by Mary Horlock
But I was in over my head all right, sweating over my Channel Islands Pilot and pretending I knew the ropes. Ray called me ‘the brains of the operation’. Si l’bouan Dju I’l pllais! I feared in my heart Sarnia Chérie wouldn’t get us halfway across the Channel and that was the God-honest truth. Some folk later said I was lucky the Nazis stopped me. Bran-d’iaeux! What do they know but the lies Ray peddled for his five minutes of glory. They call me bitter, but there’s good reason I’m bitter, eh? Think of all the tripe that’s been written.46
It was a foul winter but Ray was hell-bent on leaving once the boat was ready, giving no heed to the weather. We argued about it plenty, and he always used the same cheap tactic. He’d say I was too chicken, just like my old man. I never knew how to answer him. In truth I found it harder and harder to defend old Hubert. He barely spoke or looked at me, and he moved about the house like it wasn’t his no more. I knew he was sick, but he’d always been sick. He’d lost weight, but so had we all. The skin was hanging off La Duchesse and I’d catch her sometimes, standing in front of the mirror and pinching at her cheeks so as to give them a bit more colour. She was run ragged, and she’d even started taking in soldiers’ uniforms to wash – not’ mémaon – enne lavresse, pensaï donc! Of course, I saw plenty of local women lower themselves in all kinds of ways. Not that I’m suggesting anything about La Duchesse. She was always the hero, holding things together. No doubt about it.
But Ray was all about a different kind of hero. He had decided that if we were going to England then we couldn’t go empty-handed.
‘We take intelligence with us,’ he said. ‘We should map out the island, the new fortifications, estimate the number of men and weapons at each base. It will help the Allies win the islands back!’
He expected a lot of me and I did my best, in truth I did. I started work on my own version of Festung Guernsey. With scraps of paper taken from the office I drew maps, dividing up the island into sections, and I started noting down all the strongpoints and billets in St Peter Port and St Martin. I wandered all around the east coast, scribbling as I went, and as my scrapbook grew, so did my anxieties. I couldn’t think where to hide it. I stashed it under my mattress, then I hid it in a drawer, then I kept it in my satchel. Hé bian, it’s nearly funny since, for the first time in this story, I lacked imagination. The trouble was, wherever I looked I saw them German swines. They were always in the office and the office was next to our house. La Duchesse said we had nothing to hide.
‘I take people as I find them,’ she’d say. ‘If this is what my life has come to then I’ll make do. And at least those Germans show me more courtesy than other persons about.’
It was a dig at me, her errant son, but what could I reply? This was Hell’s own nightmare. I felt sure I’d be caught out and I remember the day I found La Duchesse at our front door, waiting for me.
‘Where have you been?’
I told her nowhere but I felt so guilty. I would’ve made a rotten spy.
She looked me up and down. ‘I have things to do. Your brother is next door with Blanche. Will you fetch him in an hour?’
I nodded silently and galloped up the stairs, feeling her eyes burn into my back. When the front door slammed I turned around. Was silence better than lies? Je ne sais pas.
The pressure was too much for me to take alone. Without even thinking I was tapping lightly at the door of the spare room, hoping Pop would answer.
‘Pop,’ I whispered. ‘Are you there?’
I imagined him slowly opening the door, seeing the worry on my face, and I saw myself walking in, ready to tell him everything. But back on the landing I tapped again and waited and heard nothing. After another minute I pushed the door open. The room smelt stale and the curtains were half-drawn, but what I saw on the wall in front of me made my hairs stand on end. It was a crumpled map of Europe pinned up high, with small flags dotted over it, marking what I realised were the Allied positions. Eh me, it was a sight I hadn’t expected. I walked over to the dresser to get a better look and there was one of the old leaflets from before the Germans came. The words ‘Why Go Mad? There’s No Place Like Home’ stared back at me.
