Island Madness

by Tim Binding

  “What’s he saying?” Veronica asked her father.

  “That’s his billet. Near the Todt Headquarters. He’ll need to get back there before it gets light.” He held up his hand. “I don’t know why I’m doing this.”

  He moved to the side dresser and bent down. They heard the clatter of the bread bin. He came up holding a paper bag.

  “Egg and tomato pie. Mrs Luscombe brought it round this afternoon.” He broke it in two and stuck half in the boy’s pocket. “Now vamoose, before you get us all shot.”

  Veronica took the boy to the door. She tapped her wrist.

  “At night,” she said. “Nacht. This door. Open.” She swung it to and fro. “You komm hier. For food. Yes?”

  “Yiss.”

  “Good. Sehr gut.”

  The boy smiled quickly again. She took his head and held it against her. He turned, and ran out into the dark.

  Her father was sitting at the table, smoking the stub end of a roll-up.

  “Dangerous game you’re playing, girl,” he said.

  “Him? He won’t talk.”

  Her father shook his head.

  “Not him. I mean that.” He pointed to the greatcoat. “No good’ll come of it.”

  “No? What about you up at the airport?”

  “That’s different. Working for them is one thing. We’ve no choice in the matter. Having… relations is another.”

  “Well, excuse me for living. And where do you think those fighters are going? Butlin’s Holiday Camp? You can see the bombers circling waiting for their escort, for Christ’s sake. That’s what you’re doing, Dad. Helping bomb London.”

  Her father’s face darkened with anger.

  “You don’t know the half of it, girl. I know what I’m doing and I know what you’re doing. You should have stuck with Tommy Ie Coeur. There’d be none of this nonsense then.”

  “Tommy was going with every tart he could lay his hands on!”

  “Well, you must have given him a taste for them, that’s all I can say.”

  “Da!”

  “I mean it. Thank God your mother can’t see it all.”

  “I’ll move out if you like.”

  “It might come to that.”

  He trudged back upstairs. Veronica opened the back door and walked out into the garden, down to the field at the end, wondering if the boy had got back home safely. Home! She sighed at the impossibility of the word and feeling the tears rise up, held on to the railing and let her body shake.

  Reaching the top of the hill Ned stopped and looked down. Though the moon shone full, it was a winter moon, one that bled the island of all colour. On the shoreline, a mass of shapes stood out against the sky, a gravel digger, its half-open jaw towering over the silhouette of a Henschel locomotive with its string of empty wagons. Closer by, the pocket of houses where he had been brought up, once whitewashed every year, but now left to fade in tired sympathy. No one painted their houses any more. Guernsey had a new shade now, occupational grey.

  But beyond the bay sparkled. No blackout could hide it tonight, and as it danced, deep and dark, it seemed to restore to the island that sense of floating space that he had long forgotten existed. For a moment he could remember what it had been like before the grey, when the island had rung, not to the sound of marching feet and strident songs, but to sounds that had been banished by decree, sounds an active people made. For they did nothing now except shamble from one day to the next. He stood and listened. Even the tone of the sea had been changed! He could remember how it had been, the rhythm he had slept and woken to, not this slap, slap, slap, as it met thick concrete walls, but the sucking wash of it as it beat its way, back and forth, over the long expanse of pebble and sand. Time was when he would have gone down and dragged the canoe out, now one of the few craft on the island that hadn’t been confiscated or broken up. Not that he’d hidden it, that was the beauty of it. It was a foldaway canoe called a Folboat, eighteen foot long, light but strong enough to carry a load of around 700 Ibs. Dismantled it looked more like a camp bed than anything else and with the paddies hidden among the pitchforks they hadn’t given it a second glance. He’d seen an advert for it seven years ago. 2/6 a week it cost to buy then and he’d done it with the help of dad and a loan from Uncle Albert. He used to take it out regularly on spring nights like this, skimming over the huge stillness of the world, dipping in moonlight on the empty sea. In the summer Veronica came too, the two of them skirting the mute cliffs and motionless bays before she slipped in, swimming on top of the great swell, challenging the cold currents while he described safety’s circle. The island had been theirs then; they had the strength and skill to possess it, to feed in its deep waters, to embrace its age with their surging youth.

