by Roland Moore
‘Do you want some breakfast?’ Esther dried her hands.
‘That would be nice.’ The German looked touched. ‘Thank you.’
Soon they were downstairs, and Esther and Connie were busily making scrambled eggs. From the kitchen window, Joyce could make out something sticking out from the postbox near the gate. They hadn’t collected the post for a couple of days. Joyce asked if she could go to collect it.
Emory refused. He seemed in an even worse condition than yesterday. His face was blotchy, and he was sweating; his hair plastered across his forehead.
‘You stay here.’
‘I have to collect it. Otherwise they’ll know something is wrong when they come with the post later.’ Joyce stood her ground. Emory was wavering. He spoke to Siegfried and, after some a heated discussion in German, Emory reluctantly agreed to let Joyce go.
‘You be quick, and you do not try any tricks.’
‘We’ll be watching.’ Siegfried unlocked the back door. Joyce put on her gumboots and went outside and set off.
It was a familiar journey from the farmhouse to the gate at the edge of the farm – a daily pilgrimage to get both messages of hope and letters confirming the worst.
She barely dared to look back. She knew they would be watching. She walked slowly and deliberately across the yard of Pasture Farm as if walking on an invisible tightrope; but enjoying the small freedom it allowed her. She relished the feel of the cold morning air against her skin; revitalising her from the rough night she’d had. But in under a minute, she reached the tin box that Finch had erected on a gnarled pole near the gate.
She had collected the post every day since she had arrived at the farm. Unofficially, it was Joyce’s job. Sometimes, the short journey was taken with a spring in her step, sometimes with nervous foreboding such as the time she was waiting for news about John. The seasons changed, cooling and warming in predictable cycles; sometimes, like today, she’d trudge in gum boots across the mud, other times she’d skip across baked ground in her flat summer shoes. Through wind, rain or sunshine, she made this short journey to see what the tin box contained. It was always Joyce’s first job after breakfast.
Today the tin box had letters sticking out of it that had arrived the day before. They hadn’t seen the postman, so they knew that today’s post was still to come.
As she took the bundle from the box, she contemplated continuing forward out of the gate. It was so tempting. Could she walk away? No, she knew that couldn’t happen. Even with everything that had happened before, she couldn’t leave the others behind. Her duty was here, as it had always been.
Besides they had a plan.
And, if it worked, the plan would ensure that they all got out of here. They all would escape if things went well.
In her hand, among the letters for Finch and Esther was a package. Joyce realised it was addressed to her. It was approximately eight inches by six inches in size, stuck down tightly with an unnecessary amount of tape. It had a Birmingham postmark on it. She didn’t recognise the writing at all, and she couldn’t think of anyone she knew in Birmingham. Guided by some instinct, Joyce decided to carefully tuck the package into her jumper, carrying the rest of the bundle in her hand so the people in the farmhouse could see them if they were watching.
With a sigh, she walked slowly back across the yard towards the farmhouse; despite every ounce of selfish, self-preservation telling her to run the other way.
Siegfried nodded, seemingly pleased that she had returned without incident.
She had left the bundle of letters on the kitchen table and asked if she could use the bathroom. Siegfried agreed. Joyce went upstairs, smuggling the parcel inside her jumper up to her room. She tossed it onto the bed, closed the door as quietly as she could and then went to the bathroom. She flushed the toilet to give authenticity to the lie, washed her hands and went downstairs.
She ate some scrambled egg and drank three cups of tea. She watched Emory as he pushed the food around his plate with little interest. Dark circles framed his eyes and he seemed to have trouble focussing. After a while, he left the table and slouched into the parlour, pushing the door ajar. Joyce heard the sounds of the Morse code message.
There was desperation as he tapped out the message, again and again.
‘We’ll need to sort the chickens out again in a while,’ Joyce threw this out as casually as she could to Siegfried. He nodded his consent.
‘These eggs taste good.’
‘That’s one of the advantages of living on a farm.’ Connie shrugged. He ate his food with gusto and then used the fork to scoop every last morsel up. The childlike action made him seem even younger than he was. Joyce hoped that she wouldn’t have to hurt him. She hoped that she, Connie and Esther could escape the farm without any resistance. If things went to plan, no one had to get hurt and the Germans would end up imprisoned in a prisoner of war camp before Christmas Day.
She decided that she might need another cup of tea to keep her alert. Joyce filled up the pot with hot water and placed it on the farmhouse table. As she stirred it to strengthen the brew, she glanced at the faces of Esther and Connie. They all hid their expectation and fear as best as they could. Joyce could tell that everyone was excited that Siegfried had agreed so easily to them going to the coop again.
The first stage had gone to plan.
Channing had breakfast alone.
Ellen hadn’t come down to join him. He assumed that the two spiked drinks had done their work and hoped that she would be asleep until lunchtime. He hoped he hadn’t given her too much.
What if she was dead?
No, he couldn’t think about that. Not now. He had enough to worry about. She was asleep, that’s all.
But what if he’d killed her?