It was like Pop was talking to me, trying to tell me something, and I sat on the bed with my tired eyes watering. I stared at the map and wondered where Pop had got his information from. I wanted to ask him, and I waited and I waited. I didn’t know where he’d gone. Still don’t, in fact. I sat there with my old school satchel resting on my lap. I toyed with the dust that danced in the air in front of me, I flicked through the pages of his prayer book. On the back page Pop had written some numbers and I wondered if it was verses of the Bible. Then the door slammed and La Duchesse was calling for me. Over an hour had passed, I had let her down again.
That is when I did it, Emile. I was in a hurry and I had to hide my scrapbook. I quietly pulled the dresser away from the wall and lifted the floorboard. I remember thinking someone had pulled the nails up once already. I slid my scrapbook underneath Hubert’s strongbox, and off I went to fetch you.
Malin haen? Oui, J’étais si malin, mais saber-dé-bouais j’sis gnolle auch’t’haeure? Is it any wonder nobody wants to hear my side of this story? They cannot imagine I could do something so stupid. They’d prefer I just went away. Well, I’d have liked to get away and that was always the plan. We were meant to be off on 12th December, a Thursday. It was going to be me and Ray and J-P to Southampton for Christmas. Au yous, my goose was cooked all right. We reckoned on departing before eleven o’clock at night, and after that we had plenty of hours of darkness to get some distance from the German Water Police.
I’d tried to convince Ray to wait because I was scared about the weather, but I was also worried what would happen if I was gone. I knew there’d be a payback and my family’d be for it.
‘I’ll go without you, then,’ Ray offered. ‘Maybe it is different for me. My sisters are safe in England and my mother’s as tough as a boot. Just get me the intelligence and I’ll take it without you.’
I wasn’t sure if he was joking. Should I let him go without me and take all the glory?
‘No, no, I want to come,’ I remember saying. ‘I stand by my word.’
But later I got so worked up I made up my mind to stay. I was battling so many emotions, turning this way and that. If I’d had more time to think on it, if I’d known how it would end, I’d never have done it. Trouble is, I’d made a pact with the Devil himself.
Who knows what would’ve happened if the 12th had ever come like we’d planned it. But it was just before eleven o’clock at night on 9th December, year of Our Lord 1942. That’s when the Feldgendarmes came to our house, kicking in the door with their rifles.
Je m’en fou! For years I went over this stuff, again and again, Emile. I blamed myself and so did everyone. Guernsey was and is my world, but they still think I’m that silly boy whose father died instead of him. But I say to them now, sometimes the wrong folk get the blame and sometimes the blame must be shared. After our so-called glorious Liberation there were unanswered questions going round my head. When the Krauts came to our house they knew just where to look – how is that? Who told them? I’ve been fed all sorts of lines by them in the States who keep a tight hold over those secret German records. I know you’ve tried to get them opened, Emile. Perhaps they’ll listen to you. I want to see those files, the names of those low-life informers. You say there’s a Human Rights Law that says we’re not allowed to. What about my rights, eh? How come the low-life who informed on me gets away with murder?
And it is murder.
Es-t à écoutaïr, Ray Le Poidevoin? Jean-Pierre has paid his price but when will you tire of the hero act? You were no brother to me. You hung me out to dry, you did. Hypocrite! Traitor! I’ve been over it enough: who else knew where I hid my precious notes? I told you because I trusted you, but you gave me up to the Germans all the same.
The Bible is wrong, Emile, it isn’t the sons who pay for the sins of their fathers, b
ut fathers who pay for the sins of their sons. How else could it be, when the Germans went straight to our father’s room and ripped up the floorboards? They knew what they were looking for and they found it, soon enough.
18TH DECEMBER 1985, 5.30 p.m.
[Sitting on soggy deck-chair on patio, hypnotised by fog]
I didn’t know what I was looking for when I first went into Dad’s study. I suppose I wanted proof, and I don’t just mean proof that he was dead. I needed proof that he’d lived at all. Don’t get me wrong, he’d definitely been here – all flesh and blood and hair – but he’d also never been here. I was sure he was always meant to be somewhere else, which is why I’d dreamed that he was dying and/or dead. Maybe that’s why I didn’t cry when it finally happened.
