Roland Moore - Christmas on the Home Front

‘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.

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.