by Roland Moore
‘Two of us will go to the chickens, and I expect one of the Germans will come with us to keep an eye on things.’
‘Yes, Esther and I will go into the coop.’ Connie agreed.
‘If we get a choice.’
‘Yes, if we get a choice.’
‘And when Connie and me are in the coop, I’ll pretend to hurt myself. I’ll fall over and make a lot of noise.’ Esther flailed her arms in an approximation of a woman in distress. Joyce quietly hoped her acting would be better than that tomorrow. Connie continued the plan.
‘Then while the German is distracted with Esther, I’ll run to the tool shed to get the shotgun.’
‘Meanwhile, I’ll be in the bedroom and I’ll call the other German upstairs and threaten him with the knife.’
‘That’s it Joyce!’
‘It sounds like it could work.’ Esther sounded full of hope for the first time since the men had blighted their lives. For her part, Joyce saw a flaw.
‘I’m sure it will work. But only if we time it really well.’
‘What synchronise watches and all that palaver?’
‘What are you thinking?’ Esther looked keen to iron out this loophole.
‘Ten minutes after the two of you go out to the coop, I’ll get the knife and call the other German up to the bedroom.’ Joyce scanned their faces for their reaction.
‘Ten minutes?’ Connie let that sink in. ‘It’s not long is it?’
‘It’s more than enough. You don’t want to have to finish the egg collection before the time’s up. Ten minutes should be fine. But it starts the moment you walk out that door. We all have to check our watches at that moment. I’ll be watching from the window here. All right?’
Esther and Connie nodded.
With the three of them mulling the plan over in their heads, they turned the light off and tried to sleep. Joyce could see the silvery outlines of Connie and Esther on the bed, tinged in the moonlight coming through the top of the curtain rail. She watched them shift around. No one was asleep. Everyone was just resting; on edge. Finally, Connie sat up in bed and Joyce saw her large brown eyes catching the light.
‘I never had time to ask how you were.’ Her voice was barely a whisper.
‘I’m all right. Well as all right as I can be.’ The truth was that Joyce felt numb. She still refused to believe that John was gone. She was hanging on to the fact that it had been a dreadful mistake or a mix-up of some sort. She knew she wouldn’t be the first person to think that. Thousands of wives and mothers had gone through the same denial when they got those typed words from the War Office. But somehow she just knew that he’d be all right. All she had to do was escape from the clutches of these two men and she could find John.
‘You should talk.’ Connie looked imploring at her.
‘I’m too tired.’
‘We all are, but none of us can sleep, so we might as well do something.’ Esther chipped in.
‘It’s not the right time.’ Joyce didn’t want to get into it now. Part of her didn’t know what to say and part of her was worried that if she outlined her theory about it being a mistake that Connie or Esther would puncture her hopes. And she couldn’t cope with that now. What if they saw something she had missed in the confusion and exhaustion of the last few days? What if they read the telegram and spotted something that she hadn’t in the dozens of times she’d read it? No one could sever the lifeline she was desperately grasping onto. If they thought she was wrong, she’d have nothing left. No way of finding the resolve and strength to survive this situation; no way of surviving what they needed to do tomorrow morning.
‘I’ll talk when this is over.’
Connie and Esther shot her sympathetic looks.
‘Make sure you do. And by the way, if we get out of this, I’m going to treat you both to a slap-up meal with all the trimmings. I don’t care if it costs me a month’s wages.’ Connie grinned at the thought of this future celebration.
‘I’d thought about us having a meal too.’ Joyce smiled. She looked wistfully at the pair of them; her friends through so many good and bad times. ‘Difference is, I imagined having a lunch when we were much older. The war will be over and long gone and we’ll get back together and meet somewhere near here. Maybe even in The Bottle and Glass for a pub lunch.’
Connie considered this offer.
‘The landlord may even have cleaned the pipes by then.’
