Christmas Fireside Stories

by Diane Allen, Rita Bradshaw, Margaret Dickinson, Annie Murray, Pam Weaver

  She and the twins had spent the afternoon making the front room look quite festive. Hung with newspaper paper chains, it was decorated with holly and ivy from the woods, and they’d put Epsom salts onto the fir cones. Spread thickly enough, it dried to look like snow. Anita put a plate of cobnuts, collected in September and left to ripen, next to her mother’s armchair, and the home-made sweets she’d made, from the extra ration of sugar the government had allowed them for the holiday, in the centre of the table. The big treat they had lined up for tomorrow was some cream, standing in a jug on the floor of the pantry to keep cool. They would have it with the pudding.

  In the run-up to Christmas, Anita had made her little sister, Christine, a nurse’s uniform and her mother had managed to buy a toy Spitfire plane for Christopher. It wasn’t much, but the country was fighting for its life and the children understood that their mother and big sister were doing the best they could. As for her mother’s present, Anita had saved money from her wage packet to buy wool and a pattern and had spent every moment she could knitting a jumper. It had been a bit of a rush towards the end and she’d had to use some old buttons for the opening at the back, but she’d finally finished it on 21st December. Safe in the knowledge that her mother didn’t know anything about it, she’d wrapped the jumper in Christmas paper lovingly taken off and ironed from the year before and the year before that.

  Doris came back downstairs. ‘Phew,’ she smiled, ‘that was a bit of a marathon. They both wanted long stories. I let them have one each tonight . . . well, it’s Christmas.’

  ‘Sit down, Mum. I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

  ‘No,’ said Doris. ‘Tell you what. You’ve been so helpful and the room looks lovely. Let’s start our Christmas a bit early. Get two glasses, Nita, and we’ll have some of my home-made ginger wine.’

  Anita reached into the cupboard and got down two of the imitation crystal glasses inherited from Grandma and opened the bottle. She poured the rich dark wine into the glasses and sat opposite her mother. ‘Here’s to our Paul and to absent friends,’ said Doris, raising her glass. ‘God bless them and give us all a happy Christmas.’

  ‘And here’s to the end of the war.’ Anita raised her glass and sipped. The ginger burned her throat, but it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling.

  ‘So when are you back on duty?’ her mother asked as they relaxed.

  ‘Not until Wednesday,’ Anita smiled. ‘That’s the one advantage of having Christmas day on a Saturday.’ She loved her job at Worthing police station, where she worked behind the desk. She spent most of her day typing and making tea, and even though it wasn’t a reserved occupation, she felt as if she were doing her bit for the country. Her mother was in a good mood so she took the plunge. ‘Mum, there’s a policeman’s ball on New Year’s Eve. Can I go? It’s in the Assembly Rooms.’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ said her mother. ‘You’ll be with Freda, won’t you?’

  And without thinking Anita blurted out, ‘Well, she wouldn’t be able to go now, would she?’

  Doris looked startled. ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  Anita blushed a deep crimson. ‘Oh, Mum, I shouldn’t have said that. You won’t tell anyone, will you?’

  Doris sat up. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Freda is in trouble.’

  ‘What sort of trouble . . .’ The words died on her lips as the penny dropped. ‘You mean . . . ?’

  ‘She’s having a baby,’ Anita nodded. ‘She’s gone to stay with her aunty in Bristol. I was supposed to keep it secret. Oh, Mum, don’t say anything, please.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Doris. ‘Was it that singer in the band?’

  Anita nodded.

  Her mother sighed. ‘Poor, silly girl.’

  The driver was hunched over the steering wheel. The storm had come quickly, and now that it was dark, visibility was practically nil. There were no street lights, and because of the blackout he couldn’t see any house lights either. Everywhere was so damned dark. The shaded headlights on the front of the truck were no better than candles. The rain was coming down like knives and the wind was so gusty that every now and then he struggled to keep the vehicle on the road. Stuffed full of fish paste sandwiches and English tea, his passengers dozed in the back of the truck. In the interests of fostering good relations with the locals, they had just finished performing an afternoon tea dance at some village hall way out in the sticks. Surprisingly, the place had been packed and the band, although hastily put together, sounded quite good. As usual, Woody, the singer, had had every female heart from sixteen to sixty racing.

