The Silent Christmas

by M J Lee

  groans,

  Singin' balls to your partner, your ass against the wall,

  If ya never been had on a Saturday night,

  Ya never been had at all!

  The undertaker, he was there,

  All wrapped up in a shroud,

  Swingin' from the chandelier and peein' on the crowd...

  This time there were cheers from the Germans. ‘It’s the British sense of humour, Tommy, yes?’

  ‘Aye,’ Harry shouted back, ‘and balls to the Kaiser!’

  ‘And balls to King George,’ came the answer.

  Harry was about to shout again when his arm was grabbed by Captain Lawson.

  ‘That’s enough, Larkin.’

  ‘But sir—’

  Before Harry could continue, another chorus of Silent Night came from the German trenches.

  Soon the Cheshires joined in, led by the QM Sergeant and even including Captain Lawson this time.

  Tom looked up at the clear night sky. The moon was full, shining down on the hard frosted ground between the two trenches. Stars twinkled in the sky as they had done for millennia. Occasionally, a cloud, late for some meeting, scudded across the sky.

  For once, no Very lights lit up the night with their floating luminescence and the thunder and lightning of artillery was missing, away on leave.

  He could hear the words of the carol - German on one side and English on the other - flowing back and forth across no-man’s-land, dodging the wire and the dead bodies.

  Finally, the singing from both sides ended.

  Silence.

  Not a sound from either trench.

  A single voice came from the German side. ‘Merry Christmas, Tommy.’

  Tom cupped his mouth with his hands and shouted back. ‘Merry Christmas, Fritz.’

  Then he lapsed into silence, as did the rest of the men.

  Across no-man’s-land, the German trenches were quiet too.

  It was a silent night, a holy night.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Saturday, December 23, 2017

  Didsbury, Manchester

  Jayne was up early the next morning, messaging Vera immediately to check if her father had spent a comfortable night.

  How is he?

  Whilst she was waiting for the answer, she popped a capsule in the coffee machine.

  In the middle of the night, she had woken up with a start, suddenly aware where she had seen the handwriting on the census form. It was obvious once she thought about it.

  She took the small espresso and opened the patio door to let Mr Smith back in the house, inhaling the fresh air of a bright December morning mixed with the strong aroma of the coffee. The cat wasn’t in his usual place, waiting on the step, so she softly called his name.

  In the light from the kitchen, she could see her small lawn had a dusting of frost on the tips of the grass and the leaves of her roses were jewelled with drops of frozen ice. They reflected the light back at her, like so many diamonds glittering.

  She stood there for a few moments, taking it all in before she heard Mr Smith hustle over the top of the fence, leap across the lawn and dart through her legs into the kitchen.

  ‘Good morning. Enjoyed your night on the tiles, did we? I suppose you’re hungry?’

  A miaow came back from the direction of his bowl.

  ‘Have to be dry cat food again, I’m afraid. Beggars can’t be choosers.’

  She filled up his bowl with his least favourite food and, before she had even stepped back, his head was rammed down, crunching away.

  ‘Obviously you’ve been working up an appetite.’

  She brewed another coffee, inhaling the pleasant aroma. What was it about coffee and mornings? It was as if the two were inseparable for her. Like Laurel and Hardy. Or ham and eggs. Or Holmes and Watson. ‘Coffee and Sinclair,’ she said out loud. ‘It has a certain ring to it.’

  As she sat down at her computer, she realised she was in a strange, almost euphoric mood. Was it a reaction to her father being in hospital? People react in the strangest ways to stress. For her, it made her feel almost light-headed.

  There was an antidote, though.

  Work.

  She switched on the computer, determined to trace more details of David Wright’s family. Could she go further back? In those days, there was less population movement than now. Thomas Wright, the great-grandfather, had probably been born and bred in Stalybridge.

  If she could find his father on the 1881 census, the Lost Cousins site would be able help David to find links to possible relatives he knew nothing about.

  It would be her Christmas gift to him, and to his son in hospital.

  As she started work, the phone buzzed with Vera’s reply.

