Family Divided

by Allen, Anne

  Flicking through he noted the diary spanned the years from 1943 – when Madeleine married Edmund – to 1946.

  The handwriting was not easy for him to decipher and Andy, not wanting to give his father time to change his

  mind, decided to leave and look at it later.

  ~ ~

  Charlotte phoned the rector of St Martins first thing Monday morning, eager to begin what she hoped would be a

  more fruitful line of research. She asked if they could meet and he suggested the following morning. Pleased, she

  slipped out into the garden to test the temperature. With October only days away, the air was cooling and

  Charlotte was glad of the warm sweaters she had bought in Herm. Idly dead-heading the roses her thoughts

  turned to Andy and his excited phone call on Sunday evening.

  ‘You’ll never guess, but I’ve found my grandmother’s diary from the occupation!’ he cried, as she answered

  the phone.

  ‘What! But how…?’

  Andy explained how it had happened and she congratulated him on his brainwave. ‘Have you read it?

  Anything interesting?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, to be honest I’ve flicked through, but apart from the fact the writing’s hard to read, I…I feel

  uncomfortable reading it. She was my grandmother, after all and…and newly married–’

  ‘Oh, that’s so sweet! You don’t want to be a voyeur. Perfectly understandable, but I doubt if there’d be much,

  ahem, in the way of bedroom secrets in a young woman’s diary during enemy occupation,’ she said, wondering if

  Andy blushed when embarrassed. ‘Would you prefer me to read it? At least I’m impartial and would only share

  what was important or relevant.’

  She heard his sigh of relief.

  ‘Would you? If you didn’t mind–’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind. I absolutely adore reading through old diaries and we do need to know if Madeleine

  mentions anything about Edmund and collaboration. She, if anyone, would have known, I’m sure. Oh, this is

  exciting! I think we’re beginning to make progress at last. When can I see the diary?’

  ‘I can call in at lunchtime tomorrow if you like, I’ll be en route to an appointment.’

  They talked for a few minutes more before saying goodbye and Charlotte was left tingling with excitement at

  the prospect of reading the diary. Surely it had to hold something of significance, she told herself.

  The last rose now devoid of dead flowers, Charlotte could only wait impatiently for Andy to arrive; he wasn’t

  due for another two hours. What to do in the meantime? For a moment she was tempted to call her mother to

  persuade her to let her accompany her to the doctor’s the following Tuesday. But the thought of another brush-

  off stopped her. Instead she walked down to Candie Gardens to check out the latest display in the museum

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  before having a coffee in the café and admiring the view over the harbour. Sitting quietly gave the chance to try

  and make sense of her confused feelings about Andy.

  Their goodnight kiss had been as intense as the one on the beach and she had not wanted it to end. Her body

  was saying yes while her head was saying no, this is not what you want right now. It had caused her a couple of

  restless nights and she was no clearer as to what to do. And now she was even more entangled, with the chance

  to read the diary and receive help from the rector! She relieved her frustration by kicking out at the leaves in the

  gardens before making her way home.

  Andy arrived in a rush. ‘Sorry I can’t stop, but I’m running late as usual. Here’s the diary and I hope you can

  fathom the writing better than I could. I think Madeleine was trying to cram as many words as possible onto the

  pages!’ he said.

  Charlotte glanced through. The writing was tiny, but legible, she thought.

  ‘I’ll start reading it now and will keep you posted. Oh, and I’m seeing the rector of St Martins tomorrow

  morning so that’s another potentially useful line of enquiry.’

  ‘Great. Look, I’d better shoot. Call you later,’ he said, hesitating before kissing her quickly on the cheek.

  Charlotte waved him off, not allowing herself to dwell on his hesitation, and carried the diary, a notepad and

  pen outside. The garden was a suntrap and she was determined to sit out as long as it stayed warm. It took a

  while to adjust to Madeleine’s handwriting, so it was a slow start.

  Most of the earlier entries referred to the increasing lack of food and the distress caused to islanders by

  harsher and harsher restrictions imposed on them by the Germans. Charlotte began to understand Madeleine

  was using the diary more as a way of relieving her feelings than as a factual recording of events, although these

  cropped up occasionally. She described her husband in glowing terms:

  “My Edmund’s working so hard to finish the cottage. Not easy with materials being scarce. Particularly paint.

  But today he went round asking if anyone has any spare and everyone was so kind and he came back with a few

  tins. They would not be my first choice but I must not complain. It’s good to see how well-liked he is, for sure. Mind, I

  always knew that – everyone likes Edmund. Everyone except his horrible brother, Harold. But of course, he’s just

  jealous…”

  Charlotte sat up straight. If Edmund was such a nice guy he wasn’t likely to have betrayed his neighbours,

  was he? She knew it wasn’t proof of his innocence, but it did support Andy’s belief in him. Of course, Madeleine

  was biased, but…Charlotte carried on reading, skimming through the long passages bemoaning the lack of

  proper tea and soap until she came to an entry which caused her to feel shocked. Surely he hadn’t dared…She

  had to tell Andy – now.

