The will was ready on the Tuesday morning, and I signed it. Mr de Lisle read it to me right through again with the extra bits put on, and then called in two young chaps from the other room to witness me sign it; and they wrote their names under mine. There was also a copy. Mr de Lisle asked me if I wanted to take the original with me, or the copy. I said the original. He could keep the copy; and I would be pleased if he would keep the papers to do with the house. They was only in the way in the drawer. He gave me the will in a long envelope; and I put it in my inside pocket. When I was going, he said, ‘How do you pass your time these days?’ I said, ‘Working of course.’ He said, ‘I take it you draw the Old Age Pension.’ ‘I haven’t come to that yet, thank God!’ I said. ‘I hope I never will.’ ‘A challenge to the Welfare State,’ he said. ‘Now that is something I have never understood,’ I said; ‘I think a man ought to be allowed to look after himself.’ ‘Unfortunately welfare does not mean the same as well-being,’ he said, ‘but Guernsey will fall for it. Guernsey, dear Guernsey, where all the tired platitudes come home to roost!’
Well, I walked down Smith Street with the will in my pocket, and I ought to have been dancing for joy; but, to tell you the truth, I felt flat and empty, because there was nothing more for me to do. I turned to go down High Street: and, to my astonishment, who should come out of Le Riche’s Stores but Neville and Adèle? I bumped right into them. ‘Good Lord, who let you loose?’ said Neville. ‘I thought it was Fridays you came in to rook the States.’ ‘I had some very private business of my own to see to,’ I said with dignity. ‘More roguery, I bet,’ he said. ‘It is nice to see you, anyhow,’ said Adèle. I said, ‘How is it you are not in the shop today?’ ‘It is Neville’s holiday,’ she said, ‘and he got round my aunt. He would get round anybody, this bad boy!’ They was hand in hand, and she looked up into his face. He was smiling down at her. If ever there was two in love, it was those two.
He said they was going to Moulin Huet for a picnic; and showed the hamper under his arm he had just bought at Le Riche’s. Where was I going? ‘Home,’ I said. ‘I’ll run you back first,’ he said. The car was up St Julien’s Avenue. It was only a two-seater; but Adèle could look at the shops. ‘I can get myself home quite well on my own, thank you,’ I said. ‘Oh, do let Neville take you!’ said Adèle: ‘I don’t mind waiting, I really don’t. I can go to the Library.’ ‘No!’ I said; and in a way showed I meant it: ‘you go to your picnic!’ ‘All right, then,’ said Neville, ‘be independent! Some people got cussed children.’ I wasn’t going to take away one minute: no, not one minute, from what they was having. I looked at them standing there, and they was perfect in my eyes. If I could have my way, they would never change. ‘I will be round to see you soon,’ Neville said, as they was going, ‘don’t imagine I have done with you yet!’ I watched them go down the Pollet; and then went down High Street to the bus.
When I got indoors, I put the envelope with the will in it in the drawer of the dresser. It isn’t exactly as I wanted; but it is good to feel it is there. I didn’t go out and start work in the afternoon, as I said to Mr de Lisle I would; but went down on the beach. It was lovely weather and there was nobody else on La Petite Grève. A few strangers passed along the top; and some chaps was working in the Chouey quarry, getting out mines the Germans had dumped in it before they went away. I was thinking of my two on the beach at Moulin Huet. I was as worried about them as an old hen; though I was quite sure they wasn’t worried about themselves. They was in love, yes: but I know how short and stormy that can be. Will they quarrel? Will they drift apart? Adèle is going to have a full-time job with Neville. He have his eyes on the horizon; but he don’t always see the rocks at his feet. It is Adèle who will have to keep the books in that house. What will the big world do to them; and all the millions going to fight? Guernsey got no say in the matter: Guernsey don’t count; but oh, what will happen to my darlings, when the big bombs begin to fall?