  An owl called, reminding him of other hoots and chants that once broke this hushed night air; singing his way home with Bernie, their stomachs awash with beer; the skinny-dipping squeals a whole group of them had enticed once out of Veronica and Bernie’s girl and the young Elspeth Poidevin and how they had run back across L’Ancresse Common with freshly glimpsed secrets to take to bed. Everyone grew older, he knew that, and he knew too that it was not the passing of his youth that he regretted, but that it should pass into this, where their movements were constricted not by the island’s history or their own stubborn prejudices but by a homeland which had ceased to exist. For where were they now? What identity did they possess? They listened to the wireless, waiting for messages of hope and exhortation, but though London sent an armada of them to the other occupied countries, none were directed here. England kept quiet about the Channel Islands as if she were punishing the islands for letting the side down. ‘England expects that every man will do his duty’, that’s the phrase he had been taught at school. But what could they do here, with no place to hide, living amongst an enemy who was polite and considerate and bristling with power?

  He was careful to make little sound when he got home, but the walk had wakened him, and he did not feel like sleep. He felt hungry and in need of company, and so he knelt down and talked softly to the dog. Jimbo raised his head in attentive affection before settling back to sleep. On the stone shelf in the larder lay five turnip cakes Mum must have made that afternoon and beside them a pile of oatmeal biscuits. There was no bread. The four eggs meant that the chickens were still laying; meant that the chickens were still there. Ned had moved them into the washroom at the back, and though the kitchen smelt of them a little, at least they were safe. He took two eggs and bit into a biscuit. He hadn’t eaten properly the whole day.

  The iron stove had gone out hours ago, but it would not take long to light. Before the Occupation it would have been kept on all night, burning coal that Dad would have brought back from the builder’s yard, but they hadn’t had any decent stuff since ‘41, just wet sludge from Belgium that seemed to generate everything but heat. Their supply of wood was running low, though they had yet to decide whether to demolish Sally’s old pen and use it for fuel. He opened the front of the stove and shoved a couple of small logs on top of a small pile of kindling. Pulling the pan down from its hook, he cracked in the eggs and waited for the heat to come through. There was still some tea in the caddy left over from Uncle Albert’s weekly visit, and though he felt guilty making a pot solely for himself, he put the kettle on. He needed some comfort.

  While the eggs were cooking he moved into the other room and sat in the armchair where Dad used to sit bathing his feet, waiting for his supper. Though the light in the kitchen was weak, it shone clear through. Ned couldn’t help but look. This was where he had been brought up, this tiny cottage, the downstairs room, the kitchen, the outside lav and the two rooms upstairs. He had been right to get out, whatever Dad had thought, and now he was back again. Back and alone and without a future. How familiar it looked, and yet how strange that this might turn out to be his whole life; the red carpet brought back from one of the big houses before he had been born, the French clock Grandad had rescued from some sinking tramp steamer
, the warped sideboard with the ashtray from Portland Bill on it, Mum and Dad’s wedding picture propped up behind. What else? A square table, a clean grate, a mirror with the silver backing coming off, the lighthouse doorstop and three easy chairs. He returned to the kitchen, put the pan on the table, pulled the Star out of his pocket and started to read.

  Like everyone else he took little notice of the news, for that came firmly under the censor’s control: reports of Lord Haw-Haw’s latest broadcast, exaggerated claims about their military successes and feeble attempts at ingratiation. Instead he turned straight to the back page. At the top right-hand corner, Conversation Lesson No. 204. Tonight’s was typical. Was halten Sie von diesem Bild? What do you think of this picture? Ich bin kein Kunstkenner. I am no connoisseur. Sie sehen doch, was es darstellen soll. Yet you see what it is supposed to represent. Es stellt eine Dame dar, die Klavier spielt. It shows a lady playing the piano. Now, how do you like it? Nun also, wie gefellt es Ihnen? All very well and good, although Ned couldn’t see the point of the third remark. Either it showed a lady playing a piano or it didn’t. However that was nothing compared with the last phrase. Das kann ich nicht sagen: ich bin taub. I cannot tell: I am deaf. What should he make of that? What it a mistake. Did they mean to write ‘I cannot tell: I am blind’? Or was it a joke? He could imagine Sondefiihrer Bohde beside himself with merriment over that one. However, “What do you think of this…?” was useful. Was halten Sie von diesem…? He said it out loud and then looked down to the advertisements. The Trade Cards. The Island’s Market Place. The Entertainments. In far left-hand corner, he read the usual: Wanted. Blacksmiths, Bricklayers, Stone masons, fitters and quarry-men of all classes. Apply van Dielen. 30 Victoria Rd.

