by Roland Moore
What had happened to Joyce, Connie and Esther?
What had happened to the airmen?
And if the women at the farm got suspicious, he’d deal with them too. Could he do that, though? Could he shoot three innocent women to protect himself?
Channing knew he would if he had to. Casualties of his war.
He got back in his car and edged it through the gates to where he parked it next to one of the empty stables. Turning the engine off, he braced himself before getting out. He collected his medical bag from the passenger seat and trudged off across the yard with a grim finality.
Siegfried, Connie and Esther had crossed the dirt track towards the large chicken coop and gone inside moments earlier. Channing hadn’t seen them, and they hadn’t seen him.
Joyce watched from her window. Siegfried, Connie and Esther entered the chicken coop. She checked her watch and tried to steady her breathing. Deciding that it might steady her nerves to sit on the bed, Joyce sat down, feeling the springs give underneath her.
Bang, bang, bang.
At first, she thought it was the bed protesting or even breaking; her mind not anticipating any unexpected sounds.
What was that?
Was it gunfire?
It took her a second or two to realise that the hammering was someone knocking on the back door.
But Siegfried, Connie and Esther hadn’t come back from the coop. She’d have seen them.
Joyce’s mind raced. Who the hell could it be?
She heard another noise; a man moving heavily and with difficulty from one of the rooms underneath her. Emory was on the move.
Joyce checked her watch.
Nine-and-a-half minutes to go.
What should she do?
‘Come down!’ Emory hissed, as loud as he dared from the bottom of the stairs. ‘Come down!’
Bang, bang on the back door.
What should she do?
It was too early to confront him.
Joyce moved slowly towards the bedroom door. Again, the insistent voice came. ‘Come down!’
Should she take the knife?
She hesitated.
‘Now!’
There was no time.
She went out onto the landing and looked down at him. He looked diminished, frail and small. But he was holding the pistol and that scared her. He indicated for her to get down here quickly. Joyce ran downstairs and Emory pushed her towards the back door and then hid in the nook of the stairs.
Joyce straightened her hair and went to open the door. Flinging it open, she was surprised at the identity of their unexpected visitor.
Doctor Richard Channing was standing there, clutching his medical bag.
‘Good morning, Mrs Fisher.’ Channing was behaving as if it was the most normal day on Earth.
‘Doctor Channing?’ Joyce felt almost too exhausted to attempt any charade; her voice revealing her fatigue.
‘I’ve come with some news.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve got some news for you.’
‘What are you talking about?’
Joyce wasn’t expecting this. She was focussed on the plan and this was delaying things. She desperately wanted to check her watch. But what was Channing going on about?
‘You might want to sit down.’
Joyce’s mind started to focus.
This could be important. Something about John.
Joyce didn’t know what it could be. What else could there be that required her to be sitting down. She knew about John, she’d been told he was dead. What other shock could be in store? What other news could Channing have?
Maybe John was alive.
Yes, maybe that was it. She needed to be sitting down because that would be a shock, wouldn’t it?
With a cursory glance towards the stairs, she sat down and Channing pulled out a chair next to her. Emory shifted on the stairs, his shadow moving in the background behind Channing.
‘Lady Hoxley contacted the police in Leeds to see if she could get some further details about what happened to your husband.’
Ah, that was it. They’d found out more. Was Channing going to tell her that they’d found that Teddy, John’s brother, had been the casualty instead? Yes, that could be it.
‘I’m afraid they couldn’t identify his body from the fire, but the height and build match that of your husband.’ Channing spoke slowly and deliberately; a man used to imparting bad news.
‘But it’s a mistake, isn’t it?’ Joyce heard herself say; her voice seemed thin and reedy.
It wasn’t her talking, was it?
‘I’m afraid it’s no mistake. They found his kit bag by the bed. Some of the material had burnt away but the name tag was still clearly visible. Flight Officer John Fisher. Inside were his personal effects, including a letter he was writing to you.’
Joyce couldn’t listen. The words washed over her as if they were corrosive chemicals, each one hurting her more. No, it couldn’t be happening. She just wanted to scream and smash up the kitchen.
‘It’s a mistake.’ Joyce felt her voice crack.
‘I’m afraid that your husband is dead.’
Joyce sobbed, silent, shoulder-heaving tears. She had been holding so much in; fencing in her feelings and anxieties because of the Germans. Now, she couldn’t cope. Her wall of denial had been ripped down and now there was no avoiding the ugly, monstrous truth that was staring her in the face.
Her beloved John, the love of her life, had really gone.
No, it was too much to bear.
Joyce bolted from the table, fighting back floods of tears. She ran to the stairs, pushing Emory out of the way. She didn’t care that he had a gun; she didn’t care that Channing would see him as she barged at him. She wanted to get past and rush up to her room and sink into the eiderdown and sob her heart out. She had lost everything.
In her rush, Joyce didn’t see what happened next.
Channing looked at the German.
Emory raised the pistol.
Channing shook his head and waved his hands desperately.
‘I’m here to help.’