  When he’d signed up for C Company Royal 22nd Regiment in his home town of Alberta, Clarence had thought he’d be fighting in Europe. He hadn’t banked on being posted to a small village called Goring-by-Sea on the outskirts of Worthing, but it wasn’t so bad. In between laying barbed wire on the beaches and doing manoeuvres in the woods, the company kept the locals amused in more ways than one. There was talk of an Allied offensive, but he had a feeling it would be next year before that got under way. The war wasn’t going well.

  A deer suddenly sprang across the road. Clarence slammed on the brakes almost immediately, but still came within a whisker of hitting the animal. The deer leapt through a gap in the hedge on the opposite side of the road and was quickly followed by another and then another.

  As he’d braked he heard a couple of thumps in the back of the truck as his passengers fell off the wooden seat. Seconds later, a sleepy voice said, ‘Hey. What are you doing, man?’

  ‘Wildlife on the move,’ said Clarence, blowing out his cheeks with relief.

  Woody stuck his head through the tarpaulin curtain which divided the back of the truck from the cab and yawned. ‘How much further?’

  ‘Four miles,’ Clarence shrugged, ‘maybe five.’

  Just ahead of him, Clarence could dimly make out the shape of a man with some sort of sack on his back, coming out of the woods.

  ‘Poacher,’ Clarence muttered.

  The guy glanced at the truck and began to run. At the same time a bicycle was coming up the lane towards them. The rider had his head bowed over the handlebars as he struggled to make headway in the wind and driving rain.

  ‘Poor sod,’ Clarence said. ‘This is no night to be bike riding.’

  He shifted the gear and prepared to move off but as he put his foot on the accelerator, something moved at the corner of his eye. ‘Holy shit!’ He had hardly got the words out of his mouth before a huge tree hit the road in front of them, earth from its roots peppering the windscreen.

  A split second later, Clarence was out of the cab. The only sounds were the howl of the wind and the hiss of hot water escaping from the radiator fractured by a branch as the tree fell. The other guys clambered out of the back of the truck.

  Clarence peered into the gloom. ‘Hey buddy. You OK?’

  ‘Who are you yelling at?’ Woody asked.

  ‘There was a guy with a sack right in front of the tree, and some other guy on a bike,’ said Clarence. There was no sign of either of them now and Clarence felt sick. If the men were under the trunk they’d be the width of a dollar bill. To his immense relief, the cyclist stood up and brushed himself down. Clarence could see now that he was just a kid, maybe sixteen or seventeen.

  ‘You all right, kid?’

  John nodded. ‘It came down right in front of me,’ he said with an unmistakable tremor in his voice. ‘If it had been a second later, I’d have been killed.’

  ‘You and me both,’ said Clarence sagely.

  All at once, the man with the sack appeared, and before John could gather his wits, the man had grabbed his bike. John was pushed to the ground, but he wasn’t going to let the bike go that easily. ‘Oi!’ He made a grab at the man’s leg as he turned the bike around. ‘Get off it.’

  They wrestled for a second or two before the man managed to shake him off. By now John was on his feet, but he wasn’t quite quick enough. The man had already mounted t
he bike. John made a last grab for him and pulled open the sack on the man’s back. A chicken’s head appeared. John wasn’t sure which of them was the more startled, the chicken or himself, but the bird managed to make a noisy dash for freedom as the bicycle thief took the opportunity to ride off.

  John put his hands on his head as he watched the bike disappearing into the gloom. The chicken had sauntered towards the woods, where it began to scratch the earth for food. Whipping off his coat, John threw it over the bird before it could make another getaway.

  By now the men from the truck had climbed over the fallen trunk and were standing beside him. ‘Can you believe the nerve of that guy?’ Clarence asked.

  John knew as soon as Clarence opened his mouth that they were Canadian soldiers. Miserably, he picked up his coat and the chicken. He was in big trouble. That bike was GPO property.