I wonder if some people are dead before they’ve lived. These are the same people who won’t play Snakes and Ladders because it relies too much on chance, and have to colour-code the contents of the fridge, and insist that cucumbers should be peeled.
It was when I was searching through the drawers of his desk that I found the bottle of Glenfiddich. I’d never had Dad down as a drinker, but then I found another bottle in his filing cabinet – this was Famous Grouse. I remember the first time I unscrewed its top and sniffed it. Before then I’d thought all stubble smelled like whisky.
It’s funny, when Dr Senner drinks he tries to hug and kiss everyone, and once I saw him cry, but Dad was never like that. He hated going to parties and the few times we got invited to any he’d hover by an exit, ready to make his escape. He wasn’t like other drunks – he never told rude jokes or fell over – he’d never be caught out.
Although there was that one time at White Rock. I’ve mentioned Dad’s (Un)Official Occupation Memorial, but not its grand unveiling, which was a disaster. Dad had lobbied the States for centuries (almost) to get them to approve of this plaque. It listed the names of islanders who’d been accused (rightly or wrongly) of misconduct under the Germans, and there was a space at the end for more names to be added, when new information came out. This list proved (Dad said) that Guernsey people didn’t just SUFFER IN SILENCE47 during the Occupation.
The plaque is now part of the harbour wall, and I should feel very proud of it/Dad, only I can’t be because of what he did.
I was in the crowd with Mum, and Dad was on the platform with the Bailiff.48 After a little introduction by said Bailiff, Dad was meant to give a speech about the bravery of families during the War and the unsung heroes who were put in prison for no good reason, and how the past was not behind us but all around us and still shaping us, etc. Only he totally embarrassed himself and the Bailiff had to jump in front of him, giving the cord a quick tug and going: ‘How splendid! Look at that!’
Dad disappeared behind the camera flashes, leaving me with Mum in the crush of people. She dragged me off to the car because she was so embarrassed, and I was too scared to ask her what was wrong. Then she told me it was nothing and that Dad was just Emotional because of the big unveiling.
It was only when I found the bottles that I realised Emotional was code for Drunk.
I know drinking is bad for you. Nic and I both drank too much but she was the hypocrite – blaming me for giving alcohol to Michael. I did call the police and tell them about the various whiskies he’d drunk before his accident and I’m very très glad I did. The duty sergeant promptly told me that an empty bottle of Absolut had been found in Michael’s jacket. I went and reported all of this back to Nic and do you know what? She told me I was acting very guilty for someone who’d done nothing wrong.
I don’t know if she fancied Michael. I don’t know if I care. He’s not the reason I killed her, but I need to tell him that I killed her. Michael’s the one person I can 100% trust. I met him today, just like we’d arranged, and it was amazing. He was waiting for me by the cemetery gates, looking ruggedly sinister. I was wearing one of Dad’s old shirts which I’d tie-dyed dark purple. It matched my Clobber Box leggings and cropped denim jacket. Michael was meant to notice how much thinner I looked and how much longer my fringe was. I wanted him to make some comment about how he hardly recognised me. But he didn’t.
He just said: ‘How are you?’
His voice sounded different to how I remembered.
‘Fine, and you?’
‘Oh, you know.’
Of course I didn’t know, but he shoved his hands in his pockets and hunched himself over like a tortoise going into its shell.
‘When did you get back?’
‘Last week. So I missed all the excitement, eh?’
I nodded.
He kicked at the ground.
‘Shall we walk for a bit? I’m slow but the doctors say I’ve got to walk every day.’
I said that was fine, and that I was in no hurry.
We took the path down through the cemetery and climbed over the low fence at the back to get into Bluebell Woods. Michael managed really well. I asked him about Southampton and whether he’d liked it there and would go again, and what hospital food had tasted like, and what parts of his body still hurt. He answered back in a quiet voice, and sometimes paused and looked about. It turns out there’s a big cinema in the town centre, he didn’t like it much, hospital food was mostly wood-pulp and he might need another operation in a year.