  Fine. He slept all night. The doctor will look over him again at 8 am.

  That’s great news. I’ll be there at noon to take over.

  Don’t worry, take your time. See you then. Love Vera.

  She was lucky to have such a wonderful stepmother. A woman who made Robert so very happy.

  Please let him get well so they can enjoy their time together as man and wife.

  Jayne wasn’t a religious woman but it was the nearest she had come to a prayer.

  With worries of her father relieved, it was time to knuckle down to some serious research.

  Two hours of solid work later, she had what she wanted. She had traced Thomas Wright through the 1901 and 1891 censuses, discovering that his father, Alfred Wright, also worked as a piecer in a mill.

  Working in the factory was obviously a family affair, with jobs handed from father to son. Thomas was the youngest boy of a family of seven, born in 1886.

  She would show David how to trace his family using Lost Cousins. If he did, he would be able to contact distant relatives – perhaps discover photos, stories or memories that would help him piece together the family history.

  She checked the clock: 8.30 a.m. Time to get ready. She printed out everything she had discovered and put it all in a folder for David, keeping the census form from 1911 on top. That was her most important discovery.

  She threw on a pair of jeans and a jumper, tied her hair back in a ponytail and ran out of the house, grabbing her papers and laptop. Mr Smith, dozing on the windowsill beside the door, didn’t even raise his head as she ran past.

  The traffic was horrendous, of course, it was a couple of days before Christmas. She was fifteen minutes late when she arrived at David Wright’s house near Heaton Park.

  He was waiting for her outside with his son Martin.

  ‘It’s Saturday, not playing football today?’ she asked the boy, stepping out of her BMW.

  ‘Nah, not while school is off.’

  ‘Lucky you.’

  He smiled a lopsided grin.

  She shook David’s hand. ‘I’ve a lot to show you, but first I’d like to see the label you showed me before.’

  Martin reached into the Tesco bag and pulled it out; he had now placed it in a plastic folder.

  Jayne studied it for a few seconds. ‘I thought so.’

  She brought out the printout of the census form for 1911.

  ‘See, the names are the same.’

  David Wright frowned. ‘The census form says Thomas Wright, and this says Tom Wright.’

  Jayne smiled. ‘I didn’t mean that. Look closely, the handwriting is the same.’

  David leant in and so did Martin.

  ‘See the flow of the capital “T”, the scrolling tail of the “R” and the way the “ght” at the end of Wright is all joined together in one flowing movement.’

  David stared back at her. ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘In the 1911 Census people filled in the forms themselves, the enumerator merely checked the details. Luckily, the schedules have survived. This is Tom Wright’s handwriting.’

  ‘So if this is his signature, then the writing on the label must have been written by the same man,’ said Martin.

  ‘Clever lad,’ said Jayne. ‘It also me
ans the label belonged first to your great-grandfather not your grandfather. It’s older than you think.’

  ‘But what does the number mean? And what about the strange green words on the back?’

  ‘That’s what we’re about to find out. Want to come with me, Martin?’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Saturday, December 23, 2017

  Cheetham Hill, Manchester

  Jayne pressed the door-bell and stood back, looking up at the second-floor window.

  ‘Are you sure this is the right place?’ asked David Wright.

  The shop had a hand-painted sign hanging precariously above the door. Herbert Levy & Sons. The door itself was painted a shade of forest green that had obviously once been a job lot from an army paint sale. The walls had a mottled effect, used more often on camouflage pants rather than on brick. In a jungle, the place would have blended in perfectly, but sandwiched between a kosher butchers and a Thai massage parlour, it stood out like a Casanova in a harem.

  Martin shielded his eyes and peered through the wire mesh covering the dusty windows. ‘It doesn’t look like anybody’s home.’

  ‘Oh, he’s here, just taking a few minutes to tidy up before he opens the door.’

  As if by magic, the door swung open as Jayne finished the sentence.

  ‘Inspector Sinclair, what a pleasant surprise. To what do I owe this pleasure?’

