The Midnight Falcon

by Graham Saunders

Chapter 20

  The flight into Guernsey from Charles De Gaulle Airport was routine and uneventful and it was not until Katrina emerged from the airport into a gale stricken late afternoon that she realised just how windy it was on the Island. There were taxis waiting and huddling against the tempest, Katrina found sanctuary in the rear seat of a Mercedes. The driver put her single case, containing all she owned in the world, into the boot. She had the address that Valentina had given her written neatly on a scrap of paper.

  "Could you take me here?" She said.

  "Sure... No problem love... You here on holiday?"

  "I might be staying a while." she said. The address is my friend's cottage."

  "OK, its not far I'll have you there in a jiffy... Sorry about the weather," he said "It's not usually as windy as this... Might be in for some rain later."

  After a short ride of maybe fifteen minutes Katrina arrived at the gate of a cottage and watched as the driver made a three point turn in the street and headed back presumably to the airport. Katrina felt suddenly very alone and vulnerable. According to Valentina the cottage had started life as a humble farm outbuilding, possibly just a barn used for storing hay or housing animals. Built of dark granite on a concrete foundation with a sturdy slate roof the little cottage stood as the last building on Rue des Arbres at a place called Jerbourg. Any further and you would be in the sea. It was surrounded on three sides by farmland and a scattering of houses while to the east the land sank away to cliffs and then an expanse of the English Channel that disappeared into the misty haze of the horizon. Today the sea looked angry as white horses were spurred to a foamy gallop by the gale force wind. The cottage stood on its own small grounds separated by low granite walls. The front garden was dominated by an old walnut tree which still clung onto a few of last season's amber leaves there was still a scattering of uncollected fruit brown and gnarled flesh hiding the plump nuts still secure in their protective shells.

  Valentina had not been at her little hide-away cottage for some time and the little place known as Apple Cottage had been locked up and left to the hands of fate and the occasional care of the neighbouring farmer, an apple cheeked middle aged woman by the name of Mary who ran the farm aided by her grown son. Valentina was known to the few locals she encountered by an alias. They called her Valentina Gosling and her exact origins were a matter of some curiosity and curious gossip from the locals. "Polish I'd say Margaret..." "No... not with that name must be English maybe she got her accent from living abroad..." The truth of the matter had never been revealed despite the direct question being posed and skilfully deflected on more than one occasion. Valentina Gosling's occasional residence in the cottage remained something of an enigma... exactly as Valentina wished.

  Katrina noticed that the garden, if you could call it that, was overgrown and thick with weeds and twisted thorny bramble. It gave the cottage a run down appearance but a quick glance of the building showed that its fabric had survived the months of neglect without harm. The doors were still securely locked and all the windows were intact. If not for the high wind that was now stripping the remaining leaves from the walnut tree and sending an escaped plastic watering can skidding end over end across the unmown grass, she would have been entranced by the potential that the little dwelling offered. Her focus, for the moment, was fixed on finding a refuge before the darkening sky unleashed its threatened torrent of rain.

  The door locks were stiff to Katrina's slender fingers but yielded to the keys without too much difficulty. Once inside the shriek of the wind dropped an octave and Katrina stumbled into what should have been a haven of shelter. Instead she found a place cold and uninviting with the musty smell of neglect hanging in the damp air. Katrina's first meeting with Apple Cottage offered the weary traveller no real welcome, little promise of comfort. She had the sense that the cottage had been waiting for someone to rouse it from an unwanted slumber but doubted, in her present frame of mind, that she quite had the fortitude to tackle this on her own. She wished, not for the first time since leaving the warmth of the Mediterranean port of Marseille, that Valentina was still with her.

  A flick of the light switch revealed that there was no power and despite repeatedly clicking the switch she was unable to elicit any interest from the stubbornly dark bulb. Katrina had little understanding of electricity and absolutely no idea how to solve that problem nor could she let fresh air sanitise the musty odours for fear that the wind would strip the cottage of its modest furnishings.

