“I’ve got you a little something for Christmas. It’s behind the clock,” said Wendy, indicating a small package wrapped in newspaper and string.
“A present?” Frank snatched it up and tore the wrapping away. “Socks?” he said in disgust. “Is that it? Our first Christmas together in three bloody years, and all you can give your husband is a miserable pair of socks.”
“I don’t have much money, Frank,” Wendy reminded him, and instantly wished she had not.
Frank seized her by the shoulders, practically tipping the turkey off the kitchen table. “Are you saying that’s my fault?”
“No, love.”
“I’m not earning enough — is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
Wendy tried to pacify him, at the same time bracing herself for the violent shaking that would surely follow. Frank tightened his grip, forced her away from the table and pushed her hard against the cupboard door, punctuating each word with a thump.
“That helmet cost me nothing,” he ranted. “Don’t you understand, woman? It’s the thought that counts. You don’t need money to show affection. You just need some savvy, some intelligence. Bloody socks — an insult!”
He shoved her savagely towards the table again. “Now get back to your work. This is Christmas Day. I’m a reasonable man. I’m prepared to overlook your stupidity. Stop snivelling, will you, and get that beautiful bird in the oven. Mum will be here at ten. I want the place smelling of turkey. I’m not having you ruining my Christmas.”
He strode out, heavy boots clumping on the wooden floor of the hallway. “I’m going round Polly’s,” he shouted. “She knows how to treat a hero. Look at this dump. No decorations, no holly over the pictures. You haven’t even bought any beer, that I’ve seen. Sort something out before I get back.”
Wendy was still reeling from the shaking, but she knew she must speak before he left. If she didn’t remind him now, there would be hell to pay later. “Polly said she would bring the Christmas pudding, Frank. Would you make sure she doesn’t forget? Please, Frank.”
He stood grim-faced in the doorway, silhouetted against the drab terraced houses opposite. “Don’t tell me what to do, Wendy,” he said threateningly. “You’re the one due for a damned good reminding of what to do round here.”
The door shook in its frame. Wendy stood at the foot of the stairs, her heart pounding. She knew what Frank meant by a damned good reminding. The belt wasn’t used only on the boy.
“Is he gone, Mum?” Norman called from the top stair.
Wendy nodded, readjusting the pins in her thin, blonde hair, and drying her eyes. “Yes, love, You can come downstairs now.”
At the foot of the stairs, he told her, “I don’t want the helmet. It frightens me.”
“I know, dear.”
“I think there’s blood on it. I don’t want it. If it belonged to one of our soldiers, or one of the Yankees, I’d want it, but this is a dead man’s helmet.”
Wendy hugged her son. The base of her spine throbbed. A sob was building at the back of her throat.
“Where’s he gone?” Norman asked from the folds of her apron.
“To collect your Aunt Polly. She’s bringing a Christmas pudding, you know. We’d better make custard. I’m going to need your help.”
“Was he there last night?” Norman asked innocently. “With Aunt Polly? Is it because she doesn’t have Uncle Ted anymore?”
“I don’t know, Norman.” In truth, she didn’t want to know. Her widowed sister-in-law was welcome to Frank. Polly didn’t know the relief Wendy felt to be rid of him sometimes. Any humiliation was quite secondary to the fact that Frank stopped out all night, bringing respite from the tension and the brutality. The local gossips had been quick to suspect the truth, but she could do nothing to stop them.
Norman, sensing the direction her thoughts had taken, said, “Billy Slater says Dad and Aunt Polly are doing it.”
“That’s enough, Norman.”
“He says she’s got no elastic in her drawers. What does he mean, Mum?”
“Billy Slater is a disgusting little boy. Now let’s hear no more of this. We’ll make the custard.”
Norman spent the next hour helping his mother in the kitchen. The turkey barely fitted in the oven, and Norman became concerned that it wouldn’t be ready in time. Wendy knew better. There was ample time for the cooking. They couldn’t start until Frank and Polly rolled home from the Valiant Trooper. With last orders at a quarter to three, it gave the bird five hours to roast.
A gentle knock at the front door sent Norman hurrying to open it.
“Mum, it’s Grandma Morris!” he called out excitedly as he led the plump old woman into the kitchen. Maud Morris had been a marvellous support through the war years. She knew exactly when help was wanted.
“I’ve brought you some veggies,” Maud said to Wendy, dumping a bag of muddy cabbage and carrots onto the table and removing her coat and hat. “Where’s that good-for-nothing son of mine? Need I ask?”
“He went to fetch Polly,” Wendy calmly replied.
“Did he, indeed?”
Norman said, “About an hour ago. I expect they’ll go to the pub.”
The old lady went into the hall to hang up her things. When she returned, she said to Wendy, “You know what people are saying, don’t you?”
Wendy ignored the question. “He brought in a seventeen-pound turkey this morning.”
“Have you got a knife?” her mother-in-law asked.
“A knife?”
“For the cabbage.” Maud turned to look at her grandson. “Have you had some good presents?”
Norman stared down at his shoe-laces.
Wendy said, “Grandma asked you a question, dear.”
“Did you get everything you asked for?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you write to Saint Nick?” Maud asked with a side-ward glance at Wendy.
Norman rolled his eyes upwards. “I don’t believe in that stuff any more.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Dad gave me a dead German’s helmet. He says it belonged to the one who shot Uncle Ted. I hate it.”
Wendy gathered the carrots from the table and put them in the sink. “I’m sure he was only doing what he thought was best, Norman.”
“It’s got a bullet hole.”
“Didn’t he give you anything else?” his grandmother asked.
Norman shook his head. “Mum gave me some chocolate and the Dandy Annual.”
“But your Dad didn’t give you a thing apart from the helmet?”
Wendy said, “Please don’t say anything. You know what it’s like.”
Maud Morris nodded. It was pointless to admonish her son. He’d only take it out on Wendy. She knew from personal experience the dilemma of the battered wife. To protest was to invite more violence. The knowledge that her second son had turned out such a bully shamed and angered her. Ted, her dear firstborn Ted, would never have harmed a woman. Yet Ted had been taken from her. She took an apron from the back of the door and started shredding the cabbage. Norman was sent to lay the table in the front room.
Four hours later, when the King was speaking to the nation, they heard a key being tried at the front door. Wendy switched off the wireless. The door took at least three attempts to open before Frank and Polly stumbled into the hallway. Frank stood swaying, a bottle in his hand and a paper hat cocked ridiculously on the side of his head. His sister-in-law clung to his coat, convulsed in laughter, a pair of ankle-strap shoes dangling from her right hand.
“Happy Christmas!” he roared. “Peace on earth and goodwill to all men except the Jerries and the lot next door.”
Polly doubled up in uncontrollable giggling.
“Let me take your coat, Polly,” Wendy offered. “Did you remember the pudding? I want to get it on right away.”