Esther heard a gasp escape her lips; a subconscious outpouring of relief. She put a hand to her mouth. Then they heard the back door open. Siegfried looked round the corner from the parlour door to check it was Emory and Joyce and saw they were laden with junk and paraphernalia from Finch’s shed. Emory locked the door behind him and pocketed the key and Esther breathed another sigh of relief.
There had been four minutes to go.
Emory entered the room, without looking at either his comrade or his prisoner. Instead, he gently tipped out the contents of his hands onto the sideboard next to the radio. Immediately he went to work, comparing components for size and suitability with the ones already in the set. Siegfried rubbed his eyes again and turned his eyes towards the floor.
Esther watched as Emory took a length of electrical wire and stripped the insulation from the ends. He wound one end around an existing component in the radio and the other he connected to two metal plates that he’d taken from his suit pocket.
‘I need the bathroom,’ Joyce announced.
‘Go then,’ Emory didn’t look away from his work. ‘You cannot get out so do not try.’
‘I won’t.’ Joyce placed the things she had been carrying on the sideboard and left the room.
Joyce went upstairs. Her legs felt heavy and tired. She knew that she was fighting exhaustion. She reached the landing and instead of going into the bathroom, went into her bedroom. She opened the bedside table and reread the telegram. She couldn’t stop herself.
A house fire in Leeds.
John had been asleep inside.
She would prove it was a mistake as soon as this ordeal was over. Her mind wandered and she remembered how John had surprised her on her birthday, flying into the field in a Tiger Moth. And then he’d taken her up for a flight in it. Joyce smiled, and remembered afterwards when they came back to the farmhouse, her legs feeling like jelly. She’d gone upstairs to this room to change her clothes, and John had crept upstairs when Finch and Esther weren’t looking. He’d closed the door and put his arms around her, startling her.
‘You can’t be up here!’
‘But we’re married.’
‘But nothing! Esther will have my guts for garters if she finds out.’
John kissed her and she’d kissed him back before pulling away, mindful that they could be disturbed at any moment. He ran his hand along the contour of her waist, rising up to her arms, neatly hooking her Aertex shirt off from her shoulders. Joyce let it fall to the floor. He kissed her neck, working his way up to her ear. Joyce gasped.
‘We can’t.’
‘We could be quiet.’
‘I suppose we could.’ Joyce kissed him. He pulled her bra straps down over her shoulders.
‘Really quiet.’ He smiled his boyish grin at her. Joyce had got up and closed the bedroom door.
Afterwards, she knew they hadn’t been that quiet by the smirk on Finch’s face. Luckily Esther had been out, otherwise they’d have got a rocket.
And now, as Joyce stared at the telegram with its devastating message, she wished that day could happen all over again. In fact, she wished she could replay them all. Especially the endless ones in the house in Coventry, when she and John would be waiting for Doris to go out or for Charlie and Gwen to go to bed, so they could have a few precious moments together. Joyce refused to believe that John was gone; the love of her life. She would prove the telegram was wrong and then she’d march to the War Office and find whoever had typed it and give them a piece of her mind.
‘Hurry up!’
Emory’s voice from downstairs. Joyce hurriedly placed the telegram back into the drawer, straightened her hair and rushed out the door.
When she returned to the parlour, she found that Esther had made a pot of tea. Emory drank his while he worked. Siegfried remined slumped in his chair, his tea untouched. Esther poured one for Joyce and as she drank it she felt comforted by its warmth as it travelled down her neck, giving relief to the discomfort of the headache that was brewing.
‘Hold this.’ Emory proffered a component. When he realised that Siegfried was asleep in his chair, he turned quickly to Joyce. ‘You.’
Joyce held a small metal clip in place as Emory soldered it into place. He indicated with an impatient nod for her to let go as he pushed the solder in place. His dirty fingernails bleached white at the ends as he gripped the metal tightly. Satisfied with his work, he carefully let go. It held in place. He placed the two small metal paddles flat on the sideboard and pressed the top one up and down lightly with his finger.
Click, click, click.
Emory’s mouth stretched into a wide grin. He drained the rest of his tea and turned the radio on. Static filled the parlour and Siegfried woke from his slumber.
‘It’s working,’ Emory announced. ‘Get the code book.’
Siegfried leapt into action and moved quickly out of the room, returning a few seconds later with his canvas bag. He rummaged inside and found a small leather bound book. He handed it to Emory, who flicked through.
Emory propped the page open and tapped out the sequences of dots and dashes that he saw. Joyce wished that she could remember more of the Morse code that John had told her about. But then she figured that she wouldn’t understand the message anyway as it was in code form, relying on being deciphered by whoever was sympathetic to the Germans.
Click, click, click, click.
Click, click, click, click.
It was apparent that Emory seemed to be sending a short message and sending it repeatedly. He kept this process up for nearly twenty minutes until Siegfried was yawning and all the tea had been drunk.
Emory spoke in German to his comrade. The younger man nodded and took Joyce and Esther out of the room. Joyce wondered what was going on.
‘You go to sleep now.’ Siegfried indicated the stairs.
‘Okay.’ Joyce went up.
