Christmas on the Home Front. Roland Moore
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.
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