  Despite her misgivings, a brief exploration showed Katrina that this small home really offered her everything she might reasonably expect and her feelings of disappointment seemed wilfully ungrateful. A small mezzanine floor taking up the entire width of the cottage had been constructed over the east facing half of the main room. Katrina climbed the simple open construction stair. It was steep with no hand rail, little more than a ladder but the effort of climbing it revealed a cosy looking bedroom. There was a soft double bed with a duvet rolled up at its foot, a chest of drawers and a built-in wardrobe which all confirmed the room's intended use. The absence of any bed linen was another concern for the young woman's mind but the view, from the small window, across the cliffs to the sea was compelling even on a day battered by gales. The bedroom was partitioned from the room below by nothing more substantial than a pair of heavy brocade curtains which would afford privacy from the sitting room below if required.

  The main room was a combined kitchen and sitting room and there was a small separate bathroom and a store room against the south wall. Next to the store room was an alcove which was separated off by another heavy curtain. The space was just big enough to fit a single bed though it would be difficult to call it a bedroom. The cottage was sparsely furnished. A Formica topped kitchen table with two hard chairs sat on the linoleum of the kitchen area. There was a slightly shabby sofa set on a square of carpet from which you could look up to the mezzanine bedroom. The only appliance Katrina could find was an electric kettle. She had little doubt that with a sufficient supply of electricity crackling in the wires, the kettle would work but when she tried the sink taps and found there to be no water either, her confidence slipped another notch.

  There were kitchen cupboards, all empty apart from a few plates, dishes and some brown toughened glass mugs. She found no food not even a small stash of emergency cans. The drawers by the sink held some cutlery and the under-sink cupboard held dish washing liquid and other cleaning products. A box of candles offered the prospect of a not entirely dark evening. Perhaps the cottage's saving grace was its fireplace with a small stack of dry logs which held the welcome promise of a warm evening.

  Katrina sank onto the sofa and considered her plight. She was in dire need of several things and could think of no way to obtain any of them. She needed food and a means to cook it, she needed water and she needed bed linen and electricity. Not too much to ask she thought. There was no phone in the cottage, her own mobile still had no connection with a local provider; she felt totally alone. As alone as when Andrej had left her on Ikinos. At least there she had water and power and a little food. She longed for a warm drink, a warm shoulder to cry on. Outside the wind continued to howl like an enraged animal, she pulled her thin coat tight round her and thought of the sultry nights on Ikinos when it was too hot to sleep. It seemed only days ago that she was there under the warm sun.

  Like the tumbling of a house of cards Katrina was suddenly gripped by a feeling of helplessness and her eyes flooded with tears. She looked around the room; her unopened suitcase still sat by the door where she had left it. It crossed her mind to call for another taxi and go to the town and find a hotel room. Anything would be better than this. But of course she had no means to call a taxi. If she wanted to find a hotel she would have to walk and she had no idea how far she was from civilisation. She realised in a feeling not far removed from panic that she knew almost nothing about Guernsey.

  John Le Prevost was drinking hot sweet tea and eating a double
sized hunk of his mother's date and walnut loaf. He cared little about the future or of making a fortune, and had, as a result, a great reserve of simple happiness. His eyes stretched out into the rapidly darkening sky; it made him shiver just to look at it. He had spent most of the day, since early milking, repairing the stone wall down by the douit where the watercress grew thick and lush. He worked contentedly with a whistle on his lips but as the wind started up he withdrew to the farmhouse for a cup of sweet tea and a moment of warmth by the glow of the kitchen Aga. It was nearly milking time and his part-time farm hand Richard Allisette, a seventeen year old lad still at school, had not yet turned up. He was sometimes late getting home what with the extra exam tutoring he needed and the sometime football training. John could hardly blame Richard for that but milking would be a pig of a job to have to cope with on his own in filthy weather like this. The wind always upset his ladies and made them skittish and harder to handle.

  It had been a good summer and there was a bountiful supply of hay and silage to see them through the winter this year. In a few weeks he would bring the herd indoors for overwintering. Already, down by the stand of tall lindens, the bottom field was starting to get waterlogged and the reddish-gold Guernseys with their big soft eyes and gentle manner, were starting to churn up the autumn grass into a muddy swamp – not the best for pasture management.

