Christmas on the Home Front
ROLAND MOORE

One More Chapter

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Copyright © Roland Moore 2019

Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Roland Moore asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008204457

Ebook Edition © November 2019 ISBN: 9780008204426

Version: 2019-09-12

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

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.

Joyce continued to put up the celebratory bunting; an action that seemed darkly poignant now. But for now, she didn’t think any more about the German plane or what had happened to it.

Twin paths of blackened, smoking grass etched their way into a copse of trees on the edge of Frensham Fields. And there, its nose smashed into an ancient oak tree was the German plane, one of its engines whirring in a death throe of aviation fuel and smoke. The fuselage was already sparking with fire and the fuel caught alight suddenly, sending a dense cloud exploding into the sky like some nightmarish purple and black peony. The men in the cockpit were frantically trying to escape. One of them smashed open the canopy, sending it cascading down the side of the plane. He was up and out, falling over the side onto the singed heather beneath. His partner quickly followed, but being nearer the fuselage, he found his arm engulfed in burning fuel.

The man screamed and fell hard onto the ground. The first man was on his feet, scrambling to his aid, rolling the burning man over and over until the flames subsided. Then he pulled the man away from the wreckage, getting only twenty feet away before he collapsed on his back from the effort.

‘Kapitän?’ The younger man had concern etched on his face, terror in his eyes. His name was Siegfried Weber. He was twenty-two and although this has been his third mission, he had never been to England before.

The older man winced and clutched his right arm. His name was Emory Mayer. He was forty and this had been his eighteenth mission. He had worked as a tailor in England for two years in the 1920s and if sartorial thoughts were foremost in his mind right now, he’d have registered the state of his uniform, which was partially burnt away around the arm, the skin underneath blackened. Siegfried couldn’t tell whether it was from the burn or from dirt from the fuel. He didn’t want to rub it to find out. Instead, he lifted his captain as best as he could and shuffled them both even further away from the plane. It was burning brightly, and Siegfried knew it would be a beacon for anyone trying to find survivors. They had to get away.

Siegfried hoisted Emory’s good arm over his shoulder and walked them across the scrubland, inching slowly away. Every now and then he would risk a look behind him, hoping that the wreckage would be a small dot on the horizon. But the progress was such that he stopped looking behind him, knowing that the continued proximity of the plane would sap his morale and rob him of the impetus to keep going.

The plane exploded in a final, epic fireball, plumes of black smoke reaching fleetingly into the sky before disappearing forever. Siegfried risked a look back, feeling a burst of heat on his face. And then the fire was gone, the hulking remains continuing to spew black smoke into a black sky. He hoped that the explosion had signified the end of the plane acting like a beacon for the enemy.

In the distance, Siegfried could hear dogs barking. They sounded close, but he had no idea how close. How could the search have been coordinated so quickly? Siegfried tried to calm his nerves, taking deep breaths as he hauled his captain along. No, the searchers were probably a long way away and the sound of the dogs had carried in the wind.

Siegfried knew that he couldn’t be certain of any of that. He knew that his life was hanging by a thread. He had to find shelter soon; a place to give medical treatment to his captain. They had to find somewhere safe.

Joyce Fisher stood on the front step of the village hall, staring up at the sky. She thought she’d heard an explosion in the distance, far off in Frensham Fields. But it could have been soldiers on night manoeuvres. Esther came out to join her and they looked out into the night sky together. A chill wind was blowing gently, carrying a faint rainfall and Joyce felt her face getting slightly damp. It was oddly refreshing and she didn’t immediately think about going back inside. Sometimes it was good to feel nature and enjoy a light rain against your face.

‘We should be getting back to the farm,’ Esther commented.

‘I know,’ Joyce replied. She and Dolores would have to be awake by six and out working by half-past. Late nights weren’t something you could keep doing when you were a land girl, not unless you wanted to fall asleep on your shovel.

By the time they got back to Pasture Farm it was nearly ten o’clock. Joyce locked the back door. The light flickered slightly.

‘Probably the rain,’ Esther commented. ‘I keep telling Fred that the junction box gets submerged when there’s too much water.’

Joyce turned out the light and she and Esther trudged up the stairs to the bedrooms. Joyce could hear Dolores murmuring in her sleep and she wished Esther a hushed goodnight and went into her own room.

‘See you in the morning,’ Joyce whispered.

‘I wish it was really the morning. It’s still the middle of the night when we get up, isn’t it?’ Esther replied. They shared a smile as Joyce closed the door behind her.

She dropped her dress to the floor and carefully folded it over the back of the chair. Walking to the window, Joyce closed the curtains. Outside she could hear the plaintive cries of a fox somewhere in Gorley Wood. She got her washbag and sat on the bed, waiting for the sounds of Esther in the bathroom to fall silent before she ventured out to see if it was free.

Joyce stared at the dressing table. A dog-eared photograph of John was propped next to her rollers and hairbrush. Seeing his face warmed her heart and made her smile. She hoped he was resting and taking it easy and not having too many chores to do for Teddy. But more than that she hoped he would be back soon; back on the train.

She hoped he’d be back in time for Christmas.

Chapter 2

Seven days to Christmas.

It was chilly in the fields with a winter frost covering the ploughed soil as Joyce, Connie, and Iris trudged out to repair a fallen fence; the earth cracking under their feet like frozen chocolate on ice cream. They competed to see who could produce the biggest bloom of cloudy air from their lungs until they all felt dizzy and had to stop. Iris wanted to find out who had the widest stride and started taking huge steps on her way to the field. Connie tried too. Joyce thought this was unfair as her legs were shorter than both the other women, but they joked and cajoled her into having a go.

‘Well, make sure you’re watching!’

‘Go on, Joyce. See if you can beat Iris’s record.’

‘Yes, I managed to get all the way from that furrow to this one.’

‘It was never that far.’ Joyce suspected they were trying to put her off by fibbing. This was psychological warfare. ‘You’d have to be on stilts to do that.’

‘Excuse me. My legs are exactly like stilts.’

‘Hush now, I’ve got to focus.’

Joyce concentrated as the other women watched expectantly. She lifted one foot and pushed it forward as far as it would go before planting it on the ground. At the last minute she realised she’d overstretched, and while Connie and Iris had managed to do the manoeuvre elegantly, Joyce lost her balance and fell over. Connie helped her to her feet, and they walked the remaining distance across the field giggling at the ridiculous competitions they invented. It was a way to pass the time; a way to have fun in these difficult times.

Reaching the fence, they started to sort the planks of wood and posts on the ground into a rough approximation of the fence they planned to build. Joyce counted out nails as Connie idly swung the mallet round like a gunslinger from a western.

‘Here, do you think I could test your reflexes with this, Iris?’

‘Not flaming likely. You’d break my leg.’

Iris and Connie dissolved into a fit of giggles.

‘Will you two stop mucking about? I want to finish this job before Christmas day.’ Joyce was grinning too as she placed the nails into different pockets ready for the assembly.

They had lived through five wartime Christmases and it was getting hard to remember the ones before. Or at least it was getting hard to remember them without them being painted as halcyon days when everything was perfect. But there was no denying that those pre-war Christmases had plenty of food and presents; they were times you didn’t have to scrimp and save your rations for the big day; when turkeys and chickens hung in the butchers’ windows and you could take your pick; times when you could put on a pair of stockings without having to think about faking them with an eyebrow pencil to draw the seams.

Each Christmas since had seemed to present more challenges. As people became adept at scouring the shops for sought-after rations, basic goods for Christmas became harder to source. You really did have to be an early bird. This year, like the ones before that she’d spent on the farm, Joyce had put aside some of the sixteen shillings she was paid by Finch since September. This nest egg, together with money from the other girls, could enable them to buy a decent ox heart or some beef cheek from the butchers – plus other food and drink for the Christmas period. But it wasn’t always easy to save.

‘Sorry I haven’t put any into the pot for a few weeks,’ Joyce looked apologetically to the others. ‘Finch said there’s been a delay in getting the wages from the government.’

‘Ah there’s always a delay.’ Iris shook her head. ‘But we’re all in the same boat. Finch pays some of us one week, and the others the next. He’s always catching up with himself.’

‘I think he’s betting it on the horses.’ Connie offered a devilish smile. They laughed, but in reality they knew that the one thing Finch would never be dishonest about was their wages. He valued what they did on the farm and was happy that it didn’t personally cost him anything to have them doing it.

They worked in silence for a few minutes, concentrating on excavating the holes for the fence posts. It was hard to dig down into the frosted soil; the clay underneath was solid and unyielding.

‘Oh, I had a look for some dried fruit,’ Joyce said, apropos of nothing. ‘For the Christmas cake. We’ve got enough sugar put by for the icing, but there will be no point doing it without fruit in the middle.’