He spoke as quietly and as quickly as he could manage; the way anyone would talk if someone was pointing a gun at them. The sound of crying was coming from upstairs, but Channing still didn’t want to speak too loudly. But Emory advanced towards the kitchen table. Channing backed away and Emory matched each step with one forward. He seemed to enjoy the medic’s discomfort. Emory levelled the pistol to the doctor’s eyes. Terrified, Channing tried to fumble for his own pistol, but he managed to knock the medicine bag off the table to the floor. It clattered onto the tiles; knocking the clasp open.
Medical supplies – dressings, creams, stethoscope – spilled out.
Emory looked confused by this development and hesitated.
‘I got your message.’ Channing’s voice cracked with fear. ‘Do you understand? Please say you understand for pity’s sake.’
Emory considered this.
Channing spoke in German, saying that he’d got the message. He said he had come to help them. He said that he’d prefer it if Emory would stop pointing a gun at him.
Finally, Emory nodded; his craggy face showing nearly as much relief as Channing’s own face. Emory lowered the pistol and ushered Channing to pick up his bag.
‘I speak English. You come into that room.’ Emory indicated the parlour. ‘I need medicine.’
‘All right.’ Channing raised his voice for Joyce’s benefit upstairs. ‘If you force me to do it, I’ll help you.’
There was no response from upstairs, but Channing hoped that she’d heard it. He felt he’d covered himself either way. Emory looked at him as if he was mad before stumbling into the parlour. Channing followed, closing the door behind him.
Esther gave the coop door a shove; the wooden frame had stuck against the door thanks to the chilly damp air of the night. She and Connie entered the enclosure, to the usual excitable noises from the chickens. Siegfried
followed behind, resigned to waiting for them to do what they needed to do. He lit up one of Finch’s cigars while he was waiting and coughed noisily on it. Connie guessed that he wasn’t used to smoking.
With the smell of cigar smoke mingling with the hay and chicken smells in her noise, Connie collected some freshly-laid eggs. She watched as Esther took a wire brush and a metal bucket from the far end and used it to scrub at the mesh of the laying areas, glancing back to Connie from time to time.
Connie checked her watch.
Eight minutes to go.
Siegfried seemed unconcerned with what the women were doing, perhaps trusting them not to escape. Maybe he thought things had settled into a workable relationship now. The women would do what they were told as everyone bided their time for this to be over. Connie noticed him absorbed in the ramshackle architecture of the coop, his eyes trailing the large wooden beams that supported the corrugated iron roof. A section of the roof was missing and the ground underneath the opening was sodden with water. Connie couldn’t remember where that piece of metal had gone but it had probably been given to the war effort. One thing was certain; she knew she’d asked Finch to repair it on numerous occasions.
Siegfried coughed as his love-hate relationship with the cigar continued.
Esther scrubbed the wires; waiting, waiting.
Connie collected the eggs, as the minutes ticked down.
Joyce paced by the window in her room, watching the coop through tears in her eyes. She couldn’t concentrate on it and she couldn’t focus on her watch, the face blurred and hard to read. She sniffed and snuffled and tried to clear her eyes. She knew she had to focus but she was finding it so difficult. Time had slowed down; things no longer mattered. And yet they did. She knew that she had to concentrate.
Eight minutes left.
Tick tock.
The breadknife and the parcel were on the eiderdown. Joyce wasn’t thinking about either item. Instead, she struggled not to tumble away as her mind sought to escape from her problems and take refuge in the comforting haze of the past. The present was too dreadful. The past was inviting. John leaving her mother’s house, sandwiches in hand, turning back with a warm smile; the two of them whispering to each other in bed, hoping that Gwen and Charlie, in the next room, wouldn’t overhear; the day that John appeared in a Tiger Moth to sweep her off her feet on her birthday; John returning from France after being shot down; the glorious day when he was demobbed and supposedly safe from danger. And then John had been managing the neighbouring farm and Joyce would sneak over at night so they could sleep together. She loved those stolen nights of companionship and excitement.
The memories tumbled over and over; all the moments, big and small; all the times with John. She could feel herself closing off from the present day.
There were seven minutes to go.
But Joyce didn’t notice anymore.
The parlour looked like a workshop; components and tools were dotted about on the sideboard and the floor; spools of insulated wire rested on the arm rest of the chair. Channing could tell that the men had been busy here. Where was the other one by the way?
He put the thought out of his head and concentrated on the job at hand.
Using his medical scissors, Channing carefully cut open the bandage on Emory’s arm; the smell of stale alcohol and infection wafting up to greet him. The German seemed taciturn but amenable to Channing redressing it, but Channing was aware that his reaction was being scrutinised as he peeled off the old dressing. He was used to this and therefore well-versed in playing a poker face so as not to alarm patients. They always wanted reassurance. No one wanted to see a doctor looking aghast.
The wound looked dreadful. It was badly infected.
This man needed hospital treatment straight away.
Channing thanked his lucky stars that Emory was in this state. It made the lie of telling Joyce and the others that he would take the airmen to hospital all the more believable. Yes, this helped his cover story.
Everything was working out well for him.
So far, his luck was holding out and the plan was panning out. He’d soon be back at Hoxley Manor with his mission completed and these airmen passed over to the people who’d help get them home.