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  The Family Divided

  chapter thirteen

  ‘It’s about Harold! Madeleine wrote early in the diary he wanted her for himself but she preferred Edmund and

  he couldn’t bear being rejected. He was only seventeen and, according to your grandmother, good looking but

  with an aggressive nature. She fell in love with Edmund for his gentleness and sense of humour.’ She paused,

  gripping the phone as she chose the right words.

  Andy chipped in. ‘Go on. I take it there’s more?’ His voice was eager.

  ‘Yes, there is. Well, Madeleine doesn’t say much more about Harold until about a year after her marriage, in

  ’44. Apparently tensions were rising as Neville, your great-grandfather and Harold were buying on the black

  market but Edmund never went along with it, saying he and his wife would prefer to starve rather than take

  food from the mouths of others. I have to say, Andy, your grandfather sounds like a really decent man,’ she said,

  clearing her throat. She found herself feeling emotional at the thought of the suffering of the islanders, so

  graphically described in the diary.

  ‘I’m sure he was; which is why I want to clear his name. Does the diary say anything about that?’

  ‘Not so far, but there’s quite a bit I haven’t read yet. Anyway, going back to Harold. She recalled the words

  from the diary.

  “Oh, what a day it has been! I still feel sick to my stomach at what happened. While Edmund was busy – helping

  a neighbour – broken fencing, Harold turned up at our cottage, knowing I would be alone. I was in the kitchen. He

  tried to force himself on me. It was hard to fight him off. He is so big. I managed to grab a heavy saucepan – hit him

  on t
he head. It knocked him out for a few minutes. How afraid I was! I thought I had killed him but I could see his

  chest move. I was scared what he would do, so I ran out and hid behind a bush. I could see the front door – prayed

  Edmund would not return and find his brother on the kitchen floor. Thank God he did not! Harold staggered out –

  bleeding head – towards the family farmhouse. I went back and cleaned up the blood. I had just finished when

  Edmund returned. I must have looked bad, he asked me what was the matter – but I said was tired from cleaning,

  had an empty stomach.”

  As she finished Andy let out a horrified gasp.

  ‘My God! How awful. So my grandmother says Harold tried to rape her and she didn’t tell her husband?’

  ‘No, she couldn’t. She didn’t want Edmund getting into a fight with Harold as he was bigger and stronger and

  was worried Edmund would be killed. I can understand that, can’t you? Remember everything was topsy-turvy

  in the occupation, tempers and nerves were stretched, and fights would break out easily. Or that’s what I’ve read

  in the police reports. And, as it happens, Madeleine was right not to say anything as next time she found herself

  alone with Harold, he threatened to hurt her if she told anyone. Poor girl. What a horrible thing to happen. Her

  own brother-in-law!’

  ‘I’ve always thought Harold was an unpleasant piece of work, but I had no idea he was capable of something

  like this. Makes you think, doesn’t it? It sounds to me as if he’s the one more likely to be an informer and not

  Edmund. It would fit his character, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought about it, but you’re right. Perhaps there’ll be more answers later in the diary. So far

  Madeleine hasn’t said much about collaboration or informers but I get the impression she led a sheltered life

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  down in St Martins. I don’t think she and Edmund socialised much as the neighbours were pretty scattered

  across the open fields.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, thanks for telling me, Charlotte. This does give me cause to hope we’ll find something concrete.’

  He was quiet for a moment before continuing, his voice bitter, ‘If I were to meet Harold now, I’d be tempted to

  punch his face in, if he wasn’t such an old man. And to think he had the nerve to not acknowledge my father. He’s

  a far better man than bloody Harold ever was.’

  Charlotte felt so sorry for him, determined now not to give up until Jim regained what was due to him – and

  to his son.

  The next morning Charlotte drove Louisa’s car out to St Martins’ vicarage. She had dropped Louisa off at La Folie

  earlier and had the use of the car for the day and planned to drive around the parish which had been home to

  the Batistes for generations. Except for one particular branch. There had been little time to read any more of

  Madeleine’s diary as Louisa had returned home early from work and had cooked supper for them both. Louisa

  had been intrigued by the diary’s revelations and they spent the evening debating what really happened to

  cause the family split. As Charlotte parked the car at the vicarage she crossed her fingers, hoping the rector,

  Martin Kite, would be willing to help.

  She need not have worried. On explaining she was acting as a research assistant to Guernsey writer Jeanne Le

  Page, the rector gave her his blessing.

  ‘Jeanne’s books are wonderful and her research is immaculate. I particularly enjoyed the first Recipes for

  Love,’ he said, smiling. ‘There’s been one or two non-local writers who have twisted the facts in their books and

  it’s upset some locals, I’m afraid. However, as it’s Jeanne’s novel, then I’m sure my elderly parishioners will be

  happy to talk to you. Not that there’s many left, now. And some of them are, shall we say, not as nimble mentally

  as they were,’ the rector said, with a sigh. ‘I’ll ask around and pass on the contact details of anyone willing to

  chat. Would that suit?’