‘If there’s none around, my mum cuts up apple and puts in a few raisins.’ Iris mimed the act of cutting an apple, just in case they didn’t understand what she was saying.

‘Where did we get it from last year?’ Connie asked.

‘Finch got it from Birmingham. Mind you, he had to wait forty minutes in the queue for it. Do you not remember all the swearing when he got back? Very festive!’

Connie laughed, shaking her head. ‘I don’t listen half the time.’ She lodged a fence prop into the first hole.

‘Very wise.’ Iris held the base of the prop. ‘Some of those words were an education.’

‘So can we send him over to Birmingham this year?’

‘There’s no way he’ll do it.’ Joyce hammered in the post as Iris and Connie kicked in earth around the base. ‘Is that vertical? It doesn’t look very vertical.’

‘Yes! It’s vertical.’ Connie squinted at the post. ‘It looks wonky because your head’s at an angle!’

Joyce smiled and straightened her neck and assessed her handiwork with a fresh perspective. The post stood proud and upright in the hole. She watched as the other women finished tamping the earth down around it.

‘Maybe there will be dried fruit in the village?’ Iris ventured; her open and childlike face full of hope.

‘No, Mrs Gulliver and all those harpies will have snatched it all by now.’ Connie frowned. ‘Face facts, one of us will have to go to Birmingham at the weekend.’

‘Sounds like you’re not volunteering?’ Joyce smiled.

‘You’re correct. I don’t mind drawing lots though. Loser spends all day waiting in the queue.’

‘Deal.’ That sounded a good arrangement to Iris.

Joyce considered for a moment and nodded. ‘Go on then.’

Connie scoured the ground for some twigs and found three of a similar size. She broke one of them, so it was shorter and bunched the three in her closed hand for the others to pick.

‘Whoever gets the short one has to go.’

‘Who goes first?’ Iris asked.

‘Shall I do it?’ Joyce volunteered.

‘Go on, Joycie, be lucky!’ Connie proffered her hand with the sticks clenched in her fist. ‘Or don’t! Actually don’t be lucky at all. I don’t want to be lumbered!’

Joyce took a deep breath and pulled out a twig. To her relief, it wasn’t the short one.

‘Thank goodness for that.’ She jumped up and down and taunted Connie and Iris with her twig.

‘Look at her! It’s like she’s won a flaming Oscar!’

‘Just you and me then, Connie.’ Iris’s face was taut with concentration.

‘You and me, Iris.’ Connie moved her closed hand towards the youngest Land Girl. Iris mumbled to herself as she looked at both the twigs. For her part, Joyce had no idea which was the shortest but she was just glad she was out of the running.

Iris cautiously plucked a twig from Connie’s hand.

It was the short one.

Connie laughed and Iris’s face fell in mock anger. Joyce suspected that Iris didn’t really mind the prospect of a trip to Birmingham. It would be a chance to look in the shops. She could queue for the dried fruit and then perhaps stop for a cup of tea and a cake in Butler’s Tea Rooms near the station off Stephenson Street.

Butler’s Tea Rooms.

Joyce hadn’t thought of that place in years.

Why had it popped back into her head now?

She’d only been there once herself back in November 1940, before she joined the Women’s Land Army. And although the tea and cake had been lovely, that visit had turned out to be an unhappy experience. She thought back to that time. It had been the day before she discovered that her home in Coventry had been destroyed in the blitz of the city. So by rights, that afternoon in the tea room should have been the last time she’d been truly happy; unburdened by the effects of the war, unburdened by loss. But something else had happened in the tea room that had marred even that final sunny day.

She’d been away in Birmingham with John. Ostensibly it had been a business trip as John was scheduled to see a motorbike parts manufacturer for a discussion about supplying the Triumph factory where John worked in Coventry. But John and Joyce had used the opportunity to turn it into a mini-honeymoon – after all, they’d not managed to get away after their wedding. They’d stayed in a small hotel and John had gone to his meeting leaving Joyce alone. She’d looked at the wallpaper with its busy design of roses and vines, flicked through the bible on the bedside table and, bored of waiting, had decided she needed some air. Butler’s Tea Rooms had been visible from her window and she’d seen a steady procession of well-dressed people amble inside for afternoon tea. Joyce decided to put on her best clothes and join them. Why shouldn’t she live a little?

When she arrived at the tea rooms, Joyce was dressed in her smart dress – an eggshell blue frock with a white collar and a white belt blooming out to a full skirt. She sat at a table for four, her handbag occupying the seat next to her. She imagined she was a toff as she surveyed the smart and impressive establishment with its central atrium where a grand piano stood on the black and white tiled floor. Tables were arranged all around with a selection of large potted plants to add a splash of colour. For some reason the lower section was closed, so Joyce was seated on a table on the balcony that overlooked the atrium. All around her, other patrons sat around tables, chatting and smoking. On the plate in front of her was a business card for Butler’s Tea Rooms. Joyce put it into her purse as a memento. And while a proper toff wouldn’t have done that, Joyce didn’t care. Then she perused the menu and ordered tea and a sponge cake. The elderly waiter explained in a low voice that would have conveyed the reverence of a funeral parlour that the cake was made with dried egg and honey due to rationing. Joyce had assumed that would be the case and said she didn’t mind.

Joyce smiled at some people who were crammed in around a table nearby. She indicated the three free chairs at her own table, wondering if they would like to spread themselves out, but they were too busy chatting to notice her gesture. To her surprise, when Joyce turned back to her menu, a woman was already sitting down with her. The woman was catching her breath as if she had run from somewhere and had seemingly appeared out of thin air. She was a similar age to Joyce but stick-thin and glamorous despite her shorter hair and lack of makeup. She wore a simple black suit with trousers. On her shoulders sat a fur wrap, making her ensemble a curious mix of business and evening attire. Joyce noticed the worn cuffs on the woman’s jacket and wondered if the woman was down on her luck.

‘Hope you don’t mind.’ The woman had an accent that was hard to place. Was that a faint Manchester twang? ‘Say if you mind and I’ll move. But they didn’t have any other tables, see?’

‘I don’t mind.’ The truth was that Joyce would enjoy having someone sit with her. It would save her having to keep reading the menu to pass the time. ‘I’m Joyce Fisher.’

‘I know.’ The woman stared straight into Joyce’s eyes.

Joyce felt her mouth fall open in total shock.

‘How could you—?’

‘No, I’m joking,’ the woman laughed. ‘I’m always doing that. You should have seen your face!’

‘Yes, well,’ Joyce replied grumpily. She didn’t enjoy practical jokes. She remembered when her brother-in-law, Charlie, had excitedly claimed that John had won a prize in the Mayor’s raffle and made him get dressed up for a non-existent prize-giving ceremony. John had found it funny, but Joyce hadn’t appreciated it.

‘I’m Alice Ashley.’ The woman extended a black-gloved hand across the table.

‘I know,’ Joyce countered half-heartedly, feeling slight irritation at this woman’s manner. Hopes of passing the time with someone’s company she might enjoy were diminishing.

Alice smiled back, amused at Joyce’s comment and seemingly not noticing any weariness in her new companion’s voice. Alice promptly collared the passing waiter and ordered a pot of tea.

‘Why were you running?’

Alice looked perplexed for a moment as if she’d forgotten how she had arrived. ‘Oh, it was raining.’

‘Was it?’ Joyce hadn’t seen any rain on the windows and there had been no sign of drizzle on Alice’s shoulders or hair. She contemplated picking up the menu again and shutting out her irritating guest.

‘Sorry if I annoyed you.’ Alice had obviously picked up on Joyce’s mood. ‘I’m always annoying people. I think I’ll say something funny and it normally backfires on me. Sorry!’

‘That’s alright. I suppose we all need a laugh, don’t we?’

‘Yes, we do!’ Alice grinned, lines appearing at the corners of her mouth. Their tea arrived and the waiter arranged the pots and cups and saucers for them. He nodded and glided off to another table. The chatter in the room provided a reassuring and convivial ambience, but it made Joyce acutely aware of her own lack of conversation.

‘So, what do you do, Alice?’ Joyce poured them both a cup of tea.

‘I work on a production line. Hence the gloves.’

She pulled one of her long black velvet gloves off to reveal a set of stubby fingers adorned with sticking plasters and small cuts. ‘I move around a lot, but at the moment I’m here in Birmingham. They move me where I’m needed. What about you, Joyce Fisher?’

Joyce did her best to hide her annoyance. She never liked it when people used full names when they didn’t have to. It reminded her of being back at school.

‘I work in a salon,’ Joyce lied. She wasn’t sure why she said it. Perhaps it was to make it sound grander than it was, when the reality was she did the hair of friends and neighbours in her mother’s front room. Perhaps she felt a little embarrassed that Alice was doing proper war work and she wasn’t.

‘You never do!’ Alice exclaimed.

