by Roland Moore
Joyce knew she’d done what she had to do. She’d said the name Vince instead of Henry when talking about Connie’s husband. Vince had been one of Connie’s violent ex-boyfriends. She felt sure that Connie would mull over this apparent mistake and then realise it was a signal that Joyce and Esther needed help; a signal that something was wrong.
She’d get the soldiers from Hoxley Manor.
It would turn out fine.
Everything would be alright.
As Connie watched from the serving counter, the images of old women and young children, the odd injured serviceman in uniform, the local doctor with his wandering hands all washed over her. The sounds of their revelry and eating as they enjoyed the meal laid on by the church were a blur of background noise. Connie was thinking about her friend, Joyce. In some ways, she’d sounded surprisingly together for a woman who’d suffered a terrible loss.
Henry returned to the counter with a near-empty serving tray, a few fragments of roast potato clung to the side.
‘You should have some food.’ Henry looked concerned for his wife.
‘Not hungry,’ Connie was thinking about how Joyce must be feeling at the moment. She’d be raw, in shock, perhaps not even accepting what had happened. And she must be confused as well. Why else would she make the mix-up over Connie’s husband’s name?
‘’Ere, why did she think you were Vince?’
‘How should I know?’ Henry had a hint of annoyance in his voice. He was doing his best to hide it, but Connie knew it was there. It wasn’t surprising seeing how Connie had been badgering him with this question for several hours now. It wasn’t only the repetition that irked him, but the fact that each time it was asked, it made Henry think about Vince. And Connie guessed that Henry never wanted to think about Vince again, since the man had turned up at the vicarage and done his best to destroy their relationship. Each time the name was mentioned, it probably brought it all back to him. She didn’t really want to think about Vince either.
‘Maybe she’s woolly-headed, with the upset of what’s happened to her,’ Connie attempted to answer her own question, to stop Henry worrying.
‘Quite. She’s got enough to worry about at the moment, I shouldn’t wonder,’ Henry was handed a plate of steaming carrots by Mrs Gulliver and he dutifully headed off to serve them to the expectant crowd. Someone had appropriated the piano and was playing a song as the rest of the people ate.
Mrs Gulliver looked briefly at Connie and eyed her up and down. It was the usual judgemental assessment. Connie was used to it and braced herself for the old woman’s unpleasantness.
‘How’s your head?’
That was unexpected. Mrs Gulliver seemed concerned.
‘All right. I’ve still got a bit of a headache mind.’
‘What were those Germans like, then?’
Ah that was why she was being nice. She wanted to know all the details about what had happened.
‘I don’t really remember.’
‘I heard someone say they were giants of men,’ Mrs Gulliver stated with the absolute authority of someone who knew. ‘Some of them have more teeth too than they should have by all accounts.’
‘I don’t know.’ Now it was Connie who wanted to move off to end this cross-examination. She found a small plate of Brussel sprouts. It had already done the rounds, but Connie thought it’d be a good ruse to get her away from Mrs Gulliver. She moved from the counter to put the sprouts back into circulation. And as she got involved in talking to the people at the tables and then coerced into singing songs for them, Connie nearly forgot all about the fact that Joyce had said the wrong name on the telephone.
Richard Channing had contemplated taking his car, but then he remembered that his petrol ration had run out for the month and that he would be running on fumes. The last thing he wanted was to break down where he was going. So instead, he found a push bike that had been left against a wall by the hospital entrance. He assumed it belonged to one of the service men or perhaps a visitor. As he rode away, he congratulated himself in taking a bicycle, as it would make it harder to identify a person whizzing past. He pulled his trilby hat low, just in case. If you passed someone in a car, they might remember. And that meant they might ask questions later.
What was that Doctor Channing doing out near Panmere Lake the other day?
Channing peddled fast but it still took him forty minutes to reach the lake. It had the code name, Market. The word ‘New’ on the telephone had meant to come immediately. He stowed his push bike near a fence and hopped over a stile. With the leaf mulch crisp under foot, Channing set off into the wood. His breath formed willowy clouds as he neared the large tree on the south-west side of the lake. The meeting point.
Channing sighed and glanced around. At first, he thought he was alone, but then he heard a twig snap and a large man in a badly-tailored, vanilla-coloured raincoat appeared. He wore a flat cap, and a couple of dead rabbits were hanging over his wrist, each one suspended by a gnarled piece of twine.
To anyone watching, it looked like Channing had just bumped into a poacher, nothing more.
‘I don’t enjoy being called away.’ Channing wasn’t going to bother with any pleasantries. He wanted to get this over with as fast as possible and before there was any risk of his being seen.
‘We’ve got the location.’ The big man wheezed.
‘Where are they?’
‘Place called Pasture Farm.’
Channing heard a bitter snorting laugh emerge from his mouth before he had time to stop it. ‘No,’ he walked away. ‘There’s no way I can go there.’
‘Why not?’
‘They know me. I work with some of the girls at the hospital. Isn’t there anyone else?’
‘No, you’re the only one. We need you to do this.’
Was that a threat? Was it a taunt?
Channing knew that there had been rumblings about people not trusting him within the group. Maybe this was their way of testing him; of proving his loyalty to the cause. Yes, that must be what they were doing.