‘What is it like?’ Emory indicated the wound.
‘It’ll be fine.’ Channing looked in his medical bag for lint and tape so he didn’t have to make eye contact. Lying was easier if you didn’t have to look someone in the face.
In the bag, he rummaged the gun out of the way and found the supplies he needed, before shutting the bag. Emory didn’t notice the gun. That would be Channing’s insurance.
‘I have to sterilise the wound and dress it.’ Channing busied himself with a bottle of Iodine and a swab of cotton wool.
Emory braced himself. He chewed his lip as Channing prepared. ‘Where will you take us?’
‘To people who can help you.’
‘How can I trust you?’
Channing had no choice but to look him in the eyes now.
‘I was told about your message. I’m here and I’m helping you.’ Channing’s face didn’t falter from his previous poker expression. ‘Isn’t that enough?’
Emory frowned.
Seemingly it wasn’t.
Channing didn’t care if the German was fully on-side. As long as he could get them away, do what was required, that’s all that mattered. But his thoughts turned back to the issue that had been nagging him since he arrived.
Weren’t there supposed to be two Germans?
Joyce sat on the floor, hunched next to her bed. The patterns on the threadbare carpet shimmered in front of her; the lines moving in and out of focus. The playing cards from last night were scattered over the floor.
It was a similar pack to those that Joyce had back home. It wasn’t the same pack, of course. That had been lost in the fires and the bombing like everything else she’d owned. But it was similar enough to remind her of the times she’d played with John, her mum, Gwen and Charlie; the five of them cosy around the dining table on a Friday night, the wireless playing dance music on the sideboard, bottles of stout dotted around the table, the calming ticking of her mum’s clock on the mantel.
Joyce’s mum, Doris, was cheating, but she blamed it on her poor memory about whose go it was. No one believed her, but no one liked to say anything. It was played for fun; a companionable activity that enabled everyone to relax after a week of work. Back then, in the early days of the war, Joyce had been a hairdresser and John had worked at the Triumph factory. Gwen was a secretary at the same factory and prided herself on having the fastest shorthand speed of any of the girls in the pool. Charlie worked at the factory too, but Joyce was never sure what he actually did. He worked on a different section to John and he never elaborated on what he did.
Joyce could remember this game of cards vividly. She could remember Gwen being all dressed up to the nines in a white and red patterned dress. She’d knocked off early and Joyce had done her hair in the front parlour. She hoped that she and Charlie could go to a party that evening. Charlie preferred to stay at home playing cards. Joyce remembered the tension. Gwen would fidget and check the clock from time to time.
‘It’s not too late.’ Gwen looked hopeful.
‘It is too late. I’m not changing my shirt now.’ Charlie was settled.
‘You said we’d play a couple of hands and then go to the party.’ Gwen was looking daggers at him now. He’d reneged on a promise. Not that he had any memory of making one.
‘I never said that. I said we might go. But frankly I’m worn out and I could do with staying in.’
The evening ended abruptly with Gwen throwing down her cards and storming upstairs. Doris, John and Joyce raised eyebrows to each other. Charlie stayed for another hand, but his heart wasn’t in it. Joyce knew that Charlie would get a rollicking whatever time he went upstairs and he decided to get it over with, following Gwen upstairs. Doris went to check on the cat, leaving Joyce and
John alone.
That night, in their room, John slipped off his braces and prepared to get into his pyjamas. Joyce applied cold cream to her face at the dressing table. They could hear a heated row coming from Gwen and Charlie’s room. Then everything went silent as the argument probably ended, as it always did, with them turning their backs on each other and going to sleep. Outside in the street, Joyce could hear a woman and man laughing as they tumbled back from the pub. Someone down the road yelled at a yapping dog to shut up. Joyce looked at the bedside clock to check the time –
The time!
Oh my god!
There was five minutes to go.
Joyce looked at her watch, dragged away from the comfort of the past. She felt disorientated and confused. What was happening? What should she be doing now? It was so hard to think clearly …
In the coop, Connie’s basket was nearly full with eggs and Esther had cleaned three of the caged areas. Siegfried was rocking from foot to foot, evidently bored of the whole enterprise. He stared at the stub of his cigar, the end still smouldering, as if considering whether to risk another drag on it. Finally, he rubbed it against the wall of the coop, sending red sparks to the ground. Connie knew they wouldn’t have long before he was chivvying them back to the farmhouse.
Four minutes.
They had to stall him a bit longer.
Connie felt her pulse quickening. She had to calm down. With Esther at the far end of the coop, Connie was determined to stay as near the entrance as possible. That way she could run out as soon as Siegfried went to Esther when she faked her collapse. Connie had no choice but to busy herself with collecting the eggs in the area where she was standing.
‘Are you nearly done?’
‘I won’t be long,’ Connie smiled. ‘Here, do you have eggs in Germany?’
‘What?’ Siegfried looked baffled, before realising that she was joking. ‘Of course, we do.’
‘Bet they don’t taste as good as these ones, eh?’
‘I suppose they’re different.’
‘Go on, you can say it.’
‘All right, they’re not as good as these ones.’