Was she accusing her of lying or was she surprised?

‘Yes, I do.’ Joyce felt a little uncomfortable. Alice must have sensed that she had crossed the line again and endeavoured to put things right.

‘Oh sorry, I wasn’t saying you didn’t. I just – well, I’m in need of a hairdresser.’

Joyce glanced up at the woman’s hair and decided that what it needed was to be given a thorough wash. Black strands hung limply down from where they had escaped a carelessly affixed hairband.

‘Well, if I had my things I could help you, but they’re back in Coventry.’

‘Coventry?’ A frown crossed the woman’s face.

‘Yes, have you been?’

‘No. It’s just—’ Alice seemed distracted, troubled even. And then it seemed she didn’t want to talk at all. ‘Sorry, I should be getting back to work.’

‘Oh right, yes, of course.’

Alice stood up and downed the rest of the tea in her cup. She pulled her fur wrap close around her shoulders.

‘It was nice to meet you Joyce Fisher.’ Alice offered her gloved hand for a shake. Joyce obliged, rising slightly out of politeness.

‘And you, Alice Ashley,’ Joyce sat back down again and watched the thin woman snake her way around the tables towards the exit. What a curious woman.

It was only when Alice had gone that Joyce realised she hadn’t left any money for her tea. The cheek of the woman! Had it been intentional? Some older businessmen, with shirt buttons straining because of too many expensive dinners inside them, were making their way into the café. Joyce realised that the establishment was gearing up for the evening crowd. She’d better go to meet John and find out how the meeting had gone.

Joyce called the waiter over.

‘Can I pay please?’

The waiter nodded and totted up the total for two pots of tea and a slice of cake. Joyce pulled her handbag across onto her lap and opened it.

Her purse was missing.

Joyce felt her heart sink.

‘Penny for them?’

Joyce was aware of Connie waving a work-gloved hand in front of her face. They were huddled around another new fence post and Joyce had been working without engaging in what she was doing; her mind firmly back in 1940. She batted Connie’s hand away.

‘Oh, I was just thinking back.’

‘You don’t want to do any thinking.’ Connie looked horrified. ‘Henry says I should read more books to make me think more. But I can’t lose myself in a book like he can. I joked that we’d have to pulp all his books for the war effort.’

‘I was remembering when I last went to Birmingham.’

‘That’s alright then. That sort of thinking’s allowed.’

‘The next day I went back to Coventry and saw what had happened.’ Joyce looked lost in her memories.

Connie touched her friend’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry. It can’t get any easier thinking about that, can it?’

‘Not really, no.’

‘We should raise a glass to your mum and your sister, eh? At Christmas lunch. The least we can do.’

‘That would be nice. Thank you.’ Joyce still couldn’t believe that her family had been wiped out in such a devastating way.

The women worked in silence for a bit. By lunchtime, half of the fence had been done and they trudged back to the farm for a sandwich and some hot soup.

The car hadn’t moved in years. Three of the tyres were missing and the fourth was flat; its rubber caressing the contours of the woodland track underneath. Bindweed grew around the chassis, poking through the radiator grill like insistent green fingers. And even though one of the back doors was missing and the seats were mouldy with fungus, the car had provided somewhere for Emory Mayer and Siegfried Weber to snatch a few hours of sleep in relative shelter. The woodland around them was similarly overgrown and Siegfried doubted that anyone came out here often. He’d still slept lightly, half-listening for any sounds; the call of foxes in the night startling him at several points. Emory had been on the back seat, covered with a filthy blanket that they’d found in the boot of the car. From the seats in the front, Siegfried couldn’t see if his captain had slept, but whether he had or not, Emory had stayed still for several hours. Similarly, Siegfried had tried to conserve his energy. His teeth had chattered throughout the night and he’d prayed for the sun to come up quickly.

Now it was seven in the morning and daylight was beginning to push back the winter darkness. Siegfried sat still in the driver’s seat of the car, his circulation coming back to his cold fingers. Idly, he wished that he could drive the vehicle all the way back to Germany. He thought of the work he’d done early in the war; the blissful safety of the dairy farm in his hometown of Coswig on the bank of the Elbe. All he had to worry about then were the sores on his hands from the milking equipment and the barking voice of the farmer who would talk about meeting quotas at any opportunity. Such easy times!

Siegfried imagined that the fields beyond the woods would suit dairy farming. The terrain didn’t look too different from Coswig and it was easy to imagine himself at home. Oh, how he wished he was at home.

Emory stirred in the back of the car, his mouth moving as if he was eating food. Siegfried glanced back as his captain’s bleary eyes focussed and a look of resigned disappointment spread on his face; as if he’d forgotten where he had gone to sleep the night before. He winced at the discomfort in his right arm as reality came rushing back.

‘Anything to report?’ His voice was croaky and dry.

‘I haven’t seen a soul,’ Siegfried shrugged. Now that he knew Emory wasn’t sleeping, Siegfried allowed himself to stretch in his seat to ease the soreness in his back. He took the canvas bag from the passenger seat and removed a small metal canister. Unscrewing the top, he offered it to his commander to take the first drink. Emory took it and glugged down a big swig of water. He handed it back and Siegfried did the same.

‘We need food,’ Emory stated. ‘And we need to find some clothes that don’t stand out like our uniforms.’

Siegfried nodded. They were wearing their standard issue Luftwaffe uniforms. It was one of the first priorities to ditch such uniforms if a flyer found himself behind enemy lines.

Soon the men had got out of the car and were stretching their legs in the frosty early morning sun. Competing birdsong from the trees filled their ears. Siegfried took a pocket compass from his bag and passed it to Emory.

‘Seems to be a rural area,’ Siegfried offered.

‘Less chance of them finding us. We should move mainly at night. We need to send a message. Get help.’

‘Who will help us here?’

Siegfried found the notion that the British would help them absurd. Surely any British person would want to imprison or harm them?

‘There are networks. People who sympathise with us.’ Emory’s attention was taken by a plume of smoke in the distance. A cottage, perhaps a mile away, was burning a fire.

‘Isn’t it too risky?’ Siegfried followed his commander’s gaze.

‘We don’t have an option. We’ll steal what we can and get away. Ready?’

Siegfried nodded and the two men set off across the field, the most direct route to the small cottage. Siegfried felt conspicuous in his uniform, but Emory was striding forward across the ploughed ground seemingly without such concerns.

Soon they had reached the perimeter of hawthorn hedge that surrounded the cottage. Within the perimeter, the grass was overgrown, and machinery parts were sprawled about. The cottage itself was a single storey building with a thatched roof and two windows and a green door that needed repainting. Emory and Siegfried crouched behind the hedge, watching for signs of movement.

The door opened and a burly, bald-headed man in a cable-knit sweater appeared. Siegfried didn’t fancy their chances against him in a fair fight. But then he saw that Emory was gripping his service-issue knife. It wouldn’t be a fair fight. Siegfried got his knife out too and gripped it tightly. The man from the cottage stood still for a moment, a plate of potato peelings in his hand. Had he spotted them? Then he arched his back and belched before moving across the garden. When he reached the end, he tipped the peelings into a compost heap and went back inside.

‘What do you think?’ Siegfried whispered.

‘He would have clothes.’

They both knew it was risky to venture inside. What if the man was not alone? And even if he was alone and they overpowered him, Siegfried knew that the alarm would be raised, and people would be on their trail. No, they had to be careful and not leave a trail of destruction. Not unless they had no other option.

‘He’s growing something near the compost bin.’ Emory pointed to where potatoes and cauliflower were growing. ‘That would keep us going until we find something better.’

Siegfried nodded. He liked the idea of stealing a cauliflower more than the idea of facing that man in a fight. Emory indicated for Siegfried to move forwards. There was no gate, so Siegfried moved into the garden, keeping low and near to the house so that he couldn’t be seen from the windows. Emory was keeping look out. Siegfried reached the edge of the cottage. There was no choice now. He had to go across about ten feet of open garden to reach the vegetable patch. Taking a deep breath and clutching his dagger, Siegfried ran in a crouch across the area. He reached the patch, not daring to look back. He scanned the food on offer and pulled up a cauliflower. Tucking it under his arm, he ran back to the comparative safety of the side of the cottage. He waited a moment, listening for any movement. When he was satisfied that no one was going to burst out of the door, Siegfried ran back to the perimeter opening. He ran through and Emory joined him in a sprint away from the cottage. When they reached the abandoned car, both men were out of breath and giddy with the excitement of their small victory.

Siegfried tossed the cauliflower to his commander, who used his knife to break it apart. They ate hungrily, crunching down the raw vegetable. Siegfried suspected he would get indigestion, but it was better than being hungry.