‘This could compromise me.’
‘You’ll do it.’ The big man scratched his neck, leaving small red lines on the skin. ‘You’re the only doctor that I know. And that gives you a cast-iron reason for visiting, doesn’t it?’
‘How do you square that?’ Channing hadn’t met this man before, but he’d seen him at the meetings. Those squalid meetings in basements of pale, gimlet-eyed men who thought they could change the world. They’d meet below the butcher’s shop, where they’d discuss the rise of fascism and how the economic model could work well for Britain. He knew that on some level it made sense. Channing had heard the plausible explanations that employing business leaders instead of politicians to relevant areas would naturally increase productivity. He’d heard it so many times he was bored by the arguments. No politician he knew would ever voluntarily give up his seat on the gravy train of politics for a business leader. Channing supposed that’s why some of the group advocated force. At the meetings, some of the men would give readings. Others would be more strident and talk about smashing the current system. Those people thought that a weakened Britain would be easier to convert to fascism and they thought that they should strike while the iron was hot. Some of the members would suggest more violent courses of action. Channing knew that he’d managed to stay on the fringes until now, doing as little as possible, while ingratiating himself into the group. But even on the side lines, he knew he was no innocent spectator. He’d crossed the line several times, committing atrocities that still haunted him during those quiet, bleak early hours when he couldn’t sleep.
‘It’s perfect you being a doctor.’ The large man smiled, seemingly amused by Channing’s question. ‘One of the women has lost her husband. You could pay a neighbourly call to check on her.’
How could this man know about Joyce Fisher?
Did they have someone in the War Office?
No, that couldn’t be right.
And then
it hit him. What if the telegram hadn’t been real? What if it had been faked by the group to give them just such an excuse? Maybe the whole thing was a charade to allow Channing to go there without any questions.
Channing had to ask.
‘Did you send a faked telegram?’
The man sneered and gave no answer. And although he was no wiser, Channing felt a knot in his stomach. If the telegram was a lie, designed to manoeuvre him into going to the farm, then that would be a low blow even for these people. But they were motivated by talking about such things as working for the greater good. And Channing guessed that the greater good meant that they could justify doing anything to achieve their goals; even if it meant lying to a woman about her husband.
And then a thought struck him with welcome clarity amid the rush of jumbled theories and presumptions.
No, they couldn’t have faked the telegram unless they knew that the airmen were already at Pasture Farm. And they hadn’t been there long enough for that, had they?
Channing cursed himself for jumping to conclusions without thinking things through. He had to stay on his toes. He couldn’t afford to make such elementary mistakes. This was only about a stupid telegram, but another time it might be much more serious.
Channing knew he had to ask other questions, ones more pertinent to what they wanted him to do; questions which related to his own survival.
Yes, that was the most important thing, wasn’t it?
‘So I go to check on Mrs Fisher and what then? I accidentally smuggle two German airmen out in my car?’
‘More or less.’
‘What?’
‘When you’re checking on Mrs Fisher, you discover the airmen. Big surprise. You make up something about them needing to give themselves up and you persuade them to come with you to the hospital; to turn themselves in. Your war is over Fritz and all that. They’ll go along with the ruse. You bundle them into your car and drive off.’
‘Right.’
‘And then – whoops – they jump you. Or rather that’s what you’ll tell everyone afterwards. They’ll escape from your car to the safety of our network. You tell everyone you were overpowered and lost them. You’ll still be the big hero.’
Channing nodded. He could see a way that he might get away with this. A way that meant he didn’t have to be exposed as working for these people. His cosy life with Ellen Hoxley and the hospital could be maintained.
Yes, that was the most important thing.
He mustn’t be discovered.
And he knew he’d been damn lucky so far. There had been several times when he thought the jig was up. The worst time and the closest shave had been when Ellen had suspected a saboteur and thought it was him. He’d had to work hard to pin the blame on another one of the group. Harper hadn’t been innocent, but he didn’t deserve to carry the whole can. And that had backfired on him. His stomach churned as he remembered how Harper had threatened Ellen with a cut-throat razor in the stables. She’d stumbled upon him sending a Morse code message. And Channing had arrived, the valiant hero, and shot Harper dead.
He’d killed to cover his secret.
He’d been the hero then, hadn’t he?
But Channing didn’t like to think about that.
Channing had saved Ellen and she was none the wiser as to exactly what had happened. In fact, it may have helped her fall in love with him that little bit more. And who was he to complain about that particular silver lining?
And then there was that brash American who’d spoken about secret military plans that Channing had overheard. The group of American soldiers had been ambushed by German fighter planes. It had been obvious that someone had got a message to the Germans telling them where the Americans would be. The surviving soldier had suspected the wrong person of betrayal and by the time he had realised who’d really betrayed him and his men, he hadn’t been in a fit state to confront the real culprit. The American lay dying in a hospital bed when he realised what Channing had done. And that had forced Channing to act.
He hadn’t wanted to do it.
Why did they always force him to do things?
Calmly, Channing had taken a pillow and smothered the man, listening as the breath he was clinging onto finally left his body.
