by Mary Horlock
That night, Mum had already gone to bed. She’d hardly talked to Dad since the unveiling, and she didn’t even bother to tell him ‘Goodnight’. I was worried she was planning to leave him, and I honestly couldn’t blame her. But I didn’t like Dad sleeping in his study on that rough old sofa again. I imagined myself going in and telling him so. I planned to knock on his door and surprise him and then we’d have a proper chat about important, adult things. I probably would’ve also tried to hug him, even though he’d have been appalled.
Standing up quickly I padded downstairs, but once I got to his study door I waited for a minute. Then I bent down. I know I shouldn’t have done it, and I promise you I never normally look through keyholes and spy on people.
Dad was sitting in his chair with a bottle on the desk in front of him. It was definitely whisky, and it was half-drunk already. His hair was messed up and his eyes looked red and tired. He was staring down at a piece of paper and running his fingers over its edges. Then he picked up the bottle with his good hand and took a long slug. He wiped his mouth and looked back at the paper. I knew it was a letter because it had been folded neatly to fit in an envelope. I don’t know what it said but it was bad news, for sure. At the time I imagined it was a letter from Mum saying so long and goodbye, you good-for-nothing husband. But later I decided it was a letter from Dr Senner saying come into the surgery or you’ll soon be dead.
It was only much-much later, when I found the letter tucked inside Grandma’s leather folder, that I worked out what I’d actually seen. Then everything I thought I knew had to change again. It was annoying, because by then I’d gotten very attached to my version of the truth.
I suppose that’s the thing about History, there are always several versions of that thing we call the truth.
A Mother’s Story [Extract]
Not for publication
By E.P. Rozier, 12/4/81
Shortly before my mother suffered her second and fatal stroke she provided me with fresh information regarding the imprisonment of her eldest son, Charles André Rozier, during the years of Occupation. Her statement, which was only offered on condition that it never be published, goes some way towards explaining her years of silence.
Shocking though this now seems, my mother believed that it was her husband, Hubert Rozier, who had alerted the German police to their eldest son’s activities. Hubert had become anxious about Charlie’s increasingly irresponsible behaviour. The Occupation gave young people ample opportunities to misbehave, and Charlie for one showed no respect for authority and was continually going out after curfew ‘looking for trouble’. The sense of crisis and fracture between father and son deepened as the years wore on. Hubert had never recovered from his experiences of the First World War, and the Occupation brought back many bad memories. ‘It was as if an old wound was re-opened, and it slowly bled him dry,’ said Arlette.
Hubert withdrew from family life, leaving his wife to run the household single-handedly, which she did as best she could, but by that time Charlie was spending large amounts of time outside the family home and there was little she could do to stop him. She often heard Hubert muttering about this. Hubert felt certain that some tragedy would befall his eldest son and warned Arlette that Charlie was mixing with ‘bad company’.
Arlette was certain that Hubert informed on his own son in a desperate and misguided attempt to stop Charlie doing something foolhardy and life-threatening. He intended it as a warning to his teenage son, hoping to show Charlie that he was putting himself and his family in danger. Having found an unlikely friend in the form of Anton Vern, Hubert confided in him and the two men planned the house search.
Their plan might even have worked had it not been for Charlie’s scrapbook, hidden under the floorboards of the spare room Hubert now occupied. Arlette was adamant that Hubert knew nothing of the scrapbook until it was discovered. Had he known of its contents or its whereabouts, he would surely never have allowed the search to take place. This would explain his readiness to claim it as his own.
Sadly, at this stage in her life La Duchesse was not the most reliable of sources. Although she was able to recall events from her early childhood with almost photographic accuracy, the years of the Occupation were marred by tragedy and heartbreak. Her voice would falter when asked to recall these troubling times:
‘Hubert was becoming like a stranger to me. I’m not even sure if he trusted me. Working for the Germans was hard on all of us and Hubert locked himself up in a strange world where we were all against him. He could become agitated and suspicious for no reason.