When they had finished, the men got back into the old car. They would wait until dusk before venturing out again. Siegfried gripped the knife and allowed a light sleep to take him. He could feel the cauliflower settling uneasily in his stomach. But it didn’t matter. He knew they would both feel better for their meal. The men took turns to nap and keep watch. Siegfried was soon bored of looking at the cramped confines of the car and felt that he knew each inch of the dashboard and steering wheel; each rip on the musty leather seats. But eventually after the longest day in his life, dusk began to fall.

And when it did, Siegfried became aware of a tiny squeaking sound in the distance. It was too rhythmic to be a mouse. No, it was a bicycle. He roused the dozing Emory and they listened together. Someone was nearing the end of the lane. Quietly, Siegfried got out of the car. Emory followed, gripping his knife. The unseen rider’s foot slipped off the pedal and Siegfried heard them spin without resistance. A moment later the rider had control of the bicycle again – and was getting closer and closer. There was no avoiding the inevitable confrontation. Siegfried picked up a small branch. It might be a better weapon to use at a distance.

And they waited.

A few minutes later a dark-haired woman with pale skin and deep brown eyes cycled into view. She was dressed in a crimson coat and had a magazine tucked under one arm. Abruptly, she stopped cycling when she saw the two men waiting.

A look of fear crossed the face of Connie Carter.

Chapter 3

Six days to Christmas.

When Joyce woke she was aware that it was later than it should be. The sun was higher than she expected, and the sky was a vibrant slate-blue colour that signified it was far beyond dawn. Usually when she awoke, it was as if the sky hadn’t been coloured in for the day. There was no denying that she had overslept and, disorientated, she fumbled for her wristwatch from the bedside table and squinted to make out the time.

Nine o’clock.

Why hadn’t Esther woken her?

Joyce swung her legs out of bed and padded over to the window. Pulling back the curtains, she could see the morning sun dappling the south field. The tractor stood parked in the distance, its rotavator blades raised skyward as if in silent prayer. There was no one working in the fields and an eerie quietness all around.

Joyce pulled her sweater over her head, walked out the room and made her way downstairs.

‘Esther?’ She shouted.

No answer.

Joyce reached the kitchen. It was silent and empty. A solitary plate sat on the farmhouse table with a single piece of buttered toast. The toast had a single bite mark. Next to it was a mug of tea, half-finished. Joyce ran her fingers against the mug and found it was still warm. Whoever had left it hadn’t left it long ago.

‘Esther?’ Joyce asked the question more quietly this time, a sense of foreboding in her bones. There was something odd about this.

She reached the back door and opened it. The chill of the morning air wrapped round her bare legs and she pulled her nightie down as low as it would go. She slid her feet into her boots that were still on the step from last night.

‘Martin?’ Joyce called across the yard, as she squished her right boot up and down to bring it up at the back as she walked. The yard buildings stood silent, their stable doors open at the top, impenetrable black rectangles that refused to reveal their secrets even to the rising sun.

‘Come on now!’ Joyce shouted, turning round in the yard, looking for any sign of movement. ‘Where is everyone?’

But there was no answer.

Joyce walked along the outside of the stables. She was always unnerved by their dark interiors and resolutely refused to look at them as she passed. She reached the entrance to the farm. The old tin postbox had some letters sticking out of it. The postman had been. And no one had collected it. That was odd.

Joyce took the small bundle of letters. One for Finch. A bill. One for Esther. And one for herself. She placed the other two letters in the crook of her arm and tore open the letter addressed to her. She knew the writing. It was John. He must have sent it nearly as soon as he’d arrived in Leeds. How romantic! For the first time since she had woken up, she felt a smile returning to her face. She scanned the contents of the letter quickly. She would reread it at her leisure later, but for now she wanted to get the gist of it. Feel his words and hear his voice.

John wrote that he was already missing her. He said that he’d arrived in Leeds to find Teddy’s house in a dreadful state. The plates and pots were unwashed and Teddy himself had been wearing the same clothes for longer than was decent. John gave allowances for Teddy’s injury – he couldn’t blame his brother for not being able to do those things – but it was a blessing that he’d arrived when he had so that he could sort things out for him. John recited a litany of the odd jobs he’d done since arriving and Joyce’s eyes scanned the list, aiming to reread it later.

She was reading the rest of the letter, when a chicken burst out from behind the end stable, squawking loudly with a hysteria that spooked Joyce. She dropped the letters and fell backwards against the gate, catching her right wrist on the latch. She felt a stab of pain in her arm and noticed a cut to her wrist. Soon a rivulet of blood snaked its way down to her elbow.

‘Damn and blast,’ Joyce muttered. She scooped up the letters and raised her injured arm and ran as fast as she could back to the farmhouse.

Inside the farm kitchen, Joyce let cold water run over the cut. Despite the amount of blood, it wasn’t a deep cut and the water soon ran clear as the wound clotted. Joyce bound her wrist with the makeshift bandage of a tea towel and looked under the sink for Esther’s first aid supplies.

Twenty-three minutes later, Joyce carefully picked up the hot kettle from the stove with her bandaged hand and poured the water into a tea pot. She was dressed in her Women’s Land Army uniform of trousers, shirt and jumper, her boots laced securely on her feet. She stirred the pot, thinking about the mystery of the deserted farm. It had never been so silent in all the time she had been working here. The small farmhouse was normally alive with chatter and the odd argument, the sounds of Esther berating Finch for his slovenly behaviour. Where was Finch? Esther? Connie? Dolores? Frank?

Of course – Frank!

Joyce remembered that Frank Tucker, Finch’s erstwhile game keeper, would be found only one and a half miles away at Shallow Brook Farm next door. The plan had been for him to take over with Iris and Martin while John was away.

Her brewing tea forgotten, Joyce got to her feet, marched across the yard, out the gate and made her way to Shallow Brook Farm.

When she got there, she was out of breath and the cold air was catching on the back of her throat.

‘Frank?’ Joyce called, her voice sounding croaky. ‘Frank?’ She tried again and this time her voice didn’t fail her.

The darkened windows of the farmhouse resembled blank eyes covered with the cataracts of dirty net curtains. The place had an undercurrent of melancholy and despair about it, forgotten and unloved, unlike the picturesque Pasture Farm. Joyce tolerated being here when John was staying, but when he wasn’t around, the sadness and silence of the place made her feel uneasy.

At first, Joyce thought that this farm too was empty and deserted. She called again for Frank, hearing the shrillness of nerves developing with each unanswered call.

‘Frank?’

‘Yeah?’

A reply came from a side-building and Frank Tucker ambled out, wiping oil from his hands on an old rag. He was a wiry man with thinning grey hair, eyes that didn’t quite go in the same direction and a face that had a lived-in expression. But there was kindness in his craggy face and his hazel eyes burned with an unexpected intelligence. This was the man who had taught Iris Dawson to read and who had preferred negotiation to violence when he was goaded into a fight with Vernon Storey all those months ago.

Joyce composed herself. The truth was she had assumed she wouldn’t get a response and she hadn’t thought about what to say if she did.

‘Where is everyone?’ She managed.

Frank scratched his chin, inadvertently leaving a smudge of oil on it. His eyes looked serious, his face grave.

‘Haven’t you heard?’

‘Heard what?’

Frank swallowed hard. Joyce had seen that type of expression before.

She guessed that he was about to tell her bad news.

There was a gnawing feeling in his belly that Siegfried Weber didn’t like. He wasn’t entirely sure if it was down to hunger or whether fear was driving his stomach into knots as well. Nervously his eyes scanned the woodland around him. He was cowering in a ditch, on a bed of the fallen leaves of autumn, his shirt getting wet from the cold ground. He gripped the dagger in his hand. The tape around the handle was fraying and Siegfried felt that it was slippery and hard to hold. He stared at the rabbit in front of him, tantalisingly twelve or so feet away to his left. He moved his free arm, using it to propel himself slowly and steadily across the ditch. Nearer and nearer to the rabbit. Siegfried paused, allowing the rabbit to sniff its surroundings. He didn’t want to alert it to any danger and he didn’t want to spook it. When the rabbit ducked its head, seemingly less concerned about any imminent threat, he decided that it would be prudent to move forward, edging ever closer, knife in hand.

He thought about Emory. His captain was hungry too and waiting for Siegfried to come good on the hunting skills he blithely promised that he had. He didn’t want to let the older man down, and he wanted to keep his spirits buoyed, but the fact of the matter was that the only rabbit he’d ever got close to was the pet of the farmer at Coswig. And he’d never dared to hunt and catch that.

He pulled forward, feeling a twig snag in his shirt. Anticipating that it might break off noisily if he continued, Siegfried reached slowly down and gently broke it off. The rabbit looked up again. How sharp their hearing was! Siegfried waited patiently for it to relax and after a few agonising moments it returned to sniffing the ground.

