Kitabı oku: «Christmas on the Home Front»

To Annie, a grandmother who loved books and who taught me the power of stories.

Prologue

It was one day before Christmas. And Joyce Fisher wondered whether she would live to see it.

This winter-bleak thought wasn’t borne of fatigue from living through so many years of war. It wasn’t even the result of having lost so much along the way. No, Joyce knew, totally rationally, that today was one of those days that can change a life forever; a crossroads in which taking the wrong path could cost everything. She wished with all her heart that it wasn’t the case, that there was some rosy alternative, another path to take. But she couldn’t see any way out of it.

She hadn’t planned for 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 for the best.

Joyce’s hands were bunched into fists, her fingernails impressing bleached crescents into her fleshy palms. She had never felt this scared, this nervous or this numb. The torrent of emotions overwhelmed her making every thought struggle for air like a swimmer lost in the currents. It was hard to think straight. And yet that’s what she had to do. All the energy had drained from her body; her legs moving slowly, heavy and disconnected. She’d been through enough to know that she was in shock and that more tears would come later. When this was over she could give in to grief. For now, whatever defence mechanisms and natural survival instinct she still possessed had kicked in.

Joyce was a capable, resourceful young woman, and at twenty-four, she was one of the older Land Girls at Pasture Farm. Not as opinionated as Connie Carter and not as naïve as Iris Dawson, Joyce kept everyone on an even keel, offering the gentle, understated guidance of a big sister for the other girls. She enjoyed the farm work. She enjoyed doing her bit for the war effort. In fact, Joyce was motivated to an almost unhealthy degree by the need to do her bit. She believed every bit of allied propaganda, every edict from the War Office about how civilians should be behaving, what they should be doing.

Dig for Victory? Yes, of course.

Don’t waste water? Naturally.

Loose lips sink ships. Not Joyce. You could count on her discretion.

Joyce never questioned what she was doing, never questioned her orders like her friend Nancy Morrell had. Joyce needed the order and rigidity of service to hold onto like a lifeline. It made sense of everything that had happened in her life, everything that they were going through individually and as a nation. She’d lost her mother and sister in the bombing of Coventry and the war effort gave her a purpose; a chance to bring something positive out of those events.

She was in her bedroom at Pasture Farm where she had been billeted since she had joined the Women’s Land Army. She paced the familiar small room with its mismatched carpet and curtains and faint smell of mould; a room in which she had observed every detail during long evenings after work. The peeling skirting board, the thinning threads on the main drag of the carpet, the patch of damp in the corner above the window (a constant reminder that Farmer Finch, the landlord of the house, had failed to keep his promise to fix the guttering) and the creaky floorboard by the door. In the drawer was an article from the Daily Mail about the train crash that had happened a few months ago. Joyce kept it because although it naturally focussed on her friend Connie’s heroism, there was also a quote in there from her. It was a small claim to fame; some recognition of the part she’d played. She’d imagined showing her kids one day, if she had any.

Sometimes the room was full of laughter as the girls got ready for nights out; doing each other’s hair, trying on each other’s frocks, borrowing each other’s makeup. But it had been an unhappy room too, the sadness hanging in the air during the long days when John had gone temporarily missing in occupied France and she had been waiting for news. But all those times seemed so long ago now. Joyce heard herself give a small dismissive snort for those days that had gone. What did they matter now?

She glanced down at the neatly-made bed. On the floral-patterned eiderdown were two items: a small parcel with her name and address on the front, and Esther’s breadknife.

Ignoring the parcel, Joyce reached towards the knife and picked it up, feeling its familiar weight in her palm. Esther had always warned the girls that the knife was sharper than a breadknife had a right to be, and Connie Carter had ignored that warning and cut her finger with it on at least three occasions. Esther had berated Finch for sharpening it up. But today, Joyce was glad of it.

Joyce could hear her own heavy breathing and was aware she was taking too much air into her lungs. Her vision started to swim with floating stars.

Could she really do this?

Then Joyce glanced at the parcel with its unfamiliar handwriting. Who had sent her this? It wasn’t from anyone she knew. What did it matter now? Parcels didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now. She already knew what she had to do.

Why was she hesitating?

Come on, they were waiting. They might be dead already if she didn’t go now. Come on!

Joyce knew the terrible truth. Gripping the knife she had smuggled upstairs and hidden under her pillow, she knew she didn’t have the strength. She’d been through so much these last few days. She wanted to curl up under that eiderdown and let sleep wash over her.

But she had to act, didn’t she? Of course, she did.

Time was running out.

She knew that everything was about to change.

