“Goodbye all.” He’d put on the coat and was gone.
Some of the others were not so quick to leave. There was no sense of urgency. They were talking about what they would be doing for Christmas.
When Mrs Palmer finally closed the door on the last of them, she breathed a sigh of relief and said, “Let’s have a fresh cup of tea, love. Have you had a nice evening? You’re back early, aren’t you? What have you done with your hair? I rather like it down. It suits you.”
“Mum, whatever were all those people doing here — and the police?”
“Didn’t I tell you? This is the third meeting we’ve had. We’re setting up a Neighbourhood Watch. You know — keeping an eye on each other’s property. It’s becoming essential with all the crime round here. Sergeant Middleton was telling us how dreadful it is. He’s the community liaison officer. It’s his job to advise people like ourselves how to get organised.”
“That’s why they were here?”
“Well, yes.”
“Mr Hibbert?”
“He is a neighbour, dear, and quite well off, I believe. He’s got an interest in protecting his property. He’s one of the moving forces. He’s always the first to arrive.”
“Yes, I noticed,” said Gloria, wishing the earth would swallow her up.
The kettle had boiled. Mrs Palmer made the tea. “Of course, that Mrs Mackenzie from across the way came, and I’m convinced the only reason is that she wanted to see inside the house. She’s so nosy, that woman. Do you know, when I made the coffee she insisted on coming out here to help me, as she put it. Of course, all she wanted was to get a look at my kitchen. Oh, and Gloria, darling, I’m so grateful to you for putting my thermal undies out of sight. Imagine if that woman had clapped eyes on them. I’d have died, I really would. I suddenly thought of them when she was opening the biscuits. The relief when I looked at the towel rail and they weren’t there. I mean, they’re not the most flattering things to have on display — my enormous bloomers.”
Gloria tried to give the smile that her mother obviously expected.
Mrs Palmer added, “Tell me, where did you put them, dear?”
The doorbell chimed.
The Proof of the Pudding
Frank Morris strode into the kitchen and slammed a cold, white turkey on the kitchen table. “Seventeen pounds plucked. Satisfied?”
His wife Wendy was at the sink, washing the last few breakfast bowls. Her shoulders had tensed. “What’s that, Frank?”
“You’re not even bloody looking, woman.”
She took that as a command and wheeled around, rubbing her wet hands on the apron. “A turkey! That’s a fine bird. It really is.”
“Fine?” Frank erupted. “It’s nineteen forty-six, for Christ’s sake! It’s a bloody miracle. Most of them round here will be sitting down to joints of pork and mutton — if they’re lucky. I bring a bloody great turkey in on Christmas morning, and all you can say is ‘fine’?”
“I just wasn’t prepared for it.”
“You really get my goat, you do.”
Wendy said tentatively, “Where did it come from, Frank?”
Her huge husband stepped towards her and for a moment she thought he would strike her. He lowered his face until it was inches from hers. Not even nine in the morning and she could smell sweet whisky on his breath. “I won it, didn’t I?” he said, daring her to disbelieve. “A meat raffle in The Valiant Trooper last night.”
Wendy nodded, pretending to be taken in. It didn’t do to challenge Frank’s statements. Black eyes and beatings had taught her well. She knew Frank’s rule of fist had probably won him the turkey, too. Frank didn’t lose at anything. If he could punch his way to another man’s prize, then he considered it fair game.
“Just stuff the thing and stick it in the oven,” he ordered. “Where’s the boy?”
“I think he’s upstairs,” Wendy replied warily. Norman had fled at the sound of Frank’s key in the front door.
“Upstairs?” Frank ranted. “On bloody Christmas Day?”
“I’ll call him.” Wendy was grateful for the excuse to move away from Frank to the darkened hallway. “Norman,” she gently called. “Your father’s home. Come and wish him a Happy Christmas.”
A pale, solemn young boy came cautiously downstairs, pausing at the bottom to hug his mother. Unlike most children of his age — he was nine — Norman was sorry that the war had ended in 1945. He had pinned his faith in the enemy putting up a stiff fight and extending it indefinitely. He still remembered the VE Day street party, sitting at a long wooden bench surrounded by laughing neighbours. He and his mother had found little to celebrate in the news that “the boys will soon be home.”
Wendy smoothed down his hair, whispered something and led him gently into the kitchen.
“Happy Christmas, Dad,” he said, then added, unprompted, “Did you come home last night?”
Wendy said quickly, “Never you mind about that, Norman.” She didn’t want her son provoking Frank on this of all days.
Frank didn’t appear to have heard. He was reaching up to the top shelf of a cupboard, a place where he usually kept his old army belt. Wendy pushed her arm protectively in front of the boy.
But instead of the belt, Frank took down a brown paper parcel. “Here you are, son,” he said, beckoning to Norman. “You’ll be the envy of the street in this. I saved it for you, specially.”
Norman stepped forward. He unwrapped his present, egged on by his grinning father.
He now owned an old steel helmet. “Thanks, Dad,” he said politely, turning it in his hands.
“I got it off a dead Jerry,” Frank said with gusto. “The bastard who shot your Uncle Ted. Sniper, he was. Holed up in a bombed-out building in Potsdam, outside Berlin. He got Ted with a freak shot. Twelve of us stormed the building and took him out.”
“Outside?”
“Topped him, Norman. See the hole round the back. That’s from a Lee Enfield .303. Mine.” Frank levelled an imaginary rifle to Wendy’s head and squeezed the trigger, miming both the recoil and report. “There wasn’t a lot left of Fritz after we’d finished. But I brought back the helmet for you, son. Wear it with pride. It’s what your Uncle Ted would have wanted.” He took the helmet and rammed it on the boy’s head.
Norman grimaced. He felt he was about to be sick.
“Frank dear, perhaps we should put it away until he’s a bit older,” Wendy tried her tact. “We wouldn’t want such a special thing to get damaged, would we? You know what young boys are like.”
Frank was unimpressed. “What are you talking about — ‘special thing’? It’s a bloody helmet, not a thirty-piece tea service. Look at the lad. He’s totally stunned. He loves it. Why don’t you get on and stuff that ruddy great turkey, like I told you?”
“Yes, Frank.”
Norman raised his hand, his small head an absurd sight in the large helmet. “May I go now?”
Frank beamed. “Of course, son. Want to show it off to all your friends, do you?”
Norman nodded, causing the helmet to slip over his eyes. He lifted it off his head. Smiling weakly at his father, he left the kitchen and dashed upstairs. The first thing he would do was wash his hair.
Wendy began to wash and prepare the bird, listening to Frank.
“I know just how the kid feels. I still remember my old Dad giving me a bayonet he brought back from Flanders. Said he ran six men through with it. I used to look for specks of blood, and he’d tell me how he stuck them like pigs. It was the best Christmas present I ever had.”