He edged slightly closer, scarcely daring to breathe. He was close enough to see the individual hairs on the rabbit’s chest, the light shining in its big, brown eyes, its cheeks continually inflating and deflating as it sniffed the air. Siegfried brought his knife up on the rabbit’s blind side. Then he realised that he needed to be a little bit closer to avoid making it a stretch when he brought the blade down. That would diminish his chances of landing a blow that stopped the creature in its tracks. Siegfried moved on his belly, his shirt sodden now from the damp. He stopped, motionless for a second. This was the moment of truth.

Siegfried whipped out his free hand to grasp the rabbit as he brought the knife hand down. But as his fingers connected with the rabbit’s fur, it bolted for freedom. Siegfried brought the knife down, but plunged it uselessly into the mulch. His free hand managed to feel the pads of the rabbit’s feet as it propelled itself into the shrubs and away.

Siegfried felt disappointment welling up inside him, his throat burning with the need to cry in frustration. He lay on the woodland floor for a few moments before finding the strength to pull himself up. He looked around as he pushed the knife back into his belt. He knew he couldn’t go back empty-handed, but he couldn’t rely on catching anything for dinner. And as his hunger and fatigue intensified, he knew that what paltry ability he had as a hunter would also diminish. He had to find food, and soon.

For now though, he had to improvise. As Siegfried ambled away, he looked for anything that might sustain him and Emory. As he reached the clearing of the woods, salvation arrived in the form of a dead crow near a tree root. Its feathers were sticking out at crazy angles as if a child had constructed it in nursery. Siegfried tapped it with his boot. There was no telling how long it had been dead, but he estimated it hadn’t been long. He scooped up the body in his hands and wrapped it in the knapsack that hung around his neck. It would be another culinary delight after the raw cauliflower. But nevertheless, dinner would be served.

Hoxley Manor was a flurry of activity. Some American soldiers were parading on the front lawn, against the express instructions from Lady Hoxley. She tolerated the soldiers’ presence and the fact that a large part of her house had been requisitioned by the War Office for use as a military hospital, but she appreciated it if they could keep as low a profile as possible. Parading on her front lawn, where any visitor could see them simply wasn’t on.

Joyce rushed along the driveway, the shouted instructions from the army lieutenant to his men washing over her like the distant barking of a dog. She pushed past a nurse who was smoking a cigarette in the doorway and went into the hallway. It was cooler inside than out, but Joyce was hot from running.

She rushed past the grand staircase where Nancy Morrell had first met Lord Hoxley two summers ago and made her way to the military hospital wing. Slowing to a brisk walk, and regaining her breath, Joyce passed bed after bed of injured servicemen, their bandages telling tales of their woes. Some of them called out to her, others moaned in pain. Joyce kept focussed and walked on. Reaching a room on its own, Joyce knocked on the door. The small room had once been Lord Hoxley’s reading room, a circular space of curved bookshelves, a leather armchair and a view out onto the back terrace. Now it had a single bed squeezed into the space.

A single bed occupied by Connie Carter.

Joyce moved to her friend’s bedside, feeling the heavy concerned looks from Esther, Finch, and Esther’s son, Martin on her. They had all assembled some time earlier. Doctor Richard Channing glanced up from his clipboard where he was reviewing some observations on his patient. He was a distinguished man whose handsome face was tempered by an easy look of disdain that often crossed his features. Connie’s husband, Henry Jameson was seated on the windowsill, looking gravely at the floor. He was the local vicar, a mild-mannered good-hearted man who would always worry about consequences. Whereas Connie would dive in and have fun, Henry was always pondering whether they should dive in and have fun.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know,’ Joyce mumbled. ‘I had no idea.’

Esther put a consoling hand on her shoulder.

Connie looked so pale making her smudged lipstick look even more vibrantly red, like a smear of jam across her face. Her eyelids were closed and her usually immaculately neat black hair was like a bird’s nest. A white bandage was wrapped tidily around her forehead, making the unruly hair look like it was trying to escape from above and below.

‘You weren’t to know, lovey.’ Esther removed her comforting hand from Joyce’s shoulder and gently encouraged her to move closer.

‘Can she hear us?’ Joyce asked.

‘Don’t think so.’ Finch looked downcast. ‘At least she hasn’t responded to anything I’ve said to her. Mind you, she doesn’t respond to anything I say when she’s awake.’

He offered a nervous chuckle, but no one felt like laughing.

‘What happened?’ Joyce stared at her friend.

Esther explained that Connie had rode her bicycle to Gorley Woods to deliver a magazine to one of Henry’s parishioners. She was found on a dirt track, unconscious, her bicycle by her side.

‘Did she fall off then?’ Joyce asked.

No one volunteered an answer. Had they all asked the same question already? Doctor Channing shrugged, suggesting that he wasn’t about to indulge in pure conjecture.

‘She had a blow to the head. That’s all we know.’

‘Did she hit a branch on her bike? You know, going under a low tree or something?’ Joyce could sense Henry shifting uncomfortably on his window ledge. All this talk about his wife was clearly getting to him. Maybe no one was worrying about how it had happened, just about whether Connie would ever wake up again.

‘The blow was on the back of the head,’ Channing remarked, his manner getting tetchy.

‘So someone hit her?’

Channing shrugged. Joyce looked at the other faces for an answer. And if not an answer, she wanted to hear what their theories were. Surely, they wanted to know?

‘She might have fallen off her bicycle and hit the back of her head when she went down,’ Esther offered, filling the void when no one immediately volunteered an answer. Joyce guessed she said it more to shut her up than because she wanted to enter into a discussion.

Joyce wanted to ask more, but Henry’s agitated shuffling stopped her broaching the subject. It could all wait until later when they were away from here. Joyce assumed that Henry felt uneasy not just because he loved Connie but because he may have felt guilty at sending her on the errand in the first place.

‘The problem is also that she may have been there for some time,’ Henry spoke, his voice wavering with emotion. ‘In the cold, lying there.’

His voice broke and Henry squeezed the bridge of his nose to stop himself from crying. Finch patted him on the shoulder like someone petting an unfamiliar dog. The gesture seemed to help Henry pull himself together. Joyce guessed he didn’t want to make a scene in front of these people.

‘I suggest you all go back to the farm. Await news.’ Doctor Channing surveyed their faces and then glanced down at Henry.

‘Apart from you, Reverend. You can, of course, stay if you want to.’ The offer conveyed the barest hint that Channing would be irked if the Reverend wanted to stay for too long, getting under his feet while there was important medical work to be done. Joyce knew that Channing preferred uncluttered wards. When she did her volunteer shifts, she would hear him lecturing nursing staff on the importance of minimalism in a hospital environment. And that minimalism extended to visitors. He viewed them with the same warmth that he viewed unemptied bins or clutter.

Henry nodded at the half-offer and stared forlornly at his wife, her face motionless, her eyes closed. Joyce dutifully filed out with Martin, Finch and Esther and they stood in shocked silence in the corridor for a few moments wondering what would happen to their friend. Joyce glanced back a final time as Channing shut the door on her. Connie looked so peaceful and at rest. The thought chilled Joyce. She tried to shake it out of her mind. She didn’t want to see Connie at rest. Connie was never at rest. She wanted the mouthy, passionate, talking-ten-to-the-dozen, vibrant Connie back.

She wanted her friend to live.

The meat was tough and chewy and Siegfried worried that they hadn’t cooked the bird enough. But it stopped the ferocious rumbling in his stomach for a moment, so that was good. It had taken him nearly an hour to pluck the thing and then Emory had rigged up a makeshift spit roast from twigs to suspend it above a small fire. Emory was grouchy. His arm was sore and blistering. He was cold and the shelter they had found – an old storage hut on the edge of an abandoned farm near Gorley Woods – wasn’t a secure base for them to wait in. Emory feared they would be found eventually. He wanted to make contact with some sympathisers who might be able to help them escape this country and get back to Germany. Would it be easier to give up? But Siegfried didn’t dare voice that opinion; especially when Emory was in such a bad mood.

Emory checked his luger pistol for what seemed like the hundredth time. Siegfried told him that it would have made his hunting easier to have had the gun. But Emory thought they couldn’t attract attention to themselves by firing off rounds in the woods.

‘What do we do?’ Siegfried asked, chewing on a bit of gristle and trying to make it go down.

‘Kein Englisch sprechen!’ Emory snapped.

‘We should speak English! And we should get rid of these clothes. We should try to fit in.’

‘You are right. I do not think straight,’ Emory sighed, wincing at the pain in his arm. ‘We should go to find some clothes. Steal them off a washing line or something. Maybe go back to the cottage where that man was. His clothes would fit us.’

‘It’s too risky to go back somewhere we’ve been already.’

Emory nodded, conceding Siegfried’s point. He got up and stamped out the remnants of the fire outside their hut.