The insistent voice wanted an answer. Channing knew he wouldn’t get any peace until he’d answered his own question. If that was the case, he’d have to get rid of her body so that no post-mortem could reveal the drug in her veins. How could he dispose of Lady Hoxley’s body?
He didn’t really want to think about it; and besides that problem could wait until later. He had to deal with things at the farmhouse first. He had to sort those German airmen out.
But whatever happened, Channing knew that he would do anything to protect himself.
Channing put such thoughts out of his head. There was no point in worrying about things that hadn’t happened. He was a man of science, used to dealing with quantifiable facts not suppositions.
He read some poetry and ate some toast.
Then he left the dining room and took the corridor that led to his room. The hospital wing was still quiet but waking up for the day. He could hear patients calling for nurses; the rattle of the medicine trolley and somewhere Vera Lynn was playing. Channing collected his medicine bag, hat and coat from his room and set off. The letter was in the bag. He’d deliver that while he was there.
When he’d almost reached the main entrance to Hoxley Manor, Channing wondered if he should check on Lady Hoxley. The nagging feeling of what had happened to her was eating away at him.
Channing decided that it would be best to leave right away for the farm. He’d check on her later. Besides, if he went to see her now, she might wake and he’d then have the problem of having to take her with him. No, he had to go alone. And he had to go while she was still asleep.
Channing opened his car door and put the medicine bag on the passenger seat. He started the engine and slowly pulled away from Hoxley Manor. His pulse was going ten to the dozen and he struggled to calm himself. But he knew he had to keep a level head. This would soon be over. He just had to remain calm and logical and treat every eventuality as he had planned.
All that mattered was that he survived and that no one discovered what he was.
Channing reached the road outside Hoxley Manor. He took a deep breath and pulled away.
At Pasture Farm, Esther washed up the breakfast things as Connie and Joyce sat at the table. Everyone was
too tense to speak; all lost in their own thoughts and fears about the day ahead. Without conversation, the air was filled with insistent tap-tap-tap of the Morse code transmitter in the next room. Siegfried stayed in the parlour with Emory but ensured that he came out to check on the women from time to time.
‘He’s not well.’
‘I know.’ Joyce knew the signs of infection and she knew things would get worse.
‘What can you do?’
‘Nothing, he needs a doctor. His arm is infected.’
Siegfried looked perturbed and a little lost. ‘I need to get him away from here. We need people to come to help us.’
Esther came up with a potential solution. ‘We could call Doctor Wally Morgan?’
But Connie shot it down.
‘Oh I hate him. He’s got the worst bad breath and his hands won’t stay where they should, if you know what I mean.’
‘But he is a doctor, yes?’
‘Yes, but I don’t think we should get him here.’ Joyce didn’t want to endanger anyone else’s life; even that of the shambling, drunken local doctor. ‘He’s not very good and I don’t think he’d be much help.’
Siegfried turned to go back to the parlour.
Joyce decided that this might be a good time. Strike while he was distracted about something else.
‘Can we sort out the chickens?’
Siegfried turned back, weariness on his young face. He scratched his head; revealing the grubby sleeve of his stolen overalls. ‘Sure.’ He moved towards the parlour. ‘I’ll get the key. But only two of you go, yes?’
Joyce nodded.
‘Me and Esther will do it,’ Connie sounded like she’d just thought of the idea.
Siegfried shrugged. It made no difference to him.
‘I need to go to the bathroom too.’
Siegfried didn’t respond to Joyce’s comment. Perhaps he hadn’t heard her or perhaps he was too preoccupied with talking to Emory.
‘Just go.’ Connie whipped her head in the direction of upstairs. Joyce didn’t need telling twice. Quickly and silently she made her way to the foot of the stairs.
She splayed all her fingers and thumbs out to Esther and Connie. Ten minutes.
They all knew that the countdown would start as soon as Connie and Esther stepped outside.
Tick tock.
Joyce mouthed ‘good luck’ to them and tip-toed upstairs as quickly as she could. The plan was going better than expected. She’d bargained on having been locked in her bedroom and having to get one of the Germans to come upstairs to let her out. This way she could go upstairs with no locked doors in her way. She could come down when she wanted – with the breadknife.
Ten minutes.
Joyce went into her bedroom and pulled the thin curtain back so she could see the yard outside the back door.
As soon as Connie and Esther appeared, she would begin her countdown. She glanced nervously to the bedside cabinet that contained the breadknife.
Channing pulled his car to a halt halfway between Hoxley Manor and Pasture Farm. He’d managed to calm his breathing, but he could still feel that his face was flushed. Taking some deep breaths, he wiped his clammy hands on his trousers and tried to focus on feeling more grounded.
Focus on the plan.
He opened the medical bag and took out the letter that Ellen had written. It was the perfect cover for his visit to the farm. He had to deliver news to Joyce Fisher.
Thank you, Ellen.
Deciding that he needed to know what it said, he ripped it open and scanned it quickly; his eyes betraying no emotion as he took in the message.
Okay, he’d deliver that message to Joyce Fisher.