And yet, she couldn’t find the energy, the sheer motivation to continue.

Decisions.

She couldn’t hear any voices downstairs. Where were they? What were they doing?

Her left hand tensed, feeling the handle of the breadknife, unyielding and warm with her perspiration.

She thought about Finch, Esther, Connie and all that had happened. A world ripped apart, the war finally landing on the bucolic doorstep of Pasture Farm. Nothing would ever be the same again. She yearned for the time before, the time, years before when the war was only starting, and it hadn’t blighted her life. A time when making different decisions may have led her somewhere, anywhere, other than this bedroom at the farm, on this day. Every crossroad had led her here, and every day had brought her nearer to this inevitable and dreadful decision.

Had she taken the wrong turning?

Joyce found it impossible to carry on.

She dropped the knife to the floor. It clattered on the bare boards near the door. She didn’t care if they’d heard it. She couldn’t go on. She couldn’t be a part of what was about to happen. Her resilience had finally gone beyond threadbare to empty. She had nothing left, and no way of finding the strength to carry on.

She’d stopped at the crossroads.

But then something made her look back towards the bed, towards the package. Joyce picked up the parcel and tore it open.

When she saw the contents, nestled in the ripped brown paper, Joyce stopped in her tracks. How could this be? It must be a hallucination. It made no sense. Her fatigued mind fumbled to make sense of this impossible package. The contents changed everything; snapping her out of her stupor; providing new impetus and purpose.

Some days change your life forever. And Joyce Fisher knew that today would be one of those days.

With new determination, she picked up the knife.

Chapter 1

It was eight days before Christmas.

The smell of burning coal and hot oil assailed Joyce Fisher’s nostrils as she moved from the ticket office to the platform of Helmstead station. She brought a handkerchief from her pocket to cover her nose, to breathe through it and protect herself until she got used to it. A large steam engine was waiting, its carriages filling with an impossible number of passengers and their luggage; the hubbub of excited conversation of people going away. Joyce was wearing a long-skirted yellow dress with a delicate flower print, and had a cardigan pulled around her shoulders. She was regretting her decision not to bring a coat since the warm December morning had suddenly turned to a typically wintery December afternoon, even though the sun was high in the clear light-blue sky. She scanned the platform, looking at the sea of faces, for her beloved husband, John. The station was unusually busy, but not unexpectedly so. These lucky people were on leave for Christmas and they were heading off to visit family and friends. Churchill would cite the importance of the celebrations in his speeches, knowing how important they were for morale. A few days with loved ones while you tried to forget about the sacrifices and unpleasantness of war could do wonders and people would return to their duties with renewed vigour. For some of them they would have to be back to work before Christmas – so their families would move the celebration to suit. For a war that had been going on for so long, any such respite was important. Joyce hoped that she would be able to spend this Christmas – Christmas, 1944 – with John, but she knew he had to go to his brother, Teddy, in Leeds who had fallen from scaffolding the week before. Teddy wasn’t married so in his encumbered state he was relying on the generosity of neighbours to provide him with meals and do his washing. He’d apparently slept on his sofa downstairs since the fall, and clearly he couldn’t rely on his neighbours’ kindness forever, so John had agreed to go to him for a few days until he was, literally, back on his feet. Joyce hoped that Teddy’s ankle would heal quickly.

The train horn momentarily blotted out the chatter of people saying their goodbyes to their loved ones.

She caught sight of John making his way towards her from the end of the platform. He’d been to check the train times to see when he’d get to Leeds and he looked smart and dashing in his best suit, the buttons on his coat gleaming, his shirt collar immaculately pressed, a kit bag from his service days slung over his shoulder.

‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

‘Just give him my regards, won’t you?’ Joyce replied. ‘And get him to lay off the drink until he’s up and about.’

‘That’s easier said than done. As if he needs an excuse to drown his sorrows,’ John said, hoisting his kit bag up further onto his shoulder.

They both knew that Teddy liked a pint or two and neither John nor Joyce doubted that alcohol may have played a part in Teddy’s fall. The fact that the accident had happened soon after lunch only added to that suspicion. Still, accusations wouldn’t help the situation now. Joyce knew it was best for them to knuckle down and do what needed doing. The sooner John got there, the sooner he could get back.

As she stood with him, she noticed a red paper lantern hanging in the guard room window behind him. It was the sole concession that the station had made to Christmas, but at least some small effort had been made.