  The speaker was an aged man who smelt vaguely of cats. He hadn't shaved for at least two weeks and his face was as creased as an old pair of trousers. Above the sharp blue eyes, two white, hairy caterpillar eyebrows moved independently, neither co-ordinating with the rest of the facial muscles.

  ‘Good morning, Herbert, I hope we didn’t wake you. And remember, I’m not police any more.’

  Herbert was brilliant at what he did, which, for the most part, was selling dubious antiques. He had crossed Jayne’s path more than once in her previous life as a copper when his name had come up as a receiver of stolen goods.

  She brushed past him to enter the shop, followed by David and Martin. All three danced their way through a jumble of assorted uniforms, ammo boxes, trench coats, Victorian postcards, dressers, movie posters, horse brasses, stuffed armchairs, fake Tiffany lamps and African assegais.

  ‘I thought you said he was tidying up,’ said Martin, picking up a dusty Edwardian vase.

  ‘There’s tidying up and then there’s Herbert’s tidying up. Most people do a spot of dusting or cleaning, but his tidying involves hiding away stuff he doesn’t want me to see. Isn’t that true, Herbert?’

  ‘I dunno know what you mean, Inspector Sinclair. I’ve been straight for over five years now. The last stretch in Walton Nick nearly did me in. The money’s in decorative items for young puppies these days.’ The accent was London, not Manchester, with an affected cockney drawl.

  Jayne brushed aside the large frond of an aspidistra standing in front of an old desk.

  ‘I didn’t know you were branching out, Herbert? And it’s yuppies, not puppies.’

  The man squeezed past her to stand behind an old cash register on the desk. Jayne smelt the odour of cats as he went past.

  ‘Business is very good, Inspector. Victorian is very in at the moment.’

  ‘These are cool.’ Martin picked up a pair of split-lens flying goggles and put them on his head.

  ‘French. Second World War, they are. They’d make a wonderful Christmas present. For you, only fifty quid. A bargain, even if I do say so myself.’

  Martin looked at his father, who shook his head slowly. The young boy returned the goggles to their position on top of a set of antique bibles.

  ‘Let me introduce David Wright and his son, Martin.’

  The antique dealer leant over the counter to shake David’s hand. ‘An electrician, I see. Not working over Christmas?’

  David looked shocked. ’How did you—?’

  Herbert tapped the side of his nose. ‘I got the eye. Same as my old dad.’

  Jayne looked at her watch. She wanted to get out to Macclesfield before noon, to see how her father was doing and give Vera a break. ‘I’ve brought David and Martin here because they need your help identifying a few objects.’

  Herbert breathed an audible sigh of relief. ’So it’s a visit for business, not pleasure, Inspector.’

  ‘I told you, I’m not with the police any more. I do genealogical investigations now.’

  ‘Didn’t know you were a doctor too, Mrs Sinclair.’

  Jayne shook her head. ’Genealogical investigations, not gynaecological investigations, Herbert. There is a difference. Anyway, can we move on? Martin, please show Mr Levy the objects you found in the trunk.’

  The old man brushed a grey hair off his forehead. ’Mister Levy, I like that. Has a certain ring to it.’

  Martin reached into the Tesco bag and carefully laid the silver button, the label and the lump of old leather on the dusty counter.

  Herbert’s eyes lit up and he immediately snatched up the button. With the other hand he slipped a loop out of his pocket and fixed it to his eye.

  ‘Haven’t seen one of these for a long time. Not bad condition; brass covered by silver gilt. 35th Landsturm Regiment. World War One, before 1916, I’d say – with a probable date early in the war.’

  ‘This is from the First World War?’ asked Jayne.

  Herbert nodded. ‘German Army. Worth about a hundred quid.’ He looked at David. ‘Easy to get rid of if you wanna sell.’

  ‘It was in the same chest as these things, Herbert. Do you know what they are?’

  The antique dealer picked up the label, turning over both sides and examining the writing under his loop.

  ‘It’s a label.’

  ‘We know that.’

  ‘To be precise, it’s a label that once was attached to a German tree.’

  ‘How do you know it’s German?’ asked Jayne.