  Opposite were tonight’s exchange offerings. Two Tennis racquets with pressesfor offer of tobacco. Write ‘Ping’. Dog soap and shampoo for best offer cigarettes, write ‘Bob Martin’. Gents shoes Sir Herben Parker make for sugar or useful commodities.

  And in the centre another announcement: Chiropody. Miss Veronica Vaudin is pleased to announce an extension of her opening hours. Mornings 10-12.30: Afternoon 2.30-4.30. Monday—Friday. By appointment only.

  Ned leant back in his chair. Veronica had worked hard for her qualification. His mother hadn’t approved of that either. “Feet!” he remembered her saying. “Fancy having a daughter-in-law in Feet!”

  “Just the job if Ned joins the boys in blue,” his dad had retorted. “She can massage them of a night,” and he winked at him, man to man, as Mum had banged her temper round the kitchen.

  There was nothing in the paper for him. A few bantams for sale, that was all. He placed the pan in the sink and stepped outside. Almost immediately he was aware of a stealthy rustling noise in the field at the back. At first he thought it might be a fox padding along the undergrowth, but despite its stealth it was too clumsy a sound to be made by made four legs. Two legs then, moving towards the back of next door’s garden, oblivious of Ned’s presence. A soldier with a loaf of bread in his hand? A foreign with one of next door’s chickens under his arm? He moved to the gate leading to the back field, ready to pounce, when he heard the sigh of a voice he recognized.

  “V, is that you?” he called, moving quickly up to the gate.

  A sniffling and then the voice whispered back. “Ned?”

  She stepped into the moonlight, her arms holding her coat tightly round her body. Her hair looked almost silver.

  “Got home safely, then?” he said.

  She blew her nose and laughed. “In a manner of speaking. Sorry about the lift.”

  “That’s all right. I fancied the walk. How’s your mum?”

  “Not bad. Dad’s his usual handful, though. I needed to take a breath of air.”

  He nodded, unable to think of anything else to say, feeling the awkwardness between them. Once they had been so at ease with each other. They were standing in different territories now.

  “I thought I heard something,” he said. “No one’s been trying to break in round you or anything?”

  “No, don’t think so. What’s there to steal? Anyway, the night’s too bright.”

  They both looked up. They were alone, under the stars again.

  “We’d have gone canoeing,” Ned said, “on a night like this.”

  “You would. I’d have stopped in. Too cold for swimming.” She shivered, as if the coat was giving her no protection at all. “I’d better get back in. Busy day tomorrow.”

  “Yes, I read your advert. You must be doing well.”

  “Not that. I’ve got rehearsals all day. You coming to see us?”

  “Perhaps. If I have the time.”

  “You always used to.”

  Ned turned and looked out over the grey field. He didn’t want to look at her any more. “There’s a different audience there now, V,” he told her.

  “Only in one half. You don’t have to sit with them. They’re quite separate.”

  “When they choose to be.”

  “You can’t blame them for wanting company, Ned. We all want company.”

  “So I saw.” He regretted saying it the moment it left his mouth.

  “You been talking to my father?” Veronica’s whisper rose in intensity. “You crossed me off, remember.” She paused. “God, listen to the pair of us. To think we could have been married by now.”

  “You’d have regretted it.”

  “Possibly. Possibly not. You would, though. You had other ambitions. Well, they haven’t come to much, have they? You’re stuck here, Ned Luscombe, whether you like it or not. So make the best of it. Like we all have to.” She started to walk away.