‘And we’ll look back on all this and we’ll wonder what it was like because you know, I bet we won’t be able to remember. Not all of it. Not really. Not all the smells and sounds, and what it felt like to get up at the crack of dawn after being on a mattress where the springs dig into our backs. We won’t remember how our legs ached and our hands split; or the blisters on our feet from those flaming rough socks; or the perspiration trickling from our headscarves down our necks. It’ll all be a hazy memory. All of it long gone.’
‘We’ll remember this Christmas though, that’s for sure, lovey. No matter how many Christmases we see, this will always be one we remember.’
Connie was lost in thought, perhaps considering what Joyce and Esther had said.
‘I hope the war’s over soon. I’ve had enough of it. One thing’s for sure, I don’t want my baby born during it.’
The comment hung in the air.
What did Connie say?
‘Your baby?’ Esther looked as if she had misheard.
‘She means if she was to have a baby, she wouldn’t want it born with all this going on.’ Joyce surmised, before turning to Connie. ‘Don’t you?’
They both looked at Connie. She smiled awkwardly.
‘Me and my big mouth, eh?’ Connie looked Joyce in the eye. ‘I’m having a baby with Henry. And I’ll be a good mum, you’ll see.’
‘I bet you will be.’ Joyce recognised that Connie felt uneasy sharing this news. It had just slipped out and she assumed that Connie was worried about sharing something joyous when Joyce was at rock bottom.
Joyce felt tears welling up in her eyes. This wasn’t news she’d expected to hear. She didn’t even know that Connie and Henry had been trying for a baby. How wonderful! A new baby; hope during a time of darkness. It felt like a glorious celebratory moment; a moment that those men couldn’t take away. They’d locked them up, but they could still fill their hearts with a moment of joy.
Joyce reached out a hand and touched the back of Connie’s hand. ‘I’m really pleased.’
As Connie explained to Esther that she thought she was about three months gone, Joyce felt the warmth of the news slipping away. She was distracted, thinking about the locked door, the men downstairs. She thought about what they had to do tomorrow. Joyce resolved to give Connie a big, proper celebration when this was all over.
Professor Lance Patrick was a man with vociferous opinions, a loud dress sense, and an uncanny ability to spray food from his mouth around the table while he was talking. His wife, Prunella Patrick, had dull opinions, dull clothes and an over-fondness for wine. Together they were the dinner guests from hell.
And that’s where Richard Channing felt he had ended up.
Was this his punishment for the bad things he’d done?
Lady Hoxley had invited guests for supper to celebrate Christmas. As Professor Patrick, an archaeologist, expounded on his latest theory about Hitler’s next move, Channing smiled in terse politeness. He had little time for them but found it hard to extricate himself from the meal. He sat in irritated silence, serving Prunella with more wine each time her glass went dry. He had to do this so regularly that he had to fill a second decanter with red wine. These people could seriously dent the dwindling cellar at Hoxley Manor if they were regular guests. Where was Prunella putting so much wine? Channing didn’t give any credence to the decidedly unscientific theory that she might have hollow legs, but she certainly didn’t seem inebriated by how much she was drinking. Also unusually she didn’t seem to get any louder or more opinionated from the effects of the wine. As a sci
entific man, Channing almost found it interesting.
Almost.
Lady Hoxley sat at the other end of the table, a picture of the graceful hostess. From time to time, her eyes would meet Richard’s, but she was too polished and polite to let slip her feelings in public. Instead she laughed good-naturedly as the Professor attempted a joke and obfuscated her answers when Prunella asked how much something cost.
By ten-thirty, as the meal was ending, Lady Hoxley arranged for one of the American soldiers at the hospital to take the Professor and his wife home. The Patricks said their goodbyes, promising to host a return meal soon. Channing said that would be most agreeable. In his head, he knew that he must never allow that to happen. Finally, the couple sauntered off down the driveway to where an American Army jeep was waiting. Prunella seemed excited by the chance to ride in a jeep. Patrick was more concerned about her falling out. Channing didn’t wait to wave them goodbye. He walked back inside, enjoying the crisp cool air as it cleared his head and rattled down the hallway. Lady Hoxley closed the doors. She’d given the servants the evening off as it was nearly Christmas and had cooked the, admittedly simple, meal herself.
