The Farmer's Daughter (16 page)

A resounding ‘Guilty!' answered this, and those nearest
stepped forward to add their kicks. Someone trod on his face.

A rope was put round his neck and the end was being flung over a rafter when the door burst open and two guards rushed in, followed by others, all armed. Karl, more dead than alive, was carried out and taken back to the infirmary. In the general melee, the men scattered.

Colonel Williamson held an enquiry and questioned everyone but they all clammed up and refused to speak, even
Feldwebel
Muller when he was well enough to answer questions. He didn't need the
Feldwebel
to tell him the truth, he knew it. He had men in the camp who kept him informed, as well as radio listening points hidden in the huts. He didn't learn everything, of course, the prisoners guessed where some of the bugging devices were and destroyed them. But he knew exactly what had happened when
Gefreiter
Herzig had been sent back to his hut after his attempted escape. Two half dead men could not be disguised as an accident, even though he was told they had been fighting each other. He had thought it was a single incident, but this latest injury had made him realise the
Feldwebel
could be in serious danger. He asked the German doctor to keep him in hospital until he could arrange the transfer of Schmidt, Keitel and Schumann.

It was only two days until Christmas and the wooden toys were still hidden in the barn. Jean had hoped that Karl would be back at work and able to give them to the children himself as he had planned, but she had heard nothing of him. Other prisoners, those considered ‘white' who had not attempted to escape, were back at work, so what had happened to Karl? She was worried sick. He had been beaten before for no good reason and she did not doubt his fellows would punish him if they knew what he had done to thwart them. Would Colonel Williamson be able to protect him? Would he even want to? She found it hard to work with that on her mind.

Outwardly she was her usual self, albeit a little subdued. The schools had broken up for the holiday so Donald and Terry were able to help her, though reluctantly, and the work was done. But she missed Karl. Oh, how she missed him! She remembered his kindness and gentleness, his lack of arrogance and his willingness to work. She recalled the laughter they had shared, the singing which had made the work easier, the snatched kisses which could
have been so much more, and the little carved dog he had made for her. One morning, feeling more than usually miserable, she took it from her drawer and sat on her bed with it in her hands and wept. One way or another she had to find out what had happened to him. She put the dog back in her drawer and went downstairs and out of the house without speaking to anyone.

Colonel Williamson received her in his office. ‘He is in the infirmary,' he told her. ‘Unfortunately he has sustained some injuries. If you need a farm worker, I can supply someone else.'

‘I don't want anyone else. I have become used to him. And I would have expected him to have recovered from that gunshot wound by now. It wasn't all that serious.'

‘It was not the gunshot that did the damage, Miss Coleman.'

‘You mean his fellow prisoners beat him. I half expected that and so did he.'

‘I'm afraid so.'

‘You sent him back among them, knowing what would happen. It wasn't the first time, was it, Colonel Williamson? Surely it is part of your duty to keep the prisoners safe, even from each other? You could have left him with me. You knew where he was and you knew he would not try to escape. Instead you sent two armed soldiers to drag him out of bed.'

‘I had to account for all the prisoners, Miss Coleman. I had to have him back in a secure environment until the extent of what had happened and who was involved could be resolved. I needed to question him.'

‘That's no excuse for deliberately allowing him to be put in danger.'

‘As soon as I was alerted to what was happening we pulled him out.'

‘How is he?'

‘He is recovering, but the camp doctor is keeping him under observation.'

‘And then, I suppose, he'll be sent back to suffer it all again.'

‘No, the ringleaders have been punished and sent to other camps.'

‘I sincerely hope you are right. Will he be allowed to come back to work?'

‘I cannot say. I am sorry I cannot be of more help, Miss Coleman.' He picked up a bell on his desk and rang it. ‘Now, if you don't mind, I have work to do …'

She stood up. ‘May I write to him?'

‘I wouldn't, Miss Coleman. It would be construed as fraternisation. I could already report you for allowing him into your house.'

‘Was I supposed to leave him lying on the doorstep?'

‘No, but …'

Afraid of where her anger might lead her, she left, picked up her bicycle from the railing where she had propped it and cycled home. Her visit had gained her nothing and she was more worried than ever. Her imagination painted horrible pictures of the extent of his injuries. And it was all because he tried to save her. Not being able to speak to him or even write to him tortured her. She did not feel a bit like celebrating Christmas, but she would have to put on a cheerful face if only for the rest of the family.