  “V, I didn’t mean…” But she had gone.

  It was cold in his bedroom, cold and uncomfortable. Outside the wind was picking up again. Across the landing he could hear Mum snoring. At least she was safe in bed. She’d taken to sleepwalking in the last few months. Three to four in the morning was the chosen time. Usually he’d be alerted by the sound of her stumbling into a chair; once he’d woken to find the kettle singing its heart out on the stove with her gone and the back door swinging open. He’d thrown his coat over his pyjamas and followed the opened back gate and the silver trail of footsteps on the wet cobwebbed grass with his police torch. He’d found her half a mile away, walking along the hedgerows picking imaginary blackberries in her wicker basket, her nightdress bedraggled and torn, her arms all bloody from the tangle of thorns. Since that time usually he slept with his bedroom door open and the back-door key under his pillow. But not tonight. His quarrel with Veronica and the thought of Isobel had made him weary and forgetrul. Tomorrow he would see Isobel again. Must see you, she had written. Must see you. She would confide in him, ask his help, declare…declare her what? He waited for sleep behind a closed door trying to picture her and what she might say, but thinking too of Tommy and letters and most irritatingly of all, Veronica swimming in the sea.

  The Major took a last look at the drawing room, with the half-empty bottles and stubbed-out cigarette ends littering the sideboard, the parquet floor strewn with the set of Christmas paper hats and streamers that Zep had found in a box in the cellar. In the far corner he could see a nurse’s skirt and jacket, her shoes laid carefully on top. Molly lay curled up on the sofa, nursing a brandy she didn’t want to drink. She was just trying to keep awake, to look alive for the Captain’s return. He took pity on her.

  “You can come upstairs if you want.”

  “What?” Molly looked up, both confased and surprised at such an unexpected proposition.

  “No, no, I wasn’t suggesting—” He broke off. “I meant the Captain’s room. Under the circumstances I would have no objections.”

  For a moment Molly looked disappointed, not because she desired him, but because he did not desire her. She ran her hand through her hair as if to remind herself of her irrepressible allure, then swung her legs out from under.

  “That’s kind of you, Gerhard, but I’d better not. You might not object but Zep probably w
ould.”

  “After tonight? I don’t think so.”

  “But you can’t be sure, can you?” Lentsch opened his hands. “See? It’s not worth the risk.”

  “Some cocoa then, before I retire?”

  “That would be nice.”

  He marched purposefully down to the kitchen, Albert’s domain. The light was bright and bare, everything washed and put away. He found the tin quickly enough, with a pencil mark on the outside marking the content level, but he couldn’t find any sugar. Hadn’t he asked Albert to get some? He couldn’t remember.

  “You’re the cream in my coffee,” he sang out loud. “You’re the milk in my tea.”

  Stirring the powdered chocolate into the milk made him dizzy. He walked back with exaggerated precision, banging into one of the Russell Flints before stumbling into the drawing room, holding the cups high in the air as if he were a steward keeping balance on a pitching yacht. Molly was putting away her lipstick and mirror.

  “Piping hot and not a drop spilt,” he announced loudly, “though I nearly scalded the naked ladies on the way.”

  Molly took the cup without batting an eyelid. She wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. “I’m sorry?”

  “The paintings in the hall! I nearly lost my balance and poured cocoa all over the walls.”

  “Mrs H. wouldn’t like that.”

  “No.” He swayed in front of her and took a tentative sip. “Good old Mrs H.”

  Molly was beginning to reassert herself. “That’s right,” she said. “Good old Mrs H.” She stretched out her legs and admiring what she saw, wriggled her painted toes. “And here am I slouched in her best furniture.”

  “You knew her well before?”

  She laughed. “We moved in different circles, Gerhard, apart from the amateur dramatics.”

  “Ah, yes, your plays and shows. Everyone seems to have taken part in them at one time or another, all except Albert, that is.”

  “Well, there’s not a lot to do in a place like Guernsey. Dressing up on stage kept us out of mischief.”