Christmas on the Home Front
It’s the last Christmas of the war but will things ever be the same again? Christmas 1944 Despite the food rationing and the bitterly cold weather, the land girls of Pasture Farm, Connie Carter, Joyce Fisher and Esther Reeves, are determined to celebrate this Christmas in style. The fighting might still be raging, but they all hope this could be the last Christmas of this dreaded war. But as the day approaches, word spreads in sleepy Helmstead that two German Airmen are on the run. With everyone on high alert, the mood is tense and the women take no chances. Until the German airmen find them… Trapped at Pasture Farm with the enemy, the women are determined to find a way to freedom and overpower the airmen. But it means risking everything… including their lives. Readers are LOVING Christmas on the Home Front… ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ ‘I loved loved this book. The author captures it in a way that you are a part of the story itself! Amazing! Read it in one sitting ’ Carly, NetGalley Reviewer ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ 'What an utterly FANTASTIC book. I was totally captivated and transported back in time, excellent plot and so well executed nothing was left out' Jeanie, NetGalley ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ 'Loved this saga. Beautiful setting, characters and add in Christmas, a warm wonderful novel. Will be recommending this to all readers who want to escape the real world into this magical one' Abby, NetGalley ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ 'A fantastic read with all the characters we love' Lisa, NetGalley
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Christmas on the Home Front
ROLAND MOORE
One More Chapter
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Copyright © Roland Moore 2019
Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Cover images © Shutterstock.com
Roland Moore asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008204457
Ebook Edition © November 2019 ISBN: 9780008204426
Version: 2019-09-12
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About the Publisher
To Annie, a grandmother who loved books and who taught me the power of stories.
It was one day before Christmas. And Joyce Fisher wondered whether she would live to see it.
This winter-bleak thought wasn’t borne of fatigue from living through so many years of war. It wasn’t even the result of having lost so much along the way. No, Joyce knew, totally rationally, that today was one of those days that can change a life forever; a crossroads in which taking the wrong path could cost everything. She wished with all her heart that it wasn’t the case, that there was some rosy alternative, another path to take. But she couldn’t see any way out of it.
She hadn’t planned for it to turn out that way, of course, but the trouble was that you rarely had any warning which days would be the ones to change things. You could plan for saying yes to an invitation or moving house or getting married. But other life-changing events could leap out in front of you, like a distracted deer on a country lane, giving you no opportunity to prepare, no opportunity to weigh up the options. Sometimes there was no time to think about consequences. Sometimes there was only time to act and then hope that things turned out for the best.
Joyce’s hands were bunched into fists, her fingernails impressing bleached crescents into her fleshy palms. She had never felt this scared, this nervous or this numb. The torrent of emotions overwhelmed her making every thought struggle for air like a swimmer lost in the currents. It was hard to think straight. And yet that’s what she had to do. All the energy had drained from her body; her legs moving slowly, heavy and disconnected. She’d been through enough to know that she was in shock and that more tears would come later. When this was over she could give in to grief. For now, whatever defence mechanisms and natural survival instinct she still possessed had kicked in.
Joyce was a capable, resourceful young woman, and at twenty-four, she was one of the older Land Girls at Pasture Farm. Not as opinionated as Connie Carter and not as naïve as Iris Dawson, Joyce kept everyone on an even keel, offering the gentle, understated guidance of a big sister for the other girls. She enjoyed the farm work. She enjoyed doing her bit for the war effort. In fact, Joyce was motivated to an almost unhealthy degree by the need to do her bit. She believed every bit of allied propaganda, every edict from the War Office about how civilians should be behaving, what they should be doing.
Dig for Victory? Yes, of course.
Don’t waste water? Naturally.
Loose lips sink ships. Not Joyce. You could count on her discretion.
Joyce never questioned what she was doing, never questioned her orders like her friend Nancy Morrell had. Joyce needed the order and rigidity of service to hold onto like a lifeline. It made sense of everything that had happened in her life, everything that they were going through individually and as a nation. She’d lost her mother and sister in the bombing of Coventry and the war effort gave her a purpose; a chance to bring something positive out of those events.
She was in her bedroom at Pasture Farm where she had been billeted since she had joined the Women’s Land Army. She paced the familiar small room with its mismatched carpet and curtains and faint smell of mould; a room in which she had observed every detail during long evenings after work. The peeling skirting board, the thinning threads on the main drag of the carpet, the patch of damp in the corner above the window (a constant reminder that Farmer Finch, the landlord of the house, had failed to keep his promise to fix the guttering) and the creaky floorboard by the door. In the drawer was an article from the