‘We’ll find somewhere else with clothes,’ Siegfried replied. He wanted to talk about the other thing. But he feared that any mention might antagonise his captain. But he knew that their future might depend on it. After all, they had already attracted attention to themselves.

‘What do you think happened to the girl?’ Siegfried asked.

Emory scowled at him. Siegfried had been right. He hadn’t wanted to talk about that.

‘Who knows?’ Emory spat out a piece of gristle. ‘Who cares?’

After an afternoon silently working the frozen earth of the North Field, Joyce submerged her numb hands in Esther’s warm sink, her nerves unable to tell if it was hot or cold. Her fingers tingled in protest and Joyce could picture her mother warning her about the danger of chilblains, but it felt so good. After a moment, she pulled her hands out, steam coming off her fingers, the skin a lucid angry pink, and wiped them on a tea towel. Esther was busying herself with a stew. Finch was reading The Helmstead Herald at the table, unaware that his arms were pushing the cutlery of the carefully laid-out places into an untidy mess in the centre.

‘It’s got to be a mistake. No one would sell a pig that cheap.’ Finch scrutinised the advert in the paper as if it was a rare Egyptian hieroglyph.

‘Maybe it’s only got three legs?’ Esther smirked.

Finch shook his head, not registering the joke. Joyce assumed that his brain was busy navigating the fine line of whether this was a bargain or a scam. The man had a talent for that borne out of his own attempts to pull the wool over the eyes of the gullible bargain-seeker. It would irk him if someone else was doing the conning and he turned out to be the victim.

‘It’s got four legs and working snout, according to this.’ Finch weighed up the advert and Esther added more seasoning to her cooking.

‘Have you heard any more from the hospital?’ Joyce asked.

‘Nothing,’ Esther shook her head.

‘No,’ Finch closed the newspaper.

‘I guess there’s no change then?’

‘Maybe they’re trying to get rid of it for Christmas?’

‘What?’ Esther was confused.

‘The pig!’ Finch was already back on his own topic of conversation. ‘Here, I could take it to Leicester for Bea and Annie!’

‘Don’t go on about the flaming pig. Besides they won’t want a pig turning up!’ Esther snatched the newspaper from the table and put it on the draining board in the hope it might end the matter.

Despite her concern about Connie, Joyce couldn’t help but laugh. Finch’s hurt reaction, his face showing confusion at Esther’s words, was a picture. Obviously, it seemed eminently reasonable to him to take a pig on a train as a gift. He grumbled and turned the page. Joyce sat down for the evening meal, rearranging the pile of cutlery into rudimentary place settings.

The three of them ate in silence aside from Finch returning unbidden to the topic of the bargain pig. By the end of the meal, Joyce would have been happy never to have heard another word about it. But then Finch said something that piqued her interest.

‘Here, maybe I’ll drive over there tomorrow and have a look at the pig. If I take the van, I could pop it in the back. It’s only at a place called Hobson’s Farm on the other side of Gorley Woods.’

‘Gorley Woods?’ Joyce’s mind was racing.

‘Yes, why?’

‘Could I come with you?’

‘Why would you want to do that?’ Finch looked suspicious.

‘Thought it might be useful to perhaps see where Connie came a cropper. Find out if there was any reason for it.’

‘’Ere do you think you’re Agatha Christie, Joyce?’

‘It’s just nobody has had a chance to look at where it happened, have they?’

‘All right.’ Finch shrugged, ‘As long as Esther can spare you for an hour that is.’

‘I’ll start an hour earlier,’ Joyce ventured before Esther had time to voice an objection. But despite the appeasement, Esther still managed a scowl.

Henry Jameson was dimly aware of a low creaking noise, rhythmic and close. It took him a while to realise it came from his own chair as he rocked gently back and forth as he sat watching Connie’s face. He’d been holding her hand for what seemed like ages, gently manipulating it with his fingers as if the sensation might bring Connie back to him.

He didn’t know if she could hear him, but Henry spoke to her anyway. Mindful of the other patients outside their room and the lateness of the hour, he spoke quietly, barely more than a whisper. He gave prayers, made jokes and told Connie how much he loved her. Despite their differences, this unlikely couple had made their marriage work. Connie’s headstrong and bawdy nature, against all odds, segued with Henry’s sensible and empathetic traits. He assumed that Connie felt safe in the relationship, knowing that Henry would act as a steadying influence to her wilder traits. For his part, Connie’s unpredictability was both liberating and infuriating. But she was the spark in his life.

He looked forlornly at his wife, unmoving except for the gentle rise and fall of her chest. What dreams was she having? Henry regretted the small argument they’d had. And it had all been about that blasted magazine. The thing that caused this.

‘I don’t have time to play postman!’ Connie had shouted when Henry had suggested she take the magazine while he finished the evening work at the village hall.

‘But it won’t take long,’ Henry had protested.

‘But it will take long.’

‘You don’t have to stay with him for any length of time.’

‘He’s a chatterbox. I’ve waited hours for you to come back from your visits there!’

‘Please, Connie,’ Henry had pleaded. And his wife had conceded with a sparky flash of her deep brown eyes. All right, she’d do it, but he’d better make this up to her when they’re both at home. Connie had taken the magazine and Henry had watched her ride off away from the village hall. That was the last time he’d seen her until finding her in a hospital bed.

What had happened in the time in-between?

Henry’s thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Doctor Channing. He gave a cursory knock on the doorframe and entered without waiting for permission. He seemed somewhat irked to see Henry sitting there.

‘It may be best for you to get some rest.’

Henry didn’t need it spelling out what Channing was saying. He nodded and collected his coat and hat, before kissing his wife on the cheek and leaving. Channing watched him leave. Then he moved towards his patient, checking the clipboard at the end of her bed.

‘What happened to you, Connie Carter?’ Channing mumbled to himself.

He took her pulse, timing it against the small fob watch that dangled from his waistcoat. He made a note of the reading and then took a mercury thermometer from his pocket. He gave it a shake to zero it and was about to put it in Connie’s mouth, when she opened her eyes with a start.

‘Where am I?’ She asked, pulling herself up.

‘You’re at Hoxley Manor. You had a bump on the head,’ Channing tried to gently push her back onto the bed. ‘It’s important you rest.’

‘No, you don’t understand,’ Connie’s eyes were darting around the room. She clutched her head suddenly, an excruciating pain forcing her to squeeze her eyes tightly shut.

‘Easy, it’s all right.’

‘No, they attacked me,’ Connie broke off to wince in pain, her mouth open in silent anguish as if making a noise would hurt her further.

‘Who? Who attacked you?’

Connie’s brown eyes widened in fear.

‘Who was it?’

‘German airmen!’ Connie forced the words out amid the pain. And with that, she collapsed back onto the bed, her hand lolling listlessly over the edge. Channing tried to gently rouse her and then he shouted for assistance.

‘Nurse! I need some help here!’

He looked worried, but there was something in his eyes that indicated it might not be just concern for the well-being of his latest patient.

Chapter 4

Five days to Christmas.

Joyce was dimly aware of a clanging sound in the distance as it forced its way into her attention and woke her from her sleep. She fumbled for the alarm clock and stopped the clapper from vibrating against the bells. Sitting up in bed, she struggled to open her sleepy eyes. It was four o’clock in the morning.

She slid her legs out of bed and got dressed, being careful not to wake the rest of the house. Her eyelids felt heavy, her eyes scratchy and it was difficult to coordinate her fingers as she slipped her boots on. In lieu of having time to do anything with her hair, she tied a headscarf around it and bunched it tight at the back. Then she made her way to the kitchen on weary legs, yawning so widely that she feared her jaw might lock. She made a pot of tea, poured some and sipped at a mugful before it was neither steeped nor cool enough to drink. But she wanted to get some work done before Finch headed off on his pig chase.

Joyce pulled her long coat around her, clutched her tea in one hand and slipped the latch on the back door. She imagined John, still fast asleep on his brother’s sofa. The thought warmed her more than the tea. As she went outside, her breath formed candyfloss in the air, and she felt the mug cooling in her hands. It was a bitter morning, icy with the promise of snow. There had been snow earlier in the month, but the wireless was issuing reports that indicated it wouldn’t be a white Christmas. The ground and the sky seemed the same colour, slate grey but for the hint of a rising orange sun in the distance. But even that felt diminished this morning, burning without its usual confidence. Somewhere in the distance a fox let out an anguished cry. Joyce made her way to the tool barn and collected a solid-handled shovel. After so long here, she knew it was the best shovel on the farm and she felt a curious mix of satisfaction and sadness at knowing this fact. A young woman ought to have more going on in her life than worrying about which farm tool was best, but as always, Joyce contented herself with the comforting caveat that there was a war on. This wasn’t a normal time. Thousands of men and women were missing out on their twenties for the greater good – and any small victory was worth celebrating. Joyce walked into the North Field, feeling its eerie stillness for the first time. Usually she entered its cavernous space with a group of women, chatting and laughing about the small victories of living on a farm in wartime. She’d never noticed the bleakness of it before, four sides of churned brown soil stretching to horizons of darkened trees. In the dawn light, Joyce spooked herself by imagining movement in the spindly trees, some of them holding on to the last of their autumn leaves. She put such thoughts out of her head, found the spot where she had been working yesterday and concentrated on the trench in front of her. Some of the row was a darker colour, the fine soil having been turned and broken up. Joyce pushed the shovel into the ground and heaved it out with a thick wedge of clay soil on it. She flipped it over as if it was a pancake and battered it down into the trench, breaking it up as best she could. With the exertion, Joyce let out a small sigh and managed to spook herself again. Did she imagine a twig snapping in the corner of the field?

