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‘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 (#u542e71d4-2386-536d-b3a6-0d5b5b9006c8)
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.