  ‘I’m getting wet and it’s damned cold,’ Woody said. ‘Where the hell are we?’

  ‘Titnore Lane,’ said John. His shirt was soaked and he could feel the rain trickling down his back. He remembered the telegram in his top pocket and hoped it wasn’t damaged. The chicken clucked miserably and John shivered and sneezed.

  Clarence laid his hand on the tree trunk. ‘It’s going to take quite a few men to move this thing off the road,’ he said. ‘Any houses around here?’

  ‘Keeper’s Cottage,’ said John. ‘I was on my way there myself. It’s not far.’

  ‘Do they have a telephone?’ asked Woody.

  John shook his head. ‘You’d have to go to the station for that.’ He pointed in the direction from which he’d come. ‘It’s the other side of the crossroads. You can’t miss it.’

  After a brief conversation, the men decided to walk there for help. Clarence looked anxiously at John. ‘How far is this Keeper’s Cottage?’

  ‘About a hundred yards,’ said John, sneezing again.

  ‘We gotta get you outta this rain,’ said Clarence.

  So the men parted, four of them heading towards the station with their instruments while Clarence and Woody let John, with the chicken under his arm, lead the way to Keeper’s Cottage.

  The knock on the door came as a surprise. Being separated from the rest of the village by several acres of farmland, Anita and her mother didn’t get many visitors.

  ‘Excuse me, Ma’am,’ Clarence began as the door opened, ‘we could do with some help.’

  ‘Come in, come in,’ cried Doris.

  Woody pushed his way inside and Anita caught her breath. She recognized him at once. What was he doing here? She heard someone stumble by the door and turned. ‘Johnny!’ She grabbed his arm. ‘You’re soaked to the skin.’

  The chicken under his arm clucked helplessly.

  ‘We caught someone trying to steal one of your hens,’ said John hoarsely.

  ‘We’d better put it back with the others,’ said Anita, grabbing her coat from the nail on the door and reaching for her wellingtons.

  ‘I hope he hasn’t let them all out,’ Doris wailed as they left. ‘They’re good layers.’

  The chickens were roosting in the henhouse and a quick count revealed that all were present and correct. ‘It’s not ours,’ said Anita, relieved. ‘He must have pinched it from the farm.’

  ‘We can’t put it in with the others,’ said John. ‘Strange chicken in the coop: the others will peck it to death. Have you got anywhere else it could go?’

  In the end, they put it under the covered run Doris used to rear her pullets. John weighted the run down with some logs so that any passing fox couldn’t tip it up, and Anita pulled a piece of tarpaulin over one end to give the chicken some shelter. ‘That’ll have to do for tonight,’ she said. ‘We’ll take it back in the morning.’

  Back in the house, Clarence was helping Doris in the kitchen where she was making them tea. Woody was sprawled across the armchair, his back against one arm and his feet dangling over the side of the other. He had made short work of Anita’s home-made sweets and was busy cracking nuts. Anita glared at him angrily.

  ‘What?’ he challenged. ‘I’m hungry.’

  She didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. She knew she wouldn’t be civil.

  ‘Oh, my dear,’ said Doris, looking at John. ‘You’re like a drowned rat.’

  Anita took John to the scullery and gave him hot water, soap and towels. Doris found some of Paul’s things, some underwear and a jumper. John protested loudly that he couldn’t possibly wear them, but they took his wet things to dry in front of the fire while he got cleaned up, so he had no choice. It was awful putting Paul’s things on. What would they say when he gave them the telegram? Anita would hate him forever.

  When he came back, Clarence was sitting at the table. Anita and Doris were upstairs settling the twins down.

  ‘Wanna nut?’ said Woody, his mouth full of bits. ‘They’re quite nice.’

  Clarence looked up. ‘Don’t eat them all.’

  ‘Why not?’ laughed Woody. ‘It’s Christmas.’

  ‘And that’s probably all they have,’ John remarked sourly.

  ‘They’ve got plenty more stashed away somewhere,’ Woody insisted. ‘My mom kept everything hidden until Christmas Day.’