Dutifully and respectfully, he waited on the landing as each woman went to the bathroom. When they emerged he ushered them into Joyce’s room. Both of them would sleep there as there was a lock on the door.
Siegfried searched the room, looking in the wardrobe and under the dressing table, before nodding that he was satisfied.
‘You sleep. No noise.’ Siegfried left, locking them in. The single, small window afforded a view of the side garden of Pasture Farm. There was no footpath visible and few people ever went up the side of the house. The chances of being able to signal to someone to get help were remote.
Esther and Joyce were exhausted. They undressed and Joyce lent Esther some of her pyjamas. The two women squeezed onto Joyce’s single bed, back to back, both lost in their own tormented thoughts.
After what may have been three minutes or more, Joyce whispered to Esther.
‘It’ll be all right.’
There was no answer. Either Esther couldn’t offer a reply or she was already asleep.
Lady Hoxley’s face looked pinched and drawn. Channing assumed that she’d taken the news about Joyce’s husband hard. He knew that she cared about the women working on her lands and that she’d developed a respect for the pragmatic Joyce. On more than one occasion, Channing had faked attentive interest when Ellen had told him what a splendid worker Joyce was. Yes, Joyce was a credit to the war effort.
For his part, Channing found Joyce to be interfering and a nuisance. But he wasn’t about to share that point of view.
Channing sat in the drawing room of Hoxley Manor reading a newspaper and nursing a fine port from the cellar. The drawing room was in a state of disrepair, with cracked coving aro
und the ceiling and patches of damp on the wallpaper nearest the windows. But with a grand piano in one corner and an entire wall devoted to fine books, the room still looked impressive.
‘Please come and sit down, Ellen.’
‘I’ll try one more time.’ Ellen pushed an elegant finger into the dial of the telephone and dialled the operator.
‘Hello, I’d like the War Office, please.’
‘No one is going to be there, Ellen.’
Ellen covered the mouthpiece. ‘They have a skeleton staff. The war isn’t taking a holiday just because it’s Christmas.’
Hearing the irritation in her voice, Channing shrugged and went back to the newspaper. He sipped his port as he watched Ellen pace a few steps one way, a few steps back again, the curly wire of the telephone stretching and contracting as she did so. After a few minutes, Ellen replaced the receiver.
‘Try again in the morning, eh?’ Channing patted the sofa next to him. Ellen picked up her own glass of port and walked over to him.
‘Poor Joyce. I wanted to get some more details for her about her husband. I thought the War Office might put me in the right direction; tell me who I should speak to.’
‘Try after Christmas.’ Channing was trying to be as supportive as possible. Secretly he wished Ellen would let things go once in a while. The way she seemed to get involved in these girls’ lives was irritating and it seemed a massive drain on her time.
And it stopped her giving him all the attention.
Ellen smoothed the back of her skirt and sat beside him. He took her hand and kissed the back of it, before testing the water with another kiss onto her wrist. Ellen smiled, enjoying his gesture of affection.
But then her eyes opened wide in alarm. She was staring right past him now; at something outside the room.
‘Look!’
Channing twisted round in his seat so quickly that he dropped the newspaper to the floor. The glass of port stayed in his hand, although a drop splashed out onto his trousers.
‘What?’
A flashlight was shining on and off into the drawing room from someone out in the darkness of the lawn beyond the window. The vague outline of a short, heavy set figure in a long coat became apparent with each illumination.
‘Who the devil is out there?’ Ellen moved to the window. Channing stopped her.
‘Stay back, Ellen. I’ll go.’ Channing scooped a poker from the fireplace and headed out of the room.
‘Be careful!’ Ellen shouted after him. Then, ignoring his instructions, she ran to the window to see if she could see anything. The torch had gone dark, so all Ellen could see was her own reflection staring back at her.
Then she had an idea. With much of the house requisitioned as a military hospital, there were American army personnel on site most of the time. Ellen ran out of the drawing room to find a soldier.
Channing moved cautiously onto the lawn at the back of the house. He couldn’t make out any shapes as his eyes hadn’t adjusted to the inky blackness. He glanced up at the coal black sky, the moon offering slight illumination on the grass. He moved along the balustrade.
‘Who’s there? Show yourself.’
Then he spotted a shape. It was a small, heavy set man standing on the steps leading away from the house to the sunken garden. Channing knew he’d moved to that position so it would be harder for him to be observed from the house.
Channing knew who it was. He felt adrenaline knotting his stomach. This man shouldn’t be here. This was all wrong.
‘What the bloody hell are you doing?’
‘I had to get a message to you.’
‘Not here. Get out of here, you idiot.’
‘I had to get it to you.’ The heavy-set man stressed each word as if he was explaining it to someone hard of hearing.
For added emphasis, he took a menacing step towards Channing. Even in the gloom, Channing could see that he was reaching a hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and knew there would be a gun or a knife there. Channing raised his hands slightly in a way that made it clear he was apologising for overreacting.
‘What is it then?’
‘Two airmen. They’ve made contact. The code was a new one, and we didn’t understand the location.’
‘But they’re in the area?’
‘Yes. So we don’t know exactly where they are, but we’re working on translating to find out. It’s a matter of priority.’