She wedged her shovel into the ground and peered into the distance. The edge of the field was thirty or forty feet away and she couldn’t make out the trunks of the trees clearly in the gloomy morning light. But did something glint?

‘Hello?’ Joyce asked, quietly, hoping that there wouldn’t be an answer. No sound came back, and nothing moved. She realised that she had unwittingly tipped off that she suspected someone was there.

Joyce planted her spade in the ground and took a hesitant step towards the trees. Then, deciding it might be prudent to have a weapon, she went back for the spade and carried it with her to the edge of the field.

‘Who’s there?’ Joyce shouted.

No reply.

Her eyes scanned the sparse foliage and the criss-crossing maze of branches for any movement. She didn’t dare blink, fearful that she might miss something. After what seemed like an age, she decided that there was nothing there. She turned round to head back to her work – and found a man standing in front of her.

Joyce went to scream, but then realised it was only Finch.

‘What are you doing, creeping up on me?’ She fumed, letting out her pent-up feelings on the hapless farmer.

‘Who’s creeping? I wasn’t creeping,’ Finch protested.

‘You gave me a start!’

‘I only came to say I was heading off now, if you want to come.’

‘All right.’ Joyce’s anger was subsiding into mild annoyance. Maybe she had stressed herself out. And as she stared at his bewildered face, she felt a little foolish for snapping at him. ‘You can help me take the tools back and then we can head off.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Finch gave her a mock salute.

‘That’s the wrong hand.’ Joyce smiled.

‘Is it? Maybe I’ve been watching them do it from behind.’

‘What are you talking about?’

Their voices trailed off as they walked away from the trees, collecting tools as they went. Their playful bickering continued to the gate of the field, and when they disappeared, Siegfried Weber felt it was safe to breathe again. He let out a lungful of air and looked around him. There was no one around. He moved along the edge of the field until he could see through the gate at the end.

In the distance was a farmhouse. The woman and the farmer were heading towards it. Siegfried waited for them to leave the area and then he waited a few moments more to be sure that they wouldn’t come back. Deciding what to do, he disappeared back into the undergrowth and scurried back to report what he had seen to his captain.

By the time they drove to the edge of Gorley Woods, Joyce was regretting not having more to eat for breakfast. A gnawing hunger threatened to distract her from her task, as she tried to look for clues on the dirt track where Connie had been found.

‘Are you sure this is the right spot?’ Finch checked his pocket watch. He was keen to see a man about a pig and wasn’t worried about disguising his impatience.

‘Esther said it happened at the fork of the main track and the path that leads to the woods.’ Joyce scanned the ground in an attempt to find a clue. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but she knew that something hadn’t been right about what had happened to Connie. She was hoping that something would leap out at her.

‘There’s nothing here, is there?’

‘There might be something.’ Joyce wasn’t going to be rushed. She was determined not to give up before she’d started. A scuffed area of ground gave a possible place where Connie had fallen, but Joyce couldn’t be certain. But then she saw something that piqued her interest. A section of branch, sturdy and broken, lay on the ground near the disturbed area. Joyce picked it up and examined it.

‘Look.’

‘It’s a branch.’ Finch smiled, pleased with himself.

‘I know it’s a branch. It might be what knocked Connie off her bicycle. She might have hit it with enough force to break it off the tree.’

Along one edge was a section where the bark was missing, revealing the young beige wood beneath. Could it have been damaged when Connie whacked her head on it? The section looked slightly red. Could it be blood?

‘We need to show this to a policeman.’ Joyce decided that this is what Miss Marple would do. The police would know if it was blood.

‘You’ll have to go a long way.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘PC Thorne has been moved to Birmingham.’

‘So who is running Helmstead Police Station?’

Even before Finch offered a shrug, Joyce knew that the answer was probably no one. Since conscription had taken most of the policemen, they had been left with one bobby to service three villages and two towns. And now it looked like he had gone to an area of greater need.

‘Besides, even if he was here, he wouldn’t have time to look at that. We know what happened. The poor girl was riding along and walloped her head on this.’

‘But I think we should tell someone. It might be useful in treating her or something.’

‘Tell Doctor Channing about it. Can we go now, then?’ Finch shifted his weight from leg to leg like an impatient toddler.

‘You go. I can walk back to the farm.’

‘Are you sure? I mean, I thought you wanted to see this porker with me?’

‘No, it’s all right.’ Joyce tucked the club-like section of branch under her arm and watched Finch return to the van. He got in, shaking his head to himself as if he didn’t understand women. Who wouldn’t want to come to see a pig? Humming to himself, he started the engine and reversed the vehicle back onto the lane.

Joyce was about to set off when she saw the abandoned car under the canopy of trees. She walked towards it and peered in the window. There was no one inside, but she noticed a blanket on the back seat. Had someone been sleeping here? Behind her, she saw a patch of charred ground. Someone had been here, but she had no way of knowing how long ago. Joyce clasped the stick and moved back to the lane and set off for Hoxley Manor.

‘They have chickens and a lot of land. And it’s out of the way. I didn’t see many people there.’

Siegfried outlined the results to Emory of his reconnaissance mission to the outskirts of Pasture Farm. The older man didn’t look as pleased as the young man hoped he would. But in his head, he excused the reaction as being down to Emory’s exhaustion and the pain he was feeling from his arm.

‘Good work.’ Emory chewed his lip as he considered what the younger man had said. The two men returned to the abandoned car, missing Joyce by less than ten minutes. They knew they had to move and find somewhere else. Siegfried checked that he had the water bottle and the matches safely stowed in his knapsack. Emory checked that the blanket on the back seat was pushed into the footwell. Siegfried used his boot to cover the evidence of the fire, scraping leaf mulch over the charred ground. And after checking that there was little evidence of them having been here, Emory pushed the luger gun back into his belt.

They would head to Pasture Farm.

At Hoxley Manor, Doctor Richard Channing winced at the cacophonous clatter as the trolley of fresh bedpans made its way around the ward near his office. He reached across his desk and pushed the door shut with his fingertips before returning to his paperwork. A small but insistent headache was forming in his sinuses and he pressed his fingers on the bridge of his nose as he worked. Out of the corner of his eye, he was aware of the door slowly opening. He assumed he hadn’t shut it properly and idly reached across to give it a firmer push.

He was surprised to see Ellen Hoxley standing in the doorway. She was wearing a light blue woollen dress with a dark blue knitted shrug over her shoulders. A wry smile teased at the corners of her mouth.

‘You forgot, didn’t you?’ Her tone was playful and light.

‘Forgot what?’ Richard matched her tone.

‘The breakfast meeting.’

‘You mean, breakfast?’

With a glance of her eyes, Ellen checked that no one was nearby in the corridor outside before replying. ‘Yes, but if we bring paperwork to it, it looks like we’re discussing hospital business and not merely enjoying ourselves.’

‘Heaven forbid people think that.’

‘Quite.’ A slight coldness had crept into her voice and the wry smile was replaced with questioning eyes. ‘It’s important that we set the right example. And even though people know that we are …’ She chose her next word carefully to Richard’s amusement, ‘friends. We shouldn’t flaunt that fact as if we were some lovestruck pair from the village.’

‘No, of course, you’re right. And I’m sorry to have missed our meeting.’

He’d hoped that the apology would return the playfulness to Ellen’s eyes, but she looked concerned. Richard realised that he wasn’t responsible and that her attention had been drawn by an open folder of case notes on the desk.

Connie Carter’s file.

‘That poor girl.’ Ellen looked genuinely upset for her.

‘Yes, we still don’t know what happened. I think she probably hit a branch. Knocked her off her bicycle.’

‘She didn’t say anything?’

‘No. She woke up briefly, but she seemed disorientated. Made no real sense, I’m afraid.’

Now it was Richard’s turn to control the look in his eyes, conscious not to give anything away; conscious of not revealing that he knew more. Ellen didn’t need to worry about what Connie had said. He was protecting Ellen. Yes, that was what he was doing. After a long moment, Ellen nodded sadly. Richard relaxed, knowing he’d got away with it. Lying just took conviction. If you had the confidence to carry it off, you could get away with anything.