Joyce thought how Finch, at Pasture Farm, was planning to mark the occasion. He’d asked his daughter-in-law, Bea Finch, to bring his grandson with her so they could stay for Christmas at the farm. But she’d told him that she was settled in her new life in Leicester, so she’d invited Finch to come to them. After a moment of disappointment, Finch realised the benefits of this arrangement. He was cock-a-hoop at the prospect of spending time with them both before Christmas and then returning for a celebration with the girls at Pasture Farm. It was the best of both worlds for him. Two Christmas celebrations.

‘Try to be back for Christmas dinner, eh?’ Joyce straightened John’s tie. ‘If Finch can manage it, you can too.’

‘I hope to. Depends on Teddy. But I’ll write to let you know what’s happening. When I see him, I’ll know what the score is.’ John opened the door of the train carriage. The guard pressed his whistle against his lips and blew a warning that the train was about to leave.

Since he’d left the RAF, Joyce felt comfort that John was now working as a farm manager on a neighbouring farm. After worrying about each and every flying mission he went on, she could at least get a good night’s sleep knowing that he was sleeping safely in a similar room under two miles away. Joyce tried to put her feelings into perspective. Any separation they had to endure now was hard, but not as traumatic as when he’d been in the forces and flying who knows where.

She hoped in her heart that any real danger to him had passed. It seemed inconceivable now that the nights of insomnia and days spent with an inability to eat were over. Once, every waking moment had been taken with fearful anxiety about John’s safety while he was navigating for the RAF. Now the most she had to worry about was whether she could get away with staying overnight at Shallow Brook Farm without being caught by her Women’s Land Army warden, Esther Reeves. Esther was more lenient than some wardens she had heard about, but she still drew a line about Joyce spending weeknights with John. She wanted Joyce at Pasture Farm, ready to work, not gallivanting off with her husband. Fridays and Saturdays were different, with Joyce allowed to stay over at Shallow Brook Farm on both those nights. But if she wanted to sleep in his arms in the week, she had to risk being caught creeping out of Pasture Farm at night and returning at first light. Joyce enjoyed that manageable level of danger though. She knew that even if she was caught, it was unlikely that Esther would give her an official warning for her behaviour. The worst outcome would be a firm telling-off followed by unimpressed scowls for a week or so as Esther made her point. But whatever the outcome, Joyce knew it was easier simply to not get caught.

John pulled down the carriage window so he could crane his neck out to give Joyce one last kiss. She hooked her arms around his neck and pushed her lips softly against his.

‘You take care, you hear?’ Joyce tried to stop herself welling up.

‘You too!’ He smiled back.

The train remained stationary for a moment. Joyce and John looked at one another, with a moment of amused awkwardness, as they waited for the train to leave.

‘It’s never like this in the pictures, is it? The train always goes straight away after they’ve kissed, doesn’t it?’ Joyce was enjoying a few extra seconds with her husband.

‘Or sometimes it goes as they’re kissing, and they have to stop halfway through. Lovers torn apart and all that.’

The small delay, the shared joke, had helped. Joyce felt herself relax. It was all going to be alright. John would chivvy Teddy to a speedy recovery and then they’d share Christmas dinner together back at the farm in a few days.

‘See you very soon!’

‘You’re seeing me now. Given the time this takes to go, I’ll probably still be here next week!’ John replied. As if John’s comment had been overheard by the driver, the train started to edge forward.

The guard blasted a final volley on his whistle to warn people to stand back and the train belched out smoke as it crawled out of the station. Joyce watched the other women running alongside, waving goodbye. But she remained still, waving from where she stood. She was struck by a sense of déjà vu, remembering the other times John had left on the train from this station; usually with a brow furrowed with worry and a kit bag full of his RAF uniform and home-made cake for the journey.

Joyce watched as the train receded into the distance, aware of the other people drifting away around her like ghosts disappearing from view. She pulled her cardigan around her shoulders and braced herself for the walk back to the farm.

A starling swooped down low in front of her as she ambled along the country lane, a light drizzle adding to the already wet ground and making the leaves of the evergreen hedgerow glisten. Lost in her thoughts about the impending Christmas celebrations, Joyce walked the well-remembered route without really thinking where she was going. She’d done it so many times, it was automatic. She could recite it with her eyes shut: the walk across the road from the station; the town square, the vicarage, the little bridge by the newspaper office leading to the fields beyond. It had been nearly forty minutes since Joyce had seen him off at Helmstead train station and she assumed he’d be well into his journey by now.