  John was just twenty three and born to a farming life. The day to day running of the farm had fallen onto his shoulders after his father had been killed one black Wednesday morning when his ancient Ferguson tractor had rolled onto him while negotiating a steep cut of craggy land. He had been on his way to plough the potato field, a job he had done without mishap every year since he was seventeen. The accident was back two winters ago but it seemed like half a lifetime to young John.

  It was Mary who found her husband. She had expected him back for a bite of lunch and when he hadn't returned she walked up from the farmhouse across the high meadow with the sun watery in the sky. In her concern Mary ignored the view that might stretch to to the French coast on a fine day. Even after a lifetime, the view could still make her catch her breath in astonishment on a clear day. Mary saw the Ferguson on its back like a dead animal. She stopped, the breath suddenly taken from her lungs, knowing instantly that her husband would not be coming home ever again. She stood unmoving for maybe half an hour until John came to her. It was as if she had lost her compass, suddenly rudderless with a blank mind and black ice in her heart.

  "Mum..." John said as he drained his tea mug. "There's smoke coming out of Miss Gosling's chimney up there..."

  Mary looked up from the dairy accounts she was assiduously checking with a newly sharpened pencil. She took off her reading glasses and looked up through a pair of pale blue eyes that shone with natural kindness.

  "Is there my love... I didn't hear that she was expected back."

  "Might be be some vagrants, could've broken in." John said, his voice muffled by the soft cake.

  Mary got up and walked to the window.

  "I hope not John, I promised that Valentina woman I'd keep on eye on her cottage while she was away."

  "I know that Mum, that's why I told you... She's a strange one that Miss Gosling... What's she want with the cottage when she's never here to use it?"

  "Well that's her business I expect. No need for you to go prying into her private affairs my lad."

  John shrugged and finished his cake. "Now, what you could do for me John my love is just pop up there and see that all's well."

  "I could..." He said implying that he could hardly be troubled. "I've got the milking..."

  "Well do it for me love... Mind, if it looks like intruders have got in, come straight back and I'll give Sergeant Corbin a ring. I don't want you getting mixed up in no trouble."

  It was no more than a ten minute walk across the fields to Apple Cottage. John pulled on his new rubber boots, bought just two days ago from Tom Falla's over in St Martins. He pulled on his heavy, army style, parka with the hood pulled up against the wind. The little home had stood there on the high point since before John had been born and he had never known it serve duty as anything other than a cottage. John was a big lad, physically strong as befitted his job. His youth and inexperience gave him courage beyond his true capacity. Meaning he was afraid of no man nor beast. Accordingly he strode up the path to the front door of Apple Cottage and knocked heavily against its timbers with his fist.

  The sound made Katrina jump. She had certainly not been expecting visitors in this isolated spot with gale-force winds howling against the slate roof and rattling the windows. She hurriedly dabbed at her eyes.

  When the door opened John saw what was possibly the prettiest, most delicate young woman he had ever seen in his life. Her appearance had two effects, both were instantaneous. Firstly her elegant bearing made him feel like some clumsy oaf by comparison and secondly he knew beyond any doubt that she could not possibly be up to no good. She was an angel, there could be no doubt on that score.

  The two strangers stared at each other neither of them quite knowing what to say.

  "Saw the smoke from your chimney..." John finally said.

  Katrina continued to stare at the vision that graced her threshold. Had the angels sent him to help me, was he even an angel himself? Katrina assumed that angels probably didn't wear Wellington boots, even new green ones.

  "I felt the need for a fire..." She said as if an apology were required for such an outrage. "There were some logs... Is it a problem?"

  "No no... My Mum just... I'm from Le Moulin farm, your neighbour I suppose." He indicated the general direction from which he had come but his train of thought had somehow escaped him."

  "Do you know anything about electricity and water?" Katrina said.

  "I know its best not to mix them." John said and then instantly wished he hadn't. It was a law of nature that he transgressed at his own peril... all the jokes he tried to make would inevitably fall flat... It was the way he told them he thought. Even so the girl laughed, nothing too much just a gentle laugh but it was a laugh. He liked the sound of her laughter rather quite a lot.

  "How to get them working I mean..." Katrina said.