‘He’d often ask me where Charlie was, and if I shrugged and said I didn’t know I could see the despair in his eyes. When the German soldiers came to search the house I felt sure it was because of something he’d said to Vern. He wasn’t at all surprised. But then they found this scrapbook and I didn’t know what to think. I was terrified that we’d all be sent to France, and I could tell from Hubert’s face he wasn’t expecting it. Still, he knew what he had to do and in that moment I was reminded of the man I had married.
‘None of what then followed surprised me. It was entirely in his character to lay down his life on a point of principle. I suppose that was his last show of strength, but it was all because of what? A stupid mistake? I wasn’t ever angry with Charlie but I put him out of my head. I thought he was dead, which might make me sound heartless but by then my heart was broken. All I had was you. Don’t think I didn’t love your brother, but after the War he came back so full of bitterness and anger, and he still idolised his father. Hubert could do no wrong in Charlie’s eyes. There were times I wanted to tell him the truth about the sorry mess of it. I wanted to remind him of what his father put us all through. Hubert had fallen apart, and he’d let his family fall apart around him. Still, talking like that wouldn’t have done any of us any good, and talking doesn’t bring people back. It wouldn’t have changed nothing.
‘We have all of us lived with our loss, now all we remember is that loss.’ Could Hubert really have informed on his own son, and then offered himself as sacrifice? I had always thought that it was the living who told us the most about the past, but perhaps there is only truth after death, or in death. My mother spoke of the matter this one time, and never again.
[N.B. Write again to Anton Vern.]
22ND DECEMBER 1985, 6 p.m.
[In the box room, pretending to look for missing fairy lights]
Dad stayed in his study for two whole days after his Waterloo at White Rock, but I don’t know that for sure because I was at school. Mum said she checked on him the morning he died, but she wasn’t able to say when. She was frustrated with him, she admitted, and she was worried he’d not taken his insulin. But she didn’t call Dr Senner about it. All I remember is that she dropped me at school early and I spent the whole day dreading going home. In the end I went over to Vicky’s for my tea.
When I got back at six Mum was in the hall, with her ear glued to the phone. She told me to go and sit in the garden, which is exactly what I did. Dr Senner drove up, and then there was an ambulance. Dad’s heart had already stopped, though. When Mum told me it was heart failure I thought that sounded right.
But it was a lot to take in at once and I don’t think I processed all the facts. I usually have to write stuff down and repeat it over and over. Perhaps you can see why I’ve become a bit suspicious. It doesn’t take a (Village) idiot to work out that there’s no simple or single explanation for anything, there’s just an OFFICIAL VERSION that tidies all the secrets away.
And here’s the biggest secret so far: I wasn’t ever very interested in the Bloody-Stupid German Occupation, but I thought I might find something in Dad’s books and journals and letters to explain what Mum wouldn’t. Shouldn’t History explain everything?
But then, knowing everything doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll be happier/better-off. Sometimes the more you know, the worse it is. I wish I hadn’t known about Therese and her affair, for instance, or that I�
��d told Nic I knew. I wasn’t trying to stir up trouble – I just wanted to show Nic that I could keep a secret. I wrote her a letter, explaining how I finally understood why she was being so horrible to me. I told her that it couldn’t have been easy for her, living with lies. I said I was sick of it, too. I laid it on mega-deluxe thick but was still so deep-pile nice to her. I told her we were just the same. And do you know how she repaid me? You wouldn’t believe it. Well, you probably would.
Every year on Bonfire Night there is a firework display at Saumarez Park. Saumarez Park is Guernsey’s only proper park – you’d think there’d be lots of open, rolling fields and green space but, according to Miss Jones, Guernsey is more densely populated than most of Northern Europe. This is on account of the Posho-Porsche-Driving English People and their Swiss-Wanker Bankers (who, of course, pay for the fireworks).
Perhaps it was odd that Vicky had asked me to go with her to the display, but I’d helped her collect dandelions for her New-Recipe-Dandelion-Wine and I’d even been her guinea pig. I thought that meant we were friends again. I was glad. It felt like things were getting back to normal. When we got to Saumarez Park I didn’t smell a rat (i.e. her). I didn’t want to look a gift horse (i.e. two-faced cow) in the mouth.