Even thinking about that made Channing feel sick.
No, he couldn’t dwell on the bad things he’d done. They’d been forced upon him, hadn’t they? If everyone could leave him alone, none of those things would have happened.
Then he remembered something else about that incident in the hospital with the American.
The woman helping him at the bedside had been Joyce Fisher. She hadn’t known what he’d done to the American, of course, but she had been suspicious at the man’s hasty demise. She’d asked questions about how the soldier could have suddenly taken a turn for the worse like that after being in a stable condition. Channing had chivvied her along as she filled in the time of death paperwork. He’d chivvied her so she couldn’t think too much about what she was doing. And he figured that the less he gave credence to her concerns the better.
Channing forced himself to concentrate on what was happening now.
The large man in the raincoat rummaged in his pockets. From the look of it, the pocket contained a lot of things; what was the man going to produce?
‘As long as I’m not compromised, I’ll do it.’ A chill wind was whipping through the trees, cutting straight through Channing’s long coat.
‘You’ll go to Pasture Farm tomorrow morning.’ The man pulled a small pistol from his pocket. ‘And you’ll take this, in case anything goes wrong.’
‘Nothing will go wrong.’ Channing mustered a steely determined look in his eyes. These people had to believe in him. They had to have faith and trust him.
The big man pushed the gun into Channing’s hand.
‘You’d better get going.’
‘Right,’ Channing looked at the gun. ‘Happy Christmas.’
He had no choice in the matter and as he slowly walked back to the bicycle his mind was alive with the permutations of what could go wrong. He was a logical man, a believer in science. He consoled himself with thinking it all through; working out probabilities and outcomes. Nothing could be allowed to endanger his setup; his cosy life. Nothing could blow his cover. Channing would make sure that nothing went wrong.
He gripped the pistol and slid it into his pocket.
The uninspiring saucepan of vegetable soup sat in the centre of the table, with three placemats underneath it to stop it scorching the wood.
Joyce and Esther watched as Siegfried and Emory drank it from their bowls. Their own bowls remained largely untouched. The worry they both felt about whether Connie would show up had curbed their appetites.
The Germans had been transmitting all morning and the work seemed to have made them hungry. As they ate, Emory scowled but said nothing. Siegfried nodded from time to time or uttered a pleasantry.
Esther seemed relieved that they liked the food, or at least didn’t hate it. The meal was warm and filling and sometimes that was all that mattered.
While the men ate, Joyce would fill up their glasses with more carrot whiskey. She hoped that they wouldn’t see beyond her apparent generosity. She hoped they wouldn’t realise that she was trying to get them drunk.
If she could make Emory fall asleep, she might be able to get the gun off him.
And then what would she do? A shrill, nagging voice in her head pestered her for an answer.
Could she shoot them if she had to?
Could she do that?
Joyce didn’t know. She looked at the boyish face of Siegfried, a boy who shouldn’t be here in this dreadful war. She looked at the rugged face of Emory. What sort of man would he be without the war? Would he be at home in Berlin or somewhere with his children running around? Would he be a dutiful husband who provided for his family? And yet, here they were, dressed in clothes they’d stolen, waving a gun around and terrifying two innocent women.
Could she shoot them? The voice was insistent; self-doubt and self-loathing going to work on her temples. If war had made these men do dreadful things, what would it make Joyce do? She had already lost everything.
Could she shoot them?
Joyce didn’t know.
But one thing was for sure. She knew that she wouldn’t let any harm come to Esther or herself. And if that meant stopping these men, then she’d do her best. There would be no option, would there?
As Esther cleared the plates away, Joyce went to top up the men’s glasses.
‘No more.’ Emory placed his flattened hand over the top of the glass. He eyed Joyce with a weary look. Did he suspect that she was trying to get him drunk? No, it was his exhaustion from the situation. They were all tired and running on empty; all hoping that this nightmare would be over. Joyce went to fill up Siegfried’s glass and he nodded his consent, until Emory removed the glass from in front of the young man.
‘Not for him either. We have to stay focussed.’ Emory stood up and pulled up his trousers where they’d constricted around his waist. Joyce noticed that they were too small for him.
‘I’m going to check outside. Keep an eye on the women.’ Emory placed the pistol on the table next to Siegfried. He moved to the back door, unlocked it and went outside. As Joyce and Esther washed up, they could see Emory pacing in the yard, looking around. What was he planning?
The young man was similarly pensive, idly moving the pistol on the table in front of him, lost in his own world. Was this a good moment to try to get him on her side? There might not be another opportunity.
She put down the dish she’d been drying. ‘Tell me if he comes back,’ she whispered to Esther, and before Esther had time to question what she was doing, Joyce went back to the table and sat next to Siegfried. He looked startled by this action and looked more alert; suspicious.
‘It’s all right.’
‘What do you want, Joyce?’
‘Just to say, my husband was in the RAF. He crashed behind enemy lines. Just like you.’
‘Oh? What happened?’
‘His Lancaster bomber was on a raid and on the way back they got shot down. Some of them didn’t make it, but John managed to parachute to the ground. He got taken in by a farmer and found his way back to me.’ Joyce looked wistful.