  Anita had entered the room. She didn’t say anything but John’s heart sank as he saw Woody flashing her a disarming smile. What chance did he have against someone like him? He was handsome, manly and so sure of himself. ‘Hope you don’t mind,’ Woody said, indicating the almost empty bowl of nuts, ‘but we ain’t had no dinner.’

  Anita sat down, still staring at him. ‘I could make you a sandwich.’

  ‘God, no. No more sandwiches,’ said Woody. ‘Been eating the damned things all afternoon.’

  ‘We’ve been to a tea dance,’ said Clarence by way of explanation.

  ‘I know you,’ said Woody, looking at Anita. ‘You were at the Assembly Rooms with that girl with the curly hair. What was she called?’ Woody clicked his fingers as he tried to remember her name.

  ‘Freda,’ said Anita.

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. Whatever happened to her? She was a nice kid.’

  Doris came into the room. ‘Let’s hope they stay settled now. I’m worn out.’

  ‘We oughta get going,’ said Clarence quickly. ‘Thanks for the tea, Ma’am.’

  ‘Don’t rush away on my account,’ said Doris. ‘Wait until the rain eases off a bit. Nita, get some of your lovely Christmas cake.’

  Woody gave John an ‘I told you so’ look and threw the nutcrackers on top of the empty shells. Anita got the cake and cut everyone a slice.

  John smiled as she gave him a plate. ‘This looks really good.’

  Woody held his plate up to the light. ‘Is this supposed to be a fruit cake?’

  Anita bristled with anger.

  ‘It’s hard to get hold of fruit,’ said Doris quickly. ‘Everything is rationed.’

  ‘You never did tell me about Freda,’ said Woody, his mouth full of cake. ‘We had some good times.’

  ‘And you ruined her life,’ said Anita coldly.

  John choked on his cake and Woody sat up straight. ‘Now wait a minute . . .’

  ‘No, you wait a minute,’ said Anita coldly. ‘You told her you would get married.’

  ‘Nita,’ said Doris. ‘Woody is our guest.’

  ‘He may be yours, Mum,’ Anita countered, ‘but he’s certainly not mine.’

  John held his breath. She was magnificent.

  ‘I think . . .’ Clarence began awkwardly.

  ‘Listen, honey,’ Woody snapped, ‘it was just a bit of fun. It don’t mean a thing.’

  ‘It did to Freda.’

  Woody shrugged. ‘How was I to know she was taking it serious?’

  ‘Well, she did,’ said Anita. ‘You’re a disgrace to your uniform.’

  Woody leapt to his feet and would have pushed his face into Anita’s had not John jumped between them. Clarence was on his feet as well.

  ‘Oh, please,’ cried Doris, throwing her hands
into the air. ‘Stop it, all of you. Don’t do this. It’s Christmas Eve.’

  ‘You know how it is,’ said Woody sitting down. ‘A few drinks, some nice dance music and a little moonlight . . . it must have gone to her head.’

  ‘And now she’s having your baby.’

  The words hung in the room like icicles waiting to fall. Looking at the anguish on Anita’s face, all John wanted to do was hold her. Poor Freda. He’d had no idea.

  Woody gasped. ‘A baby!’

  ‘You could still put it right,’ said Anita jumping up and going to the mantelpiece. She took down a letter. ‘I’ve got her address here. You could write to her. Tell her you’ll marry her and then she won’t have to give the baby up.’

  Clarence groaned and put his head in his hands.

  Woody’s lip curled. ‘How do you know it’s mine?’ John made a disgusted sound and Woody spun round. ‘It’s a reasonable question. The girl was easy.’

  And that’s when John punched him.

  Woody staggered but he didn’t return the punch. He held his nose. ‘What are you, stupid or somethin’? That hurt.’

  Clarence positioned himself between them. ‘I’m sorry, Ma’am,’ he said to Doris. ‘I think we’d better go.’

  ‘I think you had,’ said Doris haughtily.

  Woody took his hand away from his face. ‘Look at me. I’m bleeding,’ he whimpered. ‘Oh God, has he spoiled my face? Get me a mirror. What does it look like?’