Mum was running the stand for the Christian Aid tin-rattlers and offered to give us a lift. I almost got excited, since I hadn’t been out for ever. I did notice that Vicky went quiet in the car on the way there, but I just assumed it was because we’d been talking about her birthday at the end of the month. She was planning a big party and was worried re: inviting me.
But by the time we got to the park she was acting as shifty as a tax dodger. I kept suggesting stuff to do or eat, but she wasn’t interested. All she did was stare off into the distance, and I wondered if she was looking out for girls from our class.
‘Are you embarrassed to be seen with me?’ I asked.
‘Don’t be daft!’ she replied. ‘You’re so paranoid.’
I said sorry (of course), but then I lost her in the queue for the sparklers. The minute my back was turned she vanished. I wasn’t surprised, really. I assumed she’d gone to find someone more exciting.
I’m not too fond of crowds and I didn’t want to go on any of the rides by myself. I therefore focused on the food, of which there was a lot. I’d eaten two slices of ham and pineapple pizza and some Dolly Mixtures when the display started, and as pink stars exploded in the sky everyone was looking up and making ‘ooh-aaah’ noises. But I wasn’t in the mood to be all filled with wonder, what with everyone elbowing me.
I decided I’d had enough and walked all around the bonfire, still looking for Vicky. As I milled about the people’s faces, all lit up by the flames, began to look quite devilish. I had a strange feeling, and it wasn’t indigestion. I walked past Mum’s stand but she wasn’t on it. Then I did a circuit of the beer tent. Everyone was chatting and laughing – families together, young couples, etc. Then I thought I saw Vicky walking off into the wooded bit of the park. I ran after her, calling out, past groups of people or couples snogging. I was heading towards the children’s playground, away from the crowds, which was maybe not too clever. Then I felt someone tug at the hood of my anorak and I heard a clicking sound. It took me a minute to work out what was happening and by then I smelt burning. Nic stood back, holding a cigarette lighter with its little flame still flickering. She’d tried to set fire to the fur trim of my anorak. It was fake fur and had therefore melted, but the smell was disgusting.
She shoved me and I fell, and then I heard Lisa laugh. I remember blinking as liquid was poured onto me. It was White Spirit (I recognised the smell from art class) and I shook my head about. I also tried to stand back up but Lisa put her hands on my shoulders.
Nic flicked the lighter and held it up. ‘Scared now?’
I don’t know for sure if they’d have done it, or if they were just trying to scare me.
Nic said ‘You are a filthy little liar! Repeat after me:
“I’m a filthy little liar!”’
‘No,’ I spluttered. ‘Why?’
Out of the darkness someone called ‘Hey there!’
I vaguely focused on a fluorescent jacket and realised it was one of the safety-wardens-cum-parking-attendants. ‘Bloody kids. What are you playing at? Get back to the fair or I’ll take you to the police tent.’
I stood up and brushed myself down. Of course everyone else had vanished. I said thank you to the man but he gave me a dirty look, like it was all my fault, and propelled me back towards the bonfire. The last thing I wanted to do was go back into the fair. I wondered where Vicky was. Had she been watching? Had she lured me into a trap? She must’ve really hated me, to do something so low. I checked the time on my Swatch. 9.15. Mum had arranged for me to get a lift back with Mrs Senner at 10, which meant I still had 45 minutes. Quel nightmare. I made for the main part of the park, knowing Nic and Lisa were lurking somewhere, getting ready to come after me again. I thought about calling Mum but the nearest phone box was on the Cobo Road, and all my money had gone from my pockets. Had I spent all my money on pizzas or had someone stolen it? I spun round and stared hard into every dark corner, but with all the noise and commotion and crowds, I couldn’t see much. I just knew I had to get out so I followed painted arrow signs to the car park. My heart was beating so fast I thought it would explode out of my chest. I kept checking over my shoulder to see if I was being followed. Then I imagined myself on fire as per a real-life human Catherine Wheel, and Nic laughing demonically whilst Lisa spun me round.