It was only yesterday I wrote those words, after I had come up from the beach; but so much have happened to me since, I don’t know what to think now. Is all one generation can do to set the stage for the comic, sad story of the next? Anyhow, this morning after breakfast, I thought I would put in my twelve hours on the ancient monument until dinner-time. I don’t like getting my money from the States for nothing. I raked around. There was the everlasting cigarette packets and ice-cream papers; and two french letters. I thought it was a pill they use nowadays. Anyhow, it is done now for a few weeks. I took my time over my dinner, and had just washed up and got clear, when I heard Neville’s voice. ‘Come on out, you!’ he was outside shouting: ‘Come on out!’ For the minute I thought I was fancying things. ‘Are you about?’ he shouted, and came right in. I said, ‘Hullo, where’s Adèle?’ ‘I haven’t brought her,’ he said, ‘It’s your turn today.’ I don’t know why, and I was surprised at myself, but I was glad he hadn’t brought Adèle.
‘I am taking you for a ride,’ he said. ‘What, in the car?’ I said. ‘Yes, in the car,’ he said. ‘Where would you like to go?’ ‘Anywhere you like,’ I said, ‘but, if it rests with me, I wouldn’t mind going along the west coast.’ ‘That will do me fine,’ he said. ‘We can go as far as Pleinmont; and then we’ll see.’ ‘I haven’t been to Pleinmont for years and years,’ I said. He said I must put on something warmish, as it was an open car, and there was quite a breeze. He was wearing a guernsey and brown corduroy trousers. I went into the little room where I keep my clothes, and changed into a pair of thick blue serge trousers and put on Jean Batiste’s guernsey. I was going to wear my hat, but Neville said it would blow off; so I put on an old beret I wear when I go to St Sampson’s. ‘I look a boud’lo,’ I said. ‘You look just right,’ he said. I stacked the grate with coal, so as the fire wouldn’t be out when we got back; and we went out the front way. I locked the front door and put the key under the stone, as I used to in the days of Tabitha and have done ever since.
His is a nice little car. I don’t know what make, for I never notice, but it is red and low-built, and comfortable to sit in. He got in his side first and undid the door my side for me to get in. It runs very smooth; but he didn’t drive fast to begin with. He went by Sandy Hook and through L’Islet and out to Grand Havre; and then along the coast road. Port Grat and Les Pêquéries have never been much to my idea; and, in any case, I had been that way not so long ago. From Gran’-Rock on I began to take notice. Cobo was always ramshackle, but I hardly knew it for all the new houses have been built. Albecq was much the same as I remembered it; but he let the car have its head when we got along Vazon. It is no good me saying I wasn’t nervous, because I was; and I was holding tight on to the side. ‘Are you all right?’ he said. ‘Yes,’ I said. I thought well, if I am going to be killed, I am going to be killed. He slowed up by Perelle; but when we got passed L’Érée, he went hell for leather round Rocquaine. They have made such a mess of L’Érée I was trying to think how it was; but he didn’t give me a chance.
He could see I was scared and was laughing at me; but he slowed down when we got by Fort Grey. I saw the great ugly tower on the top of Pleinmont the Germans built I hadn’t seen before. He turned down by the Imperial, and drove past the Trinity Houses and along Portelet and round the Vardes and straight on as far as Fort Pezeries. A number of cars was parked where the road ends, and he stopped the car and said, ‘Let’s get out and stretch our legs, shall we?’ I hadn’t brought my stick, like a fool, and when I got out nearly fell over. I had to hang on to the car, until he caught hold of my arm and helped me along. I don’t like people helping me; but I had to let him. ‘Let’s go across the grass,’ he said; and we went along the path past the Table des Peons and stood in the opening between the two big rocks. The sea was roughish and sparkling in the sun and great waves was falling like lace over La Ronde. I saw the Hanois. I thought of Jim and me standing there. I thought of Raymond and Horace; and the blood on the stones. I was drowning in memories and was afraid I was going to cry. I managed to sa
y, ‘America is over there.’ ‘It can stay there,’ he said, ‘I bet the Yanks got nothing on this.’ I said, ‘All the greatest pain and beauty I have known have had to do with round here.’
