Roland Moore - Christmas on the Home Front

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.

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.