The blue sky was fading to grey as evening fell. She rounded a corner and trudged across a muddy path to the stile that would lead her to the back of Pasture Farm. She remembered when she had first made this journey, burdened with suitcases and a complaining Nancy Morrell. What had happened to Nancy? She’d been her first roommate in the Women’s Land Army; a cantankerous sometimes entitled young woman who didn’t enjoy getting her hands dirty. She’d even tried to get Joyce to carry her suitcase from the station. Flaming cheek! Joyce had flatly refused. She smiled to herself at the memory. It seemed like a lifetime ago now. She had seen so many things in her time here, found solace in her new family of Esther, Finch, and the other girls. She had seen great, life-affirming times of friendship. Even through the bad times the resilience of her friends, her surrogate sisters, had helped her pull through, finding her inner strength to face whatever problems came her way.

The grey sky continued to half-heartedly drop its drizzle. Joyce thought the chances of snow this Christmas would be slim. There had been freezing fog in the lead up and some of that still hung around, but there wouldn’t be snow. That would be fine. John would have more chance of getting back in time if there wasn’t any snow on the tracks.

Joyce reached the back door of the farmhouse. She could hear muffled voices from within along with the sound of the radio. She sloughed off her muddy boots on the step like a snake shedding its skin and opened the door to the kitchen, enjoying the warm air as it greeted her.

‘Did he get off all right?’ Esther asked, her hands in the sink, washing some carrots. The stalks and leaves were spilling over the edge of the basin, leaving trails of muddy dirt on the top of the counter.

‘Yes, that’s him gone.’ Joyce sat at the table, pulling off her sock to deal with a small stone that had got lodged inside her boot.

‘Don’t you worry, I’m sure as soon as he’s spent a couple of days with his brother, he’ll be back on that train,’ Esther remarked. ‘And we’ve still got eight days until Christmas day.’

Eight days.

‘Better put the sprouts on to cook soon then.’ Joyce was making the best of the situation and finding her humour. Esther threw a tea towel at her in mock outrage.

‘Flaming cheek!’ Esther let the rebuke land and then added, ‘I’ll have you know they went on last week.’ The women giggled, good-naturedly.

The sky was a bruised purple colour as night fell outside the window, the colour refracted and warped into hallucinogenic patterns via the large raindrops on the pane.

Shortly, Esther and Joyce put on their coats and boots and left the warmth of the kitchen to walk into the village. As they crossed the bridge into Helmstead, Joyce could see the lights of the village hall. The small rectangular building with its corrugated iron roof seemed designed to be too hot in summer and too cold in winter.

‘Is Martin already here?’ Joyce asked as they approached.

‘No, I don’t know where he’s gone,’ Esther replied. ‘He went off mooning after Iris. He’s wasting his time with that one. Thinks he might start courting her. He’s got his hopes up because they’ll be at Shallow Brook Farm together.’

‘While John’s away?’

‘Yes, Martin and Iris are going to take up the slack until he’s back.’

‘Ah it’s going to be quiet at the farm without them both,’ Joyce had reached the door to the village hall where Connie Carter was talking to two American soldiers. From the men’s postures – one holding the door frame, the other primping his hair – Joyce could see they were flirting with her. She could also tell from Connie’s posture that she was having none of it.

‘Why can’t we come to the party?’ One of the soldiers drawled, to the amusement of his friend.

‘I never said you couldn’t come.’ Connie spotted Joyce and Esther and shot them a smile of sufferance. ‘And you boys are welcome to come along, providing you’re both over sixty.’

‘Sixty?’ The American looked bemused.

‘Yes, it’s a party – a meal – for the old folk.’

‘I don’t think I’m that old.’ The soldier smiled before changing tack. ‘But how about I take you out for our own party?’

‘Yeah, sounds good. I’ll just ask my husband,’ Connie grinned. Knowing when they were beaten, the Americans shrugged and walked away. Connie turned to the watching Joyce and Esther.

‘Can’t blame them for trying, can you?’ Connie raised an eyebrow archly, ‘You coming inside then?’

Esther nodded.

‘We thought you could do with some help.’ Joyce unfastened her coat.

‘Henry could, that’s for sure.’

Inside, they found her husband, the Reverend Henry Jameson. The good-looking and earnest young man was struggling to move a trestle table. ‘Where have you been, Connie?’

‘Some people wanted to know if they could come along.’ Connie raised her eyebrow slightly in Joyce’s direction. It was technically true, Joyce supposed. ‘But I don’t think they were quite old enough yet.’

Connie turned her attention to sticking up a piece of bunting that had drooped. Joyce grabbed the other end of the trestle table and they lifted it together. Esther and Connie started to put out chairs. Each year, Lady Hoxley would donate money to a fund run by the church to organise a Christmas meal for the old people of Helmstead. Local business people and good Samaritans would contribute beer, wine and food; a lot of it grown on the fields and houses around Helmstead. A lot of people in the village, from Mrs Gulliver and the other busybodies to the local butcher would pitch in to arrange the meal. Finch had promised them a bag of spuds to help them along.