Doris was determined to make Christmas as festive as possible. She had already made the cake with dried fruit she and her mother had been hoarding, bulked out with apples and carrots as she had done every year since rationing began. She had been unsuccessful queuing up for a turkey but they had been fattening up one of the chickens.

‘I can't believe this is the sixth year of the war,' she said, mixing flour paste in a jam jar so the children could make paper chains.

‘I'm sure this is the last,' Jean said. ‘It just can't go on much longer. With all the bombing there can't be much left of Germany.' She couldn't help thinking of Karl, knowing he must be worried about his parents and sister.

‘When are you going to dig up the Christmas tree?'

‘I'll do it later this morning and I'll gather some holly from the hedgerows and mistletoe from the apple trees in the orchard.'

As soon as Jean had left, Doris spread newspaper on the dining room table and gave the children paste brushes and some old coloured magazines to cut up to make the paper chains. As they worked, they talked about the presents they hoped to receive. ‘I want a new bike,' Donald said. ‘Then you can have my old one, Terry.'

‘Why can't I have a new one if you do?'

‘Because you're an evacuee and you don't have any money. Your mum don't even send what she's supposed to. That's why you have to have my old clothes …'

Terry flung down his brush, spattering paste everywhere, and fled to the sanctuary of his bedroom so that no one could see his tears. Doris, working in the kitchen, heard the door bang upstairs and went into the dining room to see what had happened. ‘Donald, have you been quarrelling with Terry again?'

‘No. I said if I had a new bike for Christmas he could have my old one. He just ran out.'

‘Don said we didn't have any money 'cause our mum don't send any,' Lily piped up.

‘Where did you get that idea, Don?'

‘I heard you tell Jean.'

‘You should not have been listening and especially you should
not have repeated it. Now you have hurt Terry's feelings. How would you feel if someone said that about me?'

‘But they wouldn't, would they?'

‘That's not the point. Poor Terry, it's bad enough having to live with strangers a long way from home, without you making it worse. Now go upstairs and apologise. Tell Terry you must have misunderstood. Be kind to him.' She smiled suddenly. ‘And what makes you think you will get a new bicycle for Christmas?'

‘I only said that's what I want.'

‘You can't always have what you want, especially with the war and everything. Now go on.'

He disappeared. Doris picked up the string of paper chains they had made and piled them on the sideboard, then gathered up the paste brushes, the pot and the sticky newspaper. ‘It's time you went home,' she told Lily. ‘Mrs Harris will have your dinner ready.'

Lily followed her into the kitchen. ‘Can't I stay here?'

‘I'm sorry, Lily, but you are billeted with Mrs Harris, not me. Run along, there's a good girl. You can come back this afternoon.'

The tree had grown during the year and it was a struggle to dig up, but Jean had the help of the boys and together they hauled it back to the house that afternoon, with Lily dancing along behind them, bubbling over with excitement. They planted it in a bucket of sand and stood it in the corner of the sitting room, where Arthur, who had been snoozing by the fire, woke up to watch them. The box of decorations, which Doris fetched from the attic, had been used every year since the one before the war began and were looking a little bedraggled. ‘We could do with new ones,' she said. ‘These are past their best.'

Nevertheless they did what they could. Terry had cut out some
stars from coloured cardboard which he had painted with some abstract design in bright colours. He tied them on the branches with coloured thread. There were some glass baubles, small tinplate toys, last year's candles almost burnt down to stubs and a few strands of tinsel. When Elizabeth arrived with the gingerbread men she had been making and they were added, they deemed they had done a good job given the circumstances. The paper chains were tacked up across the room from each corner to the electric light fitting in the centre of the ceiling, and the holly and ivy placed along the mantelpiece and over the pictures.

‘Happy Christmas, son,' Doris murmured, laying a frond of greenery over the picture of Gordon that stood on the mantelpiece. ‘Let's pray you are home before the next one.'

‘Amen to that,' Jean said. Would Karl have gone home by then? She didn't want to think about it. But it reminded her of the toys in the barn. Had he known when he brought them he would not be here on Christmas Eve?