I was about 10 metres from the big ‘Way Out’ sign when it happened. WHAM! I was face-down in the gravel. It was like I’d been knocked over by a car or lorry until I felt something hard between my shoulders. The heel of a shoe.
‘Get off me!’ I tried to push myself up but ended up on my side with Nic crouching over me.
‘Look at me.’ She tried to turn my head. ‘Look at me!’
I closed my eyes tight. I felt a sharp pain along my spine (lower down this time). It was dark and wet and the gravel was digging in. I tried to cover my face with my hands.
‘Only pigs roll around in shit,’ said Nic, pushing me down.
I told her to stop it.
‘And how will you make me?’
Of course I couldn’t. Then I felt someone kicking me so I tried to curl up like a hedgehog. Nic had grabbed a chunk of my hair and was trying to pull my head back.
‘Get off me! Leave me alone!’
Then I heard a man’s voice and everything stopped.
Nic was muttering ‘We’re only mucking about’ and tugged roughly at my anorak.
‘It didn’t look to me like mucking about.’
I blinked my eyes open. For a second I thought it was an angel and/or Dad.
He leaned down.
‘Cathy, can you stand?’
I sat up and let Donnie hook me under the armpits to pull me to my feet.
‘Come on, let’s get you home.’
I hadn’t seen him since the summer so of course I was surprised, but I didn’t say anything because I was too scared. He had his arm around me as he steered me away from Nic and Lisa, and then I saw Shelley standing right behind them. I thought my legs would give up before we reached his car.
‘You can’t take her home, you’re not her dad,’ Nic tried to grab at him, ‘I’m going to call the pigs on you. You’re sick.’
‘Ignore them.’ Donnie propelled me forwards.
I stumbled on something, twisting my ankle.
‘I’m talking to you, perv.’ Nic was tugging at Donnie’s cuff. ‘What are you going to do with her?’
I didn’t see Donnie push her but he must’ve done, because she fell.
I heard someone tell him he shouldn’t have done that.
He dived round one side of his car and started unlocking the door. I went round to the passenger side but Nic was up and pulling at me. I yanked myself free and by now Donnie was in the car and the inside light was
on. I watched him climb over to open the door on my side. Then he reached out his hand and hauled me in.
I slammed my door shut. Donnie started the ignition and went into reverse. I really hoped we’d run someone over. I didn’t care. But as we turned Lisa jumped out in front of us, looking a lot like an axe-murderer thanks to the full-beam headlights.
She thumped her hand on the bonnet.
I was now very scared and Donnie didn’t much help with his hysterical ‘Christ Alive’-ing. He revved his engine and the car lurched forward, like it might knock Lisa down. She took the hint and got out of the way. We swung the car round and tore out of the exit.
We sped past the Post Office, heading for the coast road. Those pizza slices were doing star-jumps in my stomach and my ribs and shoulder ached. Plus Donnie was bug-eyed and hyper-venting.
‘Donnie,’ I said, ‘thank you.’
Donnie didn’t take his eyes off the road. I could tell that he was shaken – his skin was shiny and he was driving well over the 35 MPH speed limit. Then we started going faster and faster, and I thought we’d definitely crash off a cliff.
‘Slow down.’
He ignored me and gripped the steering wheel. He wasn’t a very good driver, like most people on the island, so I was waiting for us to turn a corner and skid and do a somersault. But I preferred crashing with Donnie to being pulverised/set alight by Nic. Trees and hedges were flashing by, I held my breath and shut my eyes and maybe said a few prayers. Suddenly we hit a bump and the car lurched onto soft ground, coming to a stop on L’Ancresse golf course. All I heard then was our breathing.
Seconds passed. I reached out to try to touch Donnie’s shoulder.
‘Don’t!’
I’d never seen Donnie angry but I’m glad to report it didn’t last long. He breathed in and out a few more times, sat back and pressed his hands into his face, then closed them round his nose. A couple of rockets flew up into the sky and lit up the golf course. I could see a low bunker in the distance.