  ‘My grandparents came here in the thirties, spoke to me in German, didn’t they? See the words: Weihnachtsfest Baum. Weihnachtsfest means Christmas, and Baum means tree.’

  ‘It’s a Christmas-tree label? Why would my great-grandfather have a German Christmas-tree label?’

  Herbert looked behind him. ‘You ask me, I ask who?’ He turned the label over to show Tom Wright’s name in his florid handwriting, the number 12725 and an address in Stalybridge. At the side, and in a different hand from the rest of the writing, were the numbers 3-2.

  ‘Well, that makes it obvious.’

  ‘What makes what obvious, Herbert?’ asked Jayne.

  ‘This here Tom Wright – ‘e was in the army.’

  ‘My great-granddad was in the German Army?’ asked David.

  ‘No,’ said Herbert, ‘that’s a British Army number. An early one too, I think.’

  ‘What about the 3-2?’

  Herbert shrugged his shoulders. ‘Beats me. I never seen extra numbers like that beside a soldier’s army number.’

  ‘So let’s get this right. The badge is German?’

  ‘Definitely. The 35th Regiment.’

  ‘The label is German?’

  ‘I think so. The words are German.’

  ‘But it’s got the name, address and number of a British soldier – David’s great-grandfather – on it? It doesn’t make sense.’

  Herbert shrugged his shoulders again. ‘That’s life, Inspector.’

  ‘You’re a great help. What about the leather object?’

  The antique dealer picked it up and examined it closely. ‘Well, it’s old, hand-sewn by the look of it. None of that machine crap. See, the stitching is slightly irregular. The leather has seen better days, but with a bit of TLC, it could be brought back to life.‘ He peered through the lacing into the interior. ‘That’s interesting, never seen anything like that before.’

  ‘What is it?’

  Before he could answer, a young man wearing a black bomber jacket and Dr. Martens bustled into the shop carrying a parcel under his arm.

  ‘Not now, Gerald. I
‘ave a customer.’

  Gerald looked up, surprised. ‘But I’ve got the stuff you—’

  Before he could finish his sentence, Herbert cut him off. ‘Not now! I’ve got a customer. Inspector Sinclair.’

  Gerald took one look at Jayne, his mouth opened and he exited the shop as quickly as he had entered.

  ‘You up to your old tricks, Herbert?’

  The old man held his hands wide open. ‘Me, Inspector? Not on your life. Gerald is my assistant. ‘Elps me with the ‘ouse clearances, he does. Now, looking at this object...’ he said, changing the subject quickly. ‘I don’t know what it is, but I ‘ave a friend who might. Charlie Robinson. Got a good eye, has Charlie.’

  ‘When can you let him see it?’

  ‘I’m at an auction wiv him at noon, so I could call you back this afternoon wiv a result.’

  Jayne looked across at David, who nodded.

  ‘Okay, Herbert, we’ll leave it with you. But don’t let me down. Otherwise a phone call to Duncan Worsley at Cheetham Hill Nick might be needed. I presume you have receipts for all this?’ Jayne pointed to all the bric-a-brac cluttering the shop.

  ‘Don’t be like that, Mrs Sinclair. I won’t let you down. And I’m an honest businessman now. Straight as the proverbial dagger, me.’

  Jayne frowned. ‘You’d better be, Herbert, otherwise you’ll be straight back in the proverbial nick.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Friday, December 25th, 1914 – Christmas Day

  Wulverghem, Belgium

  Tom Wright woke up stiff, sore and cold. He had managed to find himself a corner in the dugout where he sat on some straw and leant against the hard wooden pillow of a prop. He pulled his coat around his neck and stomped his feet on the ground to try to force some life into them.

  The slime and mud at the bottom of the trench had frozen solid after the hard frost last night. Bert was already in position, sitting on an orange crate with his hands over the brazier, the coals giving off a bright orange glow.

  ‘Don’t you ever sleep, Bert?’ Tom’s words came out as a white mist, like the breath of a dragon.

  ‘Can’t see the point. Plenty of time to sleep when we go back to the billets.’