She fetched them and put them down in the middle of the floor. ‘Did you know in Germany they always give presents out on Christmas Eve?' she said to the children who were looking mystified and expectant. ‘Sergeant Muller made these for you and, as he isn't here, I'm doing it in his place.' She handed the carved box to Don and the sled to Terry and beckoned Lily to her. ‘This is for you.'

The child screamed with delight and flung herself into Jean's arms. It should've been Karl she was hugging, Jean thought as she gently pulled away. ‘Look inside.'

Lily knelt down and opened the front to find the doll's house fully furnished and, in no time, was engrossed in rearranging it. ‘You have made one little girl very happy,' Jean murmured to the absent Karl.

Doris went into the kitchen and came back with a plate of mince pies. She had queued up for an hour to get one jar of mincemeat on points. ‘One each now,' she said. ‘The rest tomorrow.'

A bottle of cider was opened and the adults drank a glass each, wishing each other, ‘Happy Christmas.'

‘Back to work now,' Jean said afterwards. ‘I can hear the cows from here.'

She had finished and was back in the house when Bill arrived. Jean was upstairs changing and Doris let him in. ‘I thought I'd bring these today,' he said, indicating the parcels he was carrying. ‘I'll be spending the day with Ma tomorrow.'

‘Thank you, Bill, that's very kind of you. Come and say hallo to everyone. You can put them under the tree.'

He followed her into the sitting room. ‘You've got a sizeable tree there.'

‘Yes. It's last year's. Jean and the boys dug it up from the orchard. It has grown more than we realised but I don't think it looks too bad, do you?'

‘It looks fine to me.' He added his parcels to the heap beneath the tree.

‘Jean's changing. She'll be down in a jiffy. I must get on.' She went back to the kitchen where she had been stuffing the chicken with sage and onion. If you didn't grow your own onions they were almost impossible to come by.

‘Do you think it will snow soon?' Terry was squatting on the floor beside the tree. ‘I've got a new toboggan. Mr Karl made it for me.'

‘Did he now? Aren't you the lucky one?'

‘He made Don a box with a lid and his name carved on it. And he made Lily a doll's house. It's got furniture in it and everything.'

He digested that piece of information with a sinking heart. The
man was locked up in Bushey camp and yet he still managed to be a presence in the house. ‘And what did he bring Jean?'

‘Nothing,' Jean said, coming into the room and catching the last of the exchange. ‘Why would he? The prisoners are encouraged to work at their hobbies and Karl likes working with wood. He is very good at it. What better use could he make of the things he's made than give them to the children?'

‘He's not working here again, is he? I thought he was safely locked up in Bushey camp.'

‘As far as I know that's where he is, but he could have been moved. There were a lot of moves after that breakout.'

‘You are managing?'

‘Course she's managing,' Arthur put in. ‘Don's on holiday and there's not much to do at this time of year.'

‘Good.'

‘I've got a present for you,' Jean said. Fetching the parcel from under the tree, she put it into his hands. ‘Happy Christmas, Bill.'

‘May I open it now?'

‘If you like.'

It was a pullover in slate grey with an intricate cable pattern which had had her puzzling over it for several evenings. ‘I hope it fits.'

‘I'm sure it will.' He wrapped it again. ‘I'd better be getting back. You know where I am if you need me.'

‘Yes.' She accompanied him to the door. ‘You'll be at church tomorrow?'

‘All being well.'

Doris and Jean took time off from the preparations for Christmas dinner the following morning to join everyone as they opened their presents. The sixth Christmas of the war was no less austere
than those that had gone before. There was still rationing and shortages and the gifts were simple things: handkerchiefs, a few sweets, needle cases, knitting patterns, home-made toys. Donald had his wish and there was a bicycle for him. It wasn't new, of course. Jean had had a hard job finding even that. It hadn't been in working order but the man in the bicycle shop had repaired it and given it a lick of paint. It was certainly better than his old one which was now too small for him. He passed that on to Terry and nothing more was said about Terry's mother not paying. Bill's gift to Jean was a blouse. Made of white cotton with long buttoned sleeves and a neat collar, it was the sort of blouse she had worn to her job in Wisbech, useful rather than pretty.

While the chicken was left to cook, everyone went to church. Singing the familiar carols and hearing once again the story of the nativity was soothing and induced a feeling of optimism. Things could only get better, but Christmas was spoilt for Jean because of her worry about Karl. He was constantly in her thoughts and having to pretend there was nothing wrong was wearing her down.