And the meal wasn’t the only attraction for the old folk in the village. There would be songs at the piano and maybe a little dancing. Sometimes the event happened on Christmas Day itself, but this year it was happening earlier. The lunch was organised by Henry Jameson for anyone who wanted to spend the day with the community. With so many loved ones away overseas, Christmas could be a lonely and sad experience, so this event distracted everyone from their problems for a day. And Henry liked to think he’d gain a few new parishioners at the Sunday Service as a result too.

As Esther, Connie and Joyce helped Henry set up the hall, their conversation turned to who would be at Pasture Farm for Christmas.

‘Connie and I hope to have the day together – after I’ve finished my service and my visits to parishioners.’ Henry placed a beer mat under a wobbly table leg.

‘That means he’ll be home at five in the evening and I’ll have been on my tod all day.’ Connie rolled her eyes to her husband’s amusement.

‘So what about Dolores?’

‘Oh, she’s got nowhere to go, so she’ll be there,’ Esther replied. About twelve years older than the other girls, Dolores O’Malley kept herself to herself. Joyce remembered Connie playing a game over the summer, to try to find out details – any details – about Dolores’s life. Connie would try every trick she knew to get Dolores to divulge even the smallest detail. What colour did she like? What was her home like? Was she courting anyone? But as skilful as Connie was in digging, Dolores proved equally adept at deflecting. She was as closed as a clam in deep water. Joyce felt that Dolores deserved her privacy.

‘At least I don’t think she’s got anywhere to go,’ Esther mused. ‘You never know with that one.’

‘And that’s the point, innit? We’ll never know.’ Connie laughed.

Joyce stood on a chair to put some more bunting up. The streamers had been cut and assembled from strips of old magazines, giving the bunting a colourful and varied effect.

‘And of course, Martin and Iris will be back with us for the big day,’ Esther volunteered, spooling the bunting up to Joyce. ‘Fred will be back by then too.’

‘We’ll have a good time.’

‘Will we?’ Esther pulled a sceptical face.

‘Yes,’ Joyce grinned. ‘Especially if we persuade Fred to open his carrot whisky.’

‘Joyce Fisher! I never had you down as being naughty.’

‘It’s living with him what’s done it!’

A distant rumble distracted her. It wasn’t thunder. Joyce’s laughter died in her throat as she noticed a flash in the sky which illuminated the glass of the window pane, making the rain drops glisten like pearls for a brief moment. There was another flash and a distant bang, further away. If there wasn’t a war on, Joyce would have marvelled that they might have been shooting stars or some strange firework show.

Esther, Connie and Joyce peered through the window their hands cupped over their eyes to help them see outside. In the sky, a small grey shape moved quickly across the horizon, with two other similarly-sized shapes following. A flash went off to the right of the first object. It was the last stages of a dog fight. Joyce squinted to try to work out whether it was an allied or German plane being chased. The first plane banked round, and Joyce glimpsed the markings. A yellow band around the rear fuselage and a black cross told her all she needed to know. It was a German bomber and it was being gained on by two Spitfires. One of the allied planes reeled off machine gun fire.

Henry came over to watch and they all peered intently, trying to glimpse the action.

Joyce instinctively ducked down slightly from the window. Esther put a comforting hand on her shoulder. The truth was that they were far enough away to be out of danger. The bullets wouldn’t reach the village hall from that distance. But a basic innate need for survival meant that they shied away nonetheless.

Joyce craned her head. At the corner of the window frame, the second Spitfire looped round, cutting off the escape path of the German bomber. The Spitfire fired its guns and there was a flash of fire on the wing of the bomber. It banked sharply away, an erratic movement that told Joyce it wasn’t an evasive manoeuvre but a sign it was out of control. Sure enough the bomber spiralled down and away, with the awful whining sound that signified an imminent crash. Joyce could just about make out a plume of black smoke from the rear of the plane. Fire was gripping the rear section. It disappeared behind some trees several miles away. The Spitfires pursued it over the canopy to check they had completed their task. After a few moments, a smoky mushroom of fire billowed up from behind the trees. Esther looked solemnly at what she had seen.

‘There’s one for our boys.’ But there was no hint of celebration in Esther’s voice. They knew it could have so easily been a loss to the allied side. They both knew that death wasn’t anything to celebrate. Instead this was a grim tallying up of a minor victory in a war that was dragging on above the skies of Helmstead. Another mother would be getting a telegram.