Channing glanced back to the house. It all seemed quiet.
‘So what do you need from me?’
It wasn’t his area and was confused as to why the man had risked so much to come here. He could have jeopardised both of their lives.
‘We don’t need you to do anything yet. But when we get a location, we may need you to go and get them.’
Channing was grateful for the darkness. It meant that the other man couldn’t see the colour drain from his face. But he rubbed his mouth to disguise any telling expression that his face may be giving away. He didn’t want to be rescuing any German airmen. That could compromise his position. He had a good thing going here.
Yes, that could mess things up for him.
But before Channing could reply, he heard a commotion at the French windows. Three American soldiers, armed with machine guns, were emerging from the house, with a thin, statuesque woman pointing into the darkness. Ellen Hoxley.
Damn it, what had she done?
Channing turned back to tell his companion to run, but the man had already vanished into the sunken garden.
The soldiers ran over to where the doctor was standing.
‘Are you okay, Doctor Channing?’ The Sergeant had a sleepy Texan drawl. He’d obviously been dozing, if not fully asleep.
‘I’m fine.’ Channing endeavoured to make his voice sound like he was a little shaken by the events. ‘There was no one here by the time I’d got out.’
Channing smiled his most convincing trustworthy smile. He was relieved when Ellen ran up to him and steered him back to the house before any more questions could be asked. He allowed her to take the poker from his hand.
Behind them, the soldiers fanned out; with two of them going in the wrong direction.
Channing tried his best to cover the anxious emotions that were bubbling to the surface. He hoped the man would get away. Otherwise they might interrogate him and find out everything. No, he couldn’t worry about that. If the man was caught, he wouldn’t talk. His concern shifted to his own role. What would he have to do? Where would these airmen need fetching from? Could he do as he’d been instructed while still maintaining his cover? The questions churned over and over, each chasing the tail of the previous one.
‘Come inside. Let the soldiers search.’
Channing was grateful to hear someone else’s voice.
‘Yes, that’s best. Thank you, Ellen. Although whoever it was is long gone now.’ He let Ellen lead the way towards the inviting light of Hoxley Manor. But for how long would it be a sanctuary for him?
Chapter 10
Two days to Christmas.
The day started with the inexorable and ponderous rise of the sun behind winter clouds. The light filtered through the thin curtains of Joyce’s bedroom, but she and Esther were already awake. It had been difficult to sleep, both huddled on a single bed, both secretly scared about what would happen to them. Neither of them wanted to voice their fears to the other and Joyce felt that all the time she could keep a lid on what she was feeling then their chances of survival would be greater. She imagined that Esther felt the same. They got dressed in silence, then at last, Joyce spoke.
‘Be a lovely Christmas present if they’ve buggered off, wouldn’t it?’
Esther nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. ‘We can but hope.’
Joyce rapped on the door and called. ‘Are you going to let us out?’ They listened and waited. ‘Come on!’
And after a minute, they heard the familiar creak of a foot on the bottom step. Esther would harangue Finch about the stai
rs having woodworm and he’d belligerently deny it. She’d said that one day someone would put their foot right through one of the steps. Joyce knew it was too much to hope for today. The footfalls got nearer and by the short gait and rapid ascension, she assumed it would be the young one. And sure enough, when the door was unlocked and opened, Siegfried stood before them. His boiler suit wasn’t fully fastened, his eyes were bleary, and his hair was cascading over his forehead. Joyce realised that they’d woken him.
‘What time is it?’ His voice was sleepy.
‘Six o’clock.’ Joyce showed her wristwatch for proof.
‘It is too early.’
‘When you’re a land girl, this is a lie-in.’
There was that plucky, fighting spirit again. She couldn’t help herself and knew that she would eventually go too far and get herself in trouble. ‘Look, let us go to the loo, and then lock us up again if you need more sleep.’
Siegfried considered for a moment and then shook his head.
‘No, we need to transmit again. You can make us something to eat. Go and get ready,’ He turned and set off downstairs. Esther and Joyce raised an eyebrow to each other. Still, as long as they were the cooks, they had a reason to be kept alive, didn’t they?
Soon the house was filled with the smell of cooking bacon. Joyce knew that Esther was keeping the bacon for Christmas day to have with the chicken. She hadn’t planned on sharing it with two German airmen.
As Esther and Joyce made the meal, they spoke about the weather, what the others would be doing now, general chit-chat to take their minds off the guests who were fiddling with the radio transmitter in the other room. The constant tapping of Morse code filled any silence. Soon, Joyce called them through to the table.
It was seven o’clock.
Emory and Siegfried ate their breakfast and slurped their tea. Siegfried was happy to make general conversation with Joyce, but Emory had his head stuck in the small leather code book, ignoring most of the things that the women said. Why was he studying the book so intently? Surely, he’d sent the message several times now. What was the problem?
She knew that no one had replied. But then she assumed that there was no way of Emory taking an incoming message. All he could do was transmit and hope. She wished she knew what they were sending in their message. Were they asking for directions? Help? Someone to come and rescue them? Whatever it was, judging by Emory’s worried face something wasn’t going right.