Channing and Lady Hoxley faced each other in the corridor.
‘That went well. Considering.’ Richard raised his eyebrow.
‘Considering what?’
‘Considering who our guests were.’
‘Quite.’ Ellen conceded a smile. ‘Will you have a night cap?’ She asked.
‘I’m tired. Maybe we can have one tomorrow night on Christmas eve, that would be nice, wouldn’t it?’
Lady Hoxley nodded, smiling agreeably. Channing pecked her on the cheek, the smell of her subtle perfume hitting him. It was a smell that made him feel safe, protected. She was a strong capable woman and she would make sure everything was all right.
As he walked away, she turned and called after him.
‘Oh, Richard.’
‘Yes, Ellen?’
‘I forgot to say, I heard back from the people in Leeds.’
Channing looked momentarily blank until he nodded as he remembered. ‘I had left messages asking for more details about the house fire that claimed John Fisher. Do you remember?’
‘Yes of course. And what did they say?’
‘I think I should come with you tomorrow to Pasture Farm.’
Channing smiled in an accommodating manner. But his head was screaming at him to stop her at any cost. She couldn’t come to the farm with him. What would happen to her? She would be another variable in a situation that was already out of control.
There had been enough random factors coming into play.
As Channing was wrestling his own worries, he didn’t think about the reason why Ellen might want to come to the farm. What was the reason?
What had she found out about the house fire in Leeds?
Channing went to his room. He locked the door, paced around in frustration for a few minutes and then sat on his bed, trying to clear his head. The four glasses of wine at dinner were blurring his thoughts. He had to think rationally. He had to think this through.
Tomorrow would be difficult, and he had to be ready for any eventuality. Firstly, he didn’t know what had happened to Connie after he dropped her off at the farm. The airmen might have killed her for all he knew. He assumed that she hadn’t escaped, otherwise they would have heard about it. So she was still at the farm, either dead or alive. Maybe all the people at Pasture Farm were dead. Channing had no way of knowing; he had no way of knowing what he was walking into tomorrow.
And the last thing he needed was Ellen coming along.
He checked his pistol and then placed it in his medical bag.
But as his temples pounded with adrenaline and fear, Channing had an idea. He got up, combed his hair, unlocked his door and disappeared into the corridor. There was a way to stop her.
The medical wing was cloaked in semi-darkness; the home-made Christmas bunting hanging in the wards and a skeleton staff of nurses on duty. Channing made his way to the medicine storeroom, unlocked it and went inside. Within a few seconds, he’d found the item he required and slipped it into his trouser pocket. He made his way back to the main part of the house, smiling and wishing the nursing staff a happy Christmas as he went. Good old Doctor Channing.
Soon he was outside the door to Ellen’s living room. The light was still on, illuminating the corridor with a thin sliver of amber at the bottom of the door. At least that blasted record wasn’t playing. He cleared his throat and knocked. After a few moments, Ellen came to the door, surprised to see him. Channing gave his most convincingly charismatic smile.
‘I thought we should have that drink. It’s nearly Christmas after all.’
‘Of course.’ Ellen checked that the corridor was clear and let him in. She moved over to her bureau, on which sat a letter on a sheet of headed paper and an envelope. The ink was still wet, shiny black in the light from the fire. Ellen was waiting for it to dry before she folded the letter into the envelope.
The envelope had the name ‘Mrs Fisher’ written on it.
‘What are you doing?’ Channing asked.
‘I thought I’d write a letter to Mrs Fisher. Joyce. It will stop me forgetting anything when I speak to her tomorrow.’
‘I see.’ Channing crossed to the drinks’ cabinet. A decanter of gin was about a third full. Channing swilled it around in the decanter. ‘Gin and tonic?’