She moved towards the door.

‘I’ll make some tea if you want some.’

‘That would be nice, thank you.’

As Ellen left, Richard thought about Connie Carter. She hadn’t regained consciousness, hadn’t woken since that one time. The Reverend was still with her, praying and holding her hand, for all the good that would do. Richard knew that he had to be alert. Had he done the right thing in concealing what Connie had told him? Yes, it was for the best. He had to be ready. He looked at the telephone on his desk and wondered when it would ring. After a while, he decided that worrying about it wasn’t going to help him, so he busied himself with writing up some case notes.

There was a soft knock on his door.

Ah, the tea.

‘There’s no need to knock …’ Richard trailed off, before realising that it wasn’t Ellen in the doorway but Joyce Fisher. She was dressed in her land girl uniform. Her hair was slightly askew, and the sheen of perspiration was shining on her forehead. She caught her breath as she started to speak.

‘Sorry to bother you, Doctor Channing.’

‘You’re not doing a shift today, Joyce.’

‘No, I’m here about Connie. I found something.’

Richard moved from behind his desk and stretched out a hand to gently close the door. Joyce registered it closing but didn’t seem perturbed. Why should she?

‘What have you found?’ He asked, his eyes narrowing as he studied her face.

‘This.’ Joyce reached into her great coat and removed a length of branch. ‘I think this is what knocked Connie off her bicycle. See, it’s got some red colouration here, like blood?’

‘Ah, yes, perhaps.’

‘I thought it might be important.’

‘I’m sure it might be. And maybe Connie can identify it when she wakes up?’ Channing smirked.

Joyce bit her lip and her cheeks puffed out slightly in annoyance. ‘Are you making fun of me, Doctor Channing?’

‘Not at all. Sorry for making light of it. It does indeed help us piece together what happened.’ He tried to appease her with his best warm smile.

Lying is easy as long as you do it with conviction.

‘There’s something else.’

‘Oh?’

‘At first I thought, she must have hit it hard because she broke it off the tree. But then as I walked over here, I was looking at it.’

‘And?’

‘And see the bit where it broke off from the tree? Well, that’s all dried and old and dirty. So that made me think, it wasn’t on the tree when Connie hit her head on it.’

‘Quite possibly,’ Channing nodded in a way that he hoped would convey that he was wrapping things up now.

‘Don’t you see what that means?’ Joyce’s eyes were glowing now, ‘If this is her blood, then it means that she didn’t hit her head on a branch. Someone hit her with the branch. And nearby was this old car. Like an abandoned vehicle. And I think someone has been sleeping in there.’

Channing nodded slowly as if he was thinking about what Joyce had said. But in reality, he was thinking about what he could say to make this irritating woman, this amateur Miss Marple, go away.

‘I will keep this.’ Channing tapped the stick. ‘And see if I can contact PC Thorne. Is that all right?’

‘Well, no. He’s away. Finch told me he’s gone away,’ Joyce’s brow furrowed and she turned towards the door, seemingly bent on another course of action. ‘Maybe Lady Hoxley can do something?’

She reached to the desk to pick up the length of wood.

Channing put his hand over her wrist, stopping her.

She looked at him, confused, perhaps a little scared.

‘I can do it.’ Channing’s smile was warm, but it didn’t extend to his eyes. ‘Now we’d better both get on with our jobs, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, all right.’ Joyce backed down. Channing thought her voice sounded unsure, as if this wasn’t a satisfactory solution. But he held her gaze until she moved towards the door.

‘Thank you for bringing all this to my attention, Mrs Fisher.’

Fly away, Joyce. Fly away.

When she had gone, Channing looked at the length of broken branch in his hand. It was entirely possible that the end was stained with blood. Connie’s blood. He opened the filing cabinet by his desk, pulled the bottom drawer out as far as it would go and placed the branch inside. Then he closed it as the door opened.

This time it was Ellen with a cup of tea. And this time, Channing managed a smile that shone in his eyes as well.

‘Ah, just the ticket.’ Channing took the cup.

Emory and Siegfried moved across the edge of Gorley Woods, sticking religiously to the hedgerows and avoiding the actual roads and lanes. They became aware of voices in the distance. Peering over a yew hedge, Emory could see three soldiers talking to a group of old women. The women were pointing in various directions, perhaps trying to tell the soldiers where they had seen evidence of the airmen. The soldiers themselves were old men, dressed in uniforms that didn’t quite fit and which Siegfried didn’t recognise. Emory said that they were in the Home Guard and that part of their job was to find airmen like themselves. He removed his pistol from the holster. Siegfried wasn’t sure that they could win against three armed men when they only had one pistol and a knife.

‘They are old.’ Emory continued to watch through the hedge. Siegfried hoped that the soldiers and the women would disperse so that violence wouldn’t be necessary. Emory seemed keen to engage the enemy, whereas Siegfried wished he was still back in Coswig and that the war could be finished and over with. One of the soldiers lit up a rolled-up cigarette and inhaled the smoke noisily as another one coughed in apparent sympathy.

After what seemed like an age, the soldiers began to move away. Siegfried heard one of the old women laugh and shout to one of the soldiers that she’d have an apple pie ready for him. The women moved away, talking excitedly amongst themselves about their encounter. Emory watched and waited to see what direction they would go in. Eventually after a bit of discussion, and one of the soldiers moaning about his leg, they set off in the direction that Emory and Siegfried had been heading. Emory relaxed and put his gun away. He sighed in relief. Siegfried wondered if he didn’t want to fight either.

‘They are heading towards the farm I saw.’ Siegfried’s eyes flashed with excitement.

‘We’ll have to find somewhere else for now. But our priority is to find clothes.’

He moved off along the hedgerow.

Siegfried wished their priority was to find something to eat. He didn’t think he’d ever been this hungry. He followed his captain.

‘I can’t see a pig.’ Esther looked out of the kitchen window. Joyce peered out alongside her. Finch was out in the yard, closing the rear door of the van. He straightened up and winced as his back locked. They could see his mouth moving with silent curses, but there was no sign of a pig in the back of the van.

‘What’s he got there?’ Esther squinted.

Finch picked up a long stick that he’d had resting against the door of the van and moved towards the house. At first Joyce thought it was a walking stick, but then she realised it was a shotgun. It had an elegant, sleek, single silver barrel. A Purdey, embossed with engravings down its length.

By the time Joyce had seen all this, Esther was already moving quickly to the back door where she intercepted Finch.

‘No, no, no!’

‘What, what, what?’ Finch looked affronted.

‘I’m not having guns in the house. You keep them out there with the tools.’

‘Ah,’ Finch whined with annoyance and disappointment. ‘I don’t even know if it works.’

‘Well, you’ll not find out, testing it in here. You’ll blow a hole in the Welsh dresser.’

‘You worry too much.’

‘And you don’t worry enough.’

‘Didn’t you get the pig?’ Joyce asked as Finch was beating a retreat to the yard.

‘No, it was a bit of a runt.’ He mimed the small size of the pig with his hands, unintentionally waving the shotgun around in the process.

‘Stop that! Get out with it!’ Esther chivvied him to the door.

‘D’oh, anyone would think it was your house!’ Finch went outside. Esther rolled her eyes at Joyce. Then Joyce watched as she went to the doorway and called for Dolores, Iris and Martin to come to the table.

Soon the five of them were sitting down to eat the rabbit stew that Esther had prepared. There was plenty of ribbing about Finch and his lame pig escapade, until he did his characteristic thing of bridling with anger at a quip too far. After a period of silence, conversation turned to Christmas. Finch thought that they should eat one of the chickens for the Christmas meal. Thinking about the Christmas meal made him wonder what Annie and Bea would cook for him in Leicester. He was due to leave soon.

‘What was that dish that Annie always made?’ Joyce knew that Esther would come up with something to wind up Finch.

‘Oh, old shoe surprise? That was her signature dish, wasn’t it?’ Esther scratched her chin as if recalling the details. Finch shook his head in bad-tempered annoyance before she’d even finished the sentence. Everyone laughed. Except for Finch. Maybe he really was worrying about what he would get in Leicester …

As the laughter died down, conversation turned to the big celebration. Iris mentioned that she would go to Birmingham to get the dried fruit.

‘Oh, good luck with that.’ Esther speared her last piece of meat onto her fork.

‘I might go with her.’ Martin looked anxious.

Iris gave him a curious look.

‘In case it’s heavy?’

‘I can still carry it if it’s heavy, thank you very much!’ Iris grinned.

Esther looked at her son’s disappointed face. He was trying so hard to make an impression on young Iris. She suspected that Iris knew that he liked her and it warmed Esther’s heart to see Iris throw Martin a warm smile.

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