"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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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."

"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 s.n.a.t.c.hed it up and tore the wrapping away. "Socks?" he said in disgust. "Is that it? Our first Christmas together in three b.l.o.o.d.y 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. b.l.o.o.d.y 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 to 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 h.e.l.l 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 d.a.m.ned 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 d.a.m.ned 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 ap.r.o.n.

"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 any more?"

"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 on 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 sideward glance at Wendy.

Norman rolled his eyes upwards. "I don't believe in that stuff anymore."

"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 first-born Ted, would never have harmed a woman. Yet Ted had been taken from her. She took an ap.r.o.n 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 in to the hallway. Frank stood swaying, a bottle in his hand and a paper hat c.o.c.ked 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!" Frank 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."

Polly turned to Frank. "The pudding. What did you do with the pudding, Frank?"

"What pudding?" said Frank.

Maud had come into the hall behind Wendy. "I know she's made one. Don't mess about, Frank. Where is it?"

Frank pointed vaguely over his shoulder.

Wendy said despairingly, "Back at Polly's house? Oh no!"

"Stupid cow. What are you talking about?" said Frank. "It's on our own b.l.o.o.d.y doorstep. I had to put it down to open the door, didn't I?"

Wendy squeezed past them and retrieved the white basin covered with a grease-proof paper top. She carried it quickly through to the kitchen and lowered it into the waiting saucepan of simmering water. "It looks a nice big one."

This generous remark caused another gale of laughter from Polly. Finally, slurring her words, she announced, "You'll have to make allowances. Your old man's a very naughty boy. He's took me out and got me tiddly."

Maud said, "It beats me where he gets the money from."

"Beats Wendy, too, I expect," said Polly. She leaned closer to her sister-in-law, a lock of brown hair swaying across her face. "From what I've heard, you know a bit about beating, don't you, Wen?" The remark was not made in sympathy. It was triumphant.

Wendy felt the shame redden her face. Polly smirked and swung around, causing her black skirt to swirl as she left the room. The thick pencil lines she had drawn up the back of her legs to imitate stocking seams were badly smudged higher up. Wendy preferred not to think why.

She took the well-cooked bird from the oven, transferred it to a platter, and carried it into the front room. Maud and Norman brought in the vegetables.

"Would you like to carve, Frank?"

"Hold your horses, woman. We haven't said the grace."

Wendy started to say, "But we never ..."

Frank had already intoned the words, "Dear Lord G.o.d Almighty."

Everyone dipped their heads.

"Thanks for what we are about to receive," Frank went on, "and for seeing to it that a skinny little half-pint won the meat raffle and decided to donate it to the Morris family."