  ‘Oh, marvellous, Vicar. Thanks so much, I do appreciate you taking the trouble. As a thank you, I’d like to

  make a contribution to parish funds. I know how much churches rely on donations to keep a roof over their

  heads these days,’ she said, pulling out her purse and extracting fifty pounds.

  ‘You’re very generous, my dear. Thank you. And do please call me Martin. How about a cup of tea before you

  go?’

  Charlotte accepted his offer, happy to talk further to someone who knew the parish well. She had to hold

  back from asking if he knew Harold Batiste. Be patient, she told herself, someone’s bound to know him from the

  war…

  After saying goodbye to the rector, she drove off down Grande Rue before turning into one of the lanes on the

  right, leading towards the cliffs. Louisa had left her a copy of a Perry’s guide containing maps of the island so she

  would not get lost. The winding lanes meant Charlotte had to concentrate on any oncoming traffic and only

  managed to catch glimpses of her surroundings. Deciding it would be better to walk, she spotted La Belle Luce

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  Hotel and pulled into the car park. Pleased to find a venue for lunch later, Charlotte set off for her walk. Having

  passed a cemetery along the road she headed there first, wondering if it was where the Batistes were buried.

  Seemed likely. Charlotte had always liked cemeteries and churchyards, finding them peaceful and soothing. Not

  morbid unless you had recently suffered a bereavement.

  She bit her lip as the memory of her father’s funeral flashed into her mind. A grand affair it had been too, as

  her mother had asked most of the county, or so it seemed. But Sir Michael had been much liked and the church

  was full to the point of bursting, with a number of people crowding outside to pay their respects. Charlotte

  would have preferred a quiet, family service so she could express her grief instead of needing to hide behind a

  frozen mask for the day. Her mother had played the part of brave, grieving widow to perfection, dabbing at her

  eyes occasionally, but never allowing tears to fall. Charlotte had never been sure whether or not it had been a

  true love match. Her parents did seem to care for each other, but spent much of the time apart. ‘Oh Daddy, I do

  miss you!’ she cried softly, trying to hold back the threatening tears.

  Taking a couple of deep breaths, she began weaving her way around the serried ranks of graves, larger ones

  containing generations of families. The names were predominantly local, with the occasional foreign and English

  name confirming the ingress of immigrants. Some tugged at her heart: the loss of a young child or an adult dying

  well before they reached their prime. Just as Edmund had done. Moving further into the cemetery she found his

  grave. The inscription on the plain granite headstone was brief:

  Edmund Batiste

  1924–1945

  Dearly loved husband

  God Bless

  Charlotte was shocked Edmund’s family had not acknowledged him, leaving his widow to bury him and provide

  the headstone. Nearby stood the grave of his parents, Neville, who died in 1947, and Enid in 1925. Andy had

  mentioned she had died giving birth to Harold. The headstone was large polished granite.

  A chill took hold of her, like the proverbial walking over the grave and she shivered, turning back to

  Edmund’s grave. For the first time she noticed the shrivelled up flowers sticking out of the ins
et vase. Someone

  still cared, she thought, and assumed it was either Jim or Andy. Glancing further along, Charlotte saw an

  impressive, polished headstone belonging to another Batiste. This time it was Harold’s son, Gregory, who had

  died in 1985, and apparently merited a much more elaborate headstone than his uncle.

  She gritted her teeth in anger at the snub accorded to Edmund and, with a shock realised she was taking it all

  personally. As if she was a part of the family and not an impartial researcher. She needed to stand back, not let it

  get to her. After all, she might be leaving the island soon and had her own pressing problems…

  A few minutes later Charlotte returned to the hotel for lunch, which left her calmer. She followed it with a

  brisk walk down the lanes towards the clifftops. The views and sea air worked their magic and she found herself

  humming a tune as she gazed over hedges into fields of grazing cows. It was all so peaceful now, but what had it

  been like during the occupation? With a shortage of manpower it must have been hard work looking after

  livestock and any surviving crops.

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  Charlotte felt guilty as she considered her own pampered life. Hardly her fault. Fate – or karma as Buddhists

  believed – played a part in which family and generation you were born into. She had listened with rapt attention

  to Paul’s lectures on Buddhism at La Folie and had loved the idea of karma, similar to the Christian idea of “As ye

  sow, so shall ye reap”. As she stood on the cliffs overlooking Moulin Huet Bay, the heartland of the Batiste family,

  she was convinced if there had been any skulduggery in the past, then it was high time it was revealed . An

  unwelcome thought floated into her mind. Was she being entirely altruistic with her offer of help? Or was she

  beginning to enjoy spending time with Andy and wanted to continue? With a toss of her head, she turned round

  and strode away.

  Later that afternoon Charlotte settled down in the dining room with Madeleine’s diary, using the table as a desk.

  Following on from Harold’s attack, Madeleine made sure she was rarely alone until one day she heard he had a