‘Perfect.’ Ellen placed the letter into the envelope and sealed it. If he’d been looking in her direction, Channing might have noticed the small perturbed frown on her brow. But he was too busy with his own thoughts to notice.
With her occupied, Channing poured the gin into two crystal tumblers. He took the vial from his trouser pocket and coughed as he snapped it open. He poured half of the liquid into one of the glasses. He added the tonic and mixed the spiked glass with a spoon. By the time Ellen had finished her letter, Channing was standing over her with the drinks in his hand. He gave her the spiked one and toasted their health.
‘Here’s to us.’
‘To us!’
They chinked glasses and both took sips before moving to the sofa. Channing sat next to Ellen, watching her keenly. It was hard to get the dosage of Potassium Bromide right and he often had to use trial and error on the wards, but Channing hoped he’d given her a big enough dose to knock her out for a good few hours. The strong taste of the gin and tonic should obscure it. He knew that the drug had a cumulative effect, so if she was awake in the morning when he left, he resolved to give her another dose. That second dose would work with the stuff already in her bloodstream to make her sleep until lunchtime. She’d miss the appointment at Pasture Farm. Channing congratulated himself in dealing with one of the random events that threatened to spoil things.
‘I can put that letter in my medical bag if you like,’ Channing was eyeing the letter on the bureau. ‘Then we won’t forget it tomorrow.’
‘All right. That’s a good idea.’ She gave him the letter and sat down again. He smiled with satisfaction as she took another sip of her drink.
‘What about the Professor and his wife then?’
‘Oh don’t! Still, I feel we’ve done our duty in seeing them. Although I fear that they will view this as a Christmas tradition and want us to come to their house next year.’
She finished her drink. Channing watched for any drowsiness, but it hadn’t absorbed into her bloodstream, yet.
‘Shall we have another?’ Ellen announced.
‘Capital idea,’ Channing replied, going to fix the drinks.
Chapter 14
Christmas Eve
Joyce slept sporadically, unable to get comfortable or warm enough on the chair. Her neck felt like it had been twisted and all her attempts to straighten it out resulted in sharp pains. It was just before seven in the morning. Esther and Connie were still on the bed and possibly asleep. Joyce could hear the sounds of someone making tea downstairs. Maybe that was what had woken her
up from her most recent nap. She sat there, stretching her neck in silence, thinking about the plan.
Esther and Joyce would go to the chicken coop.
The ten minute countdown would start as they left the house.
At ten minutes, Esther would fake an injury and Connie would use the distraction to get the shotgun.
Meanwhile at the same time, Joyce would threaten the other German with the breadknife.
Ten minutes.
Everything would change forever in ten minutes.
Esther murmured in her sleep and then her eyes shot open; a look of confusion on her face as she took in her surroundings. Then she remembered where she was, and the worries and stresses instantly appeared back onto her face. Connie woke a few seconds later.
‘Gah, I was hoping this was a bloody nightmare.’ Connie stretched.
‘No, it’s bloody real. But it’ll be over soon.’ Joyce reassured them both.
‘I hope Fred doesn’t come back from Leicester too early.’ Esther looked fretful about that prospect.
‘What time is he due?’
‘You know Fred, he’s not one for making detailed plans. He just said he’d be back some time on Christmas Eve.’
‘Maybe he meant the actual evening part of Christmas Eve?’ Connie reasoned.
‘Who knows, lovey. Who knows?’ Esther shrugged. It was pointless trying to second guess Frederick Finch.
They heard someone coming up the stairs. From the spring in the person’s step, they assumed it was the younger man. They were correct. Siegfried unlocked the door.
‘Morning, ladies.’
Esther, Connie and Joyce gave an unenthusiastic chorus of hellos back and dutifully filed out in turn to use the bathroom. Siegfried remained on the landing as each one went inside and then made sure they went back into the bedroom when they were finished.