  The young man seemed flushed as if he had come a long way in a short time with his shoulders pressed into the teeth of the gale.

  "Don't stand there come in out of the wind... Tell me it's not always this windy on Guernsey."

  "No Miss this is a rare old blow... The forecast reckons the front'll pass through by midnight. Should be fine tomorrow."

  "You can't imagine how pleased I am to hear that." She called, her words disappearing into the wind.

  John pulled off his muddy boots and left them standing in the narrow porch before following the girl into the cottage. He almost immediately stumbled over Katrina's suitcase that she had careless left as an innocent looking but potentially fatal man-trap.

  "Sorry... sorry." He said. Katrina tried not to giggle, her mood suddenly lifted by the presence of the stranger.

  "I'd offer you a cup of tea... If I had any tea, or water..."

  "Or electricity..." He finished for her. "I see now..."

  "I've just arrived and I can't find anything... There's no bed linen, nothing to cook on, no food, no phone. If you hadn't come..." She let the sentence hang not sure if the stranger was going to be able to help her or not. She did not want to make hasty assumptions or lay any unwanted responsibility on his shoulders.

  "Have you looked in the storeroom, I think Miss Gosling packed things up in old boxes to keep them safe."

  "Oh no, did she?... That's the store room over there is it?" She said.

  "Lets have a look..."

  John pulled open the door. There was a bicycle stopping access to the stack of crates that filled up the small room.

  "Oh a bike... that could be very useful." Katrina said. The little store room was starting to feel like an Aladdin’s cave as John dragged out the cases and pried open the covers.
>
  Together they discovered a small microwave oven, a selection of canned and dried food still pristine in its vacuum packaging. The desperately needed bed linen and some carefully rolled towels. There was even a small portable radio with spare batteries.

  "Oh, this is just like Christmas... Why did I not think to look in there?"

  John could not come up with a reply so kept his tongue until the silence threatened to become its own embarrasment.

  "Maybe we should look at getting you some power." He finally said.

  "Oh yes..."

  John looked at the young woman.

  "I don't know your name." He said.

  "I'm Katrina Devra."

  "Oh that's unusual... But, you know... kinda nice... So where are you from Katrina?"

  "Croatia." She said repeating the rehearsed identity that Valentina had suggested to her. Keep your own name it will be easier but avoid mentioning Sachovia.

  "Ah..." John had heard of Croatia of course but would have been unable to find it on a map without a Google search. What he knew about it was vague... Had there been a war?... He was keen not to reveal his ignorance to Katrina. "Let's see if we can find the fuse box." he said. Instead of moving his feet seemed stuck to the spot, maybe it was the way Katrina's hair fell across her neck or the sparkle of her eyes...

  "So?..." Katrina prompted. "The fuse box."

  "Right, right... So I'm pretty sure the services haven't been cut off. It's probably just the main switch in the fuse box for the power and the stopcock for the water."

  "Stop...cock?" Katrina said rolling the unfamiliar words round her mouth.

  "Yes... Let me see if I can find the main switch... think the box is by the front door if my memory serves..."

  Katrina blinked as her bulky angel turned back towards the front entrance.

  "Yes here it is..." He called

  There was the click of a switch and the main room filled with light.

  "Thank you so much... You haven't told me your name yet."

  "John, John le Prevost." He said.

  "So thank you John... That's fantastic... Er I think you mentioned I think a... stop...cock."

  "Yes... I'll see if I can find it... I think I remember seeing it when Miss Gosling was here."

  In an instant John was outdoors again bracing against the gale and twisting open a stiff valve that was hidden under a small metal plate by the front wall of the cottage. Katrina let him in again as soon as she heard his knock and then, leaning all her weight against the power of the wind, forced the door shut against the weather.

  "Try that..." John said with the voice of a man confident of success.

  She went to the sink and turned the tap. There was a spluttering of trapped air that belched in a spray then a gush of brown water before the stream turned clear and steady.

  "You should have hot water when the cylinder warms up." John said.

  "You've saved me." Katrina said her instinct prodding her to rush up and kiss his cheek but a sense of propriety constrained her. It was possibly a pity because nothing would have pleased the young Mr Le Prevost more.