‘We all thought you were going to die and Nic and Lisa blamed me because I saw you last. I’d given you a lot to drink but you maybe won’t remember. I wished I could’ve done something. All I could think about was how I’d climbed up the Pleinmont Tower with you that time and what a long way down it was.’
Michael nodded. ‘They reckon I was lucky but after all these months it doesn’t feel that way.’
‘Well, you missed a lot of really bad stuff, what with Nic dying so horribly.’
Michael laughed a bit too loudly.
By now we’d walked down to where the cliff path starts, it was quite uneven and I was hoping he’d want to take my arm or lean against me. He didn’t. I suppose I should be glad he can walk so well. The only time he hesitated was when we’d gone a little further to where the main path forks, left takes you into Town and right goes to Fermain. The path into Town goes past Soldier’s Bay and Clarence Batterie.
Michael stared at me and it was mega-watt electric.
‘You plan to go that way?’
‘I thought you’d want to.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know, I just assumed you’d want to see it.’
We stood facing each other. It was like High Noon in a TV Western.
Then Michael smiled. ‘Most folk want to keep me away from sheer drops.’
The place that Michael did/didn’t want to go to was the Clarence Batterie (aka the scene of the crime, aka where I killed Nic). If this was one of Mum’s dog-eared thrillers such an important location would’ve been described in detail much earlier on, but Dad has already written about it endlessly, and even drawn a map and floor plan. I therefore don’t have much to add. The Clarence Batterie has always been and (despite everything) still is one of my favourite places to walk to on account of its stunning panoramas. It was no doubt because of said stunning panoramas that the Germans decided to make it one of the island’s coastal defence units. At least here the Germans did most of their building underground so there’s only the old gun positions visible on the surface, but if you refer to the excellent and comprehensive BUNKER BAEDEKER,49 you can get some idea of what was going on under the surface. It’s a shame that the tunnels are blocked up (but that also proves what the States are trying to hide).50 The guns (of which there were five) were sold for scrap after the War. There is a notice explaining this, plus three dilapidated benches that are bolted into the cliff edge. Beyond that there’s mostly a sheer drop down to razor-sharp rocks and Rabidly-foaming sea.
Michael tried to force the lock on the tunnel entrance. It’s an ugly wooden door with lots of bolts. He stared at it for a long while.
‘This place always gave me the creeps
.’
We climbed together up to the slope to the benches, but Michael carried on, right to the cliff edge, which made me nervous. I dithered behind him, talking about ‘suicidal’ slave labourers, etc. He nodded like he was listening. I’m not sure that he was. He was looking very dramatic, peering downwards. It’s ridiculous they never put railings up, but I’m sure they will do now. I stood very still and watched Michael loom and brood (and other good words).
After a minute he turned so that he was looking straight at me.
‘Come closer and see.’
I went and stood right up next to him.
He whispered ‘You hear her voice, she’s calling your name . . .’
I wondered if he’d become a Nazi Zombie, but he was actually misquoting lyrics by The Cure (who may actually be Zombies now I’ve seen their album covers).
He gripped my hand, ‘You hear her voice and you’d better run . . .’
I listened to Michael’s mad whispering, and the wailing of the seagulls around my head, and I couldn’t run anywhere. It was more frightening than exciting, and it took me right back to that last night with Nic. My heart was beating full throttle ahead as I remembered how she’d grabbed me round the neck. I stole another nano-look at Michael, who was swaying now, and still glaring down into the oblivion into which she’d plummeted. He glared for an unnecessarily long time. I focused on him and tried (and failed) to mind-read, then I couldn’t cope and had to step back. Michael lifted up his head, stretching out his arms on either side of him so that he looked like Jesus on the cross. It was all very weird. I was worried he’d jump and I’d get the blame.
‘What are you doing?’ I tugged hard at his jacket. ‘Stop it! Stop it!’
‘What the fuck!’ he toppled backwards and turned. ‘What the fuck is with you?! I wasn’t going to jump. I just wanted to know what it felt like.’