And then he’d convince the Germans to ‘turn themselves in’ and come with him. He’d leave the farm with them in his car and then stage it so it looked like they’d overpowered him and escaped. But in reality, he would have taken them to Panmere Lake to hand them over to the contact he’d met yesterday. Channing decided that he might need to make it look like he’d been hit to make the escape look convincing. He made a mental note to ask one of the Germans to hit him. It would be a necessary discomfort, but he knew where he could be punched without it being too painful.
Nothing could jeopardise his survival.
Siegfried didn’t like the look of Emory. The older man’s skin was a blotchy patchwork of ivory white and angry crimson. His eyes looked rheumy and were large like pickled eggs. A thin veneer of sweat covered his face and hands. The collar on the shirt was stained darker than the rest of the material. With effort, Emory hauled himself up from the armchair that he’d moved into to be close to the radio transmitter, holding onto the arm for support.
‘The women need to tend to the chickens.’
‘You go. I don’t feel so good.’
‘You keep the pistol then, Captain.’
Emory looked confused as if he didn’t know where it was, so Siegfried went to the suit jacket that was draped over one of the chairs and removed the pistol from the inside pocket. He handed it to his commander.
‘I won’t be long.’ Siegfried was about to go when Emory stopped him in his tracks.
‘I prayed.’ Emory blinked at the light as if it was causing him pain. He waited for the effect of the words to land. Siegfried knew that his commander was a man who put his faith in his own abilities. Seeking help from a higher power seemed like an act of desperation; a last resort. It wasn’t a good sign. Emory continued, picking out his words as if each one was hard to find and elusive. ‘I prayed that we would be delivered from this place. And that we’d get back to Germany.’
‘We will go back home.’ Siegfried hoped he sounded confident and full of reassurance.
Emory wobbled and nearly overbalanced, but Siegfried caught his arm to support him. The action made the commander wince and Siegfried realised that he was holding the man’s wounded arm. He removed it as if he was scalded and apologised profusely.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.’
Emory shook his head dismissively. It didn’t matter.
‘Go with the women, but don’t be long.’
‘I won’t.’ Siegfried saluted his commander and left the room. Emory slumped back into the armchair and half-heartedly continued to tap out his Morse code message.
Some days change your life forever. And Joyce Fisher knew that today was one of those days.
She hadn’t planned it to turn out that way, of course, but the trouble was that you rarely had any warning which days would be the ones to change things. You could plan for saying yes to an invitation or moving house or getting married. But other life-changing events could leap out in front of you, like a distracted deer on a country lane, giving you no opportunity to prepare; no opportunity to weigh up the options. Sometimes there was no time to think about consequences. Sometimes there was only time to act and then hope that things turned out all right.
She waited for the sound of the back door opening.
She waited to start the countdown.
Tick tock.
Connie and Esther waited by the back door for Siegfried.
Connie had gone through this very door, with its peeling paint and weather-beaten timbers, a thousand times and most of the time she’d be moaning about the work she had to do or the work she’d done, making some caustic comment to get the girls to laugh, wondering what was for their morning break snack or passing an opinion on someone’s new fancy man. But she’d never been this tense before. There had never been so much at stake.
Esther looked petrified. Connie got as close as she could to her, all the while watching for when the parlour door would open and Siegfried would emerge. She knew that Esther had to hold it together, for all their sakes. Esther had to be the one who’d fake a collapse in the chicken coop. She had to be convincing; invested in what she was doing. She couldn’t crumble or they would all be dead.
Connie acted out a silent, mimed conversation, fearful that they’d be overheard otherwise.
Are you all right?
Esther nodded.
Connie clenched her fists in a gesture that meant Esther had to be strong.
Esther nodded. She would be.
Connie nodded her head. Was she sure?
Esther nodded.
Connie had no choice but to believe her friend and hope that her assurances would come good. She gave Esther’s arm a squeeze above the elbow. Good luck.
There was no time for any more pep-talks. Siegfried emerged from the parlour with the key. The women obediently stood out of the way for him so he could unlock it. Then he took a step back and looked them up and down. He was suspicious. Why was he looking at them like that? Something was wrong.
‘You’ve forgotten it?’
Panic passed over Esther’s face, but Connie knew she had to keep it together; otherwise Esther would give the game away for both of them.
‘What’s that, then?’ She spoke with a good dose of Connie insouciance to cover any nervousness in her voice.
‘Your basket. For the eggs.’
‘Of course!’ Connie scurried over to the sink and opened the cupboard door. She took out two small wicker baskets, handing one to a grateful Esther. ‘There we go.’
The three of them went outside and walked across the path towards the large chicken coop.
From her bedroom window, Joyce saw them leave, her heart in her mouth and her pulse banging in her temples. She looked at her watch.
Ten minutes.
Tick tock.
It had started. And now there was no going back.
Channing drove on. The morning sun was struggling to peek through fronds of grey cloud, and it dappled across his windscreen. He approached the entrance to the farm and slowed down; the brakes uttering a small squeal of protest as he took the turning a little too fast.
He focused on the next few minutes.
He had to be clear-headed to survive. He had to be prepared for every eventuality.
He pushed open the gate to the farm. The postbox was open and empty to the side of it. There were no signs of life from the farmhouse. What would he find inside?