He led me gently back to the car, and opened the door for me to get in; and then went round and got in his side and sat beside me. I said, ‘I am sorry I got upset.’ ‘It is nothing to be sorry for,’ he said. He had himself had some of his best times wandering on his own along the cliffs between Pleinmont and La Moye, and had wept at the grandeur of it. He began to tell me about the pictures he was going to paint. He was full of hope and his eyes were shining. There was a view of the Hanois from Fort Pezeries he particularly wanted to do. ‘I haven’t dared to try it yet,’ he said. I thought how he is like the Hanois himself. He have a light in him. ‘Feeling fit now?’ he said. ‘Yes, fine!’ I said. ‘Then we’ll get,’ he said, ‘I’m going to stand you a slap-up lobster tea at the Imperial.’ I said, ‘You are going to do nothing of the sort! I am not having you throwing your money away on no lobster tea for me at the Imperial. I know where we can get a better tea for nothing.’ ‘Where is that?’ he said. ‘It is not far from the Imperial,’ I said. ‘I will show you.’
He turned the car round and drove back the way we had come. I noticed the road in one part was further in than it used to be, and the zig-zag was wider, and didn’t have ruts in as it had when me and Jim came down it on our bikes. A house or two I seemed to remember being there had disappeared; and where Quertier Le Pelley’s used to be was an ugly modern bungalow. When we got to the Imperial, I said, ‘Is there somewhere you can leave your car?’ ‘Here will do,’ he said; and found a place the other side of the road from the buses. We got out, and he did something to the car so as no one could go off with it; but I had lost my bearings, and wasn’t at all sure which way I had to go. When I used to know it along there, it was open grass with only a house or two and a few cottages; but now it was houses, houses, houses. I said ‘Well, we will have to go and look for it: the place I mean.’ I don’t think he believed there was any such place; but he came with me.
There was quite a lot of people by the buses, and we must have looked a funny pair to any who was watching: him tall and with long straight legs and young, and me old and short and bandy; and I was hanging on to his arm. I wasn’t ashamed now. I found a lane behind some new houses I thought might lead to it; and, sure enough, there it was! The gable was against the cliff and the wicked windows was looking at you sideways and there was tall flowers in front and smoke coming out of the crooked chimney. ‘Why, this is out of a fairy tale!’ he said. I said, ‘Liza Quéripel live there.’
20
I let go of him and went ahead up the path and knocked on the front door. There was no answer. I waited and then I said, ‘She will be round the back.’ I led the way round the back and he followed. I noticed the back garden was doing well; mostly fruit and vegetables, and a fine patch of potatoes. She must have somebody to help her look after it, I thought. In the far corner a little old woman was feeding the fowls. Yes, it was Liza. Her poor old back, which was once so straight, was bent; and she was wearing a scoop and sabots and a grey dress with a full skirt and a black satin apron. I couldn’t see her face. She was throwing corn to the fowls, and making them run for it. I stopped. I didn’t want to give her a fright; and I made a sign to Neville not to move. She looked our way. She didn’t seem at all surprised; but turned her apronful of corn up-side-down over the fowls as she had done was it thirty, forty years ago? She came slowly towards us. She couldn’t walk very fast. ‘Hullo there!’ she said, ‘I have been expecting you for a long time.’
Her face was wrinkled and her neck was thin; but her mouth was the same, and her chin as firm as ever it was. Her deep-set violet eyes was bright, and she smiled at me; and it was her angel’s smile. She was as beautiful, more beautiful, than the day I saw her first. ‘Who is this you have with you?’ she said. ‘A friend who bring me in his motor-car,’ I said. She looked him up and down, as I have seen her look at many a man; and the old mischief came into her eyes. ‘Ma fé, mais qu’il est un beau garçon, li!’ she said. ‘Tout à fait!’ I said. She held out her hand to him. ‘I am pleased to meet you,’ she said. Her voice was deep and strong. He took her hand, and held it gently in his, and smiled. I saw he liked her. ‘Your garden is doing well,’ I said to her. ‘Who do it for you?’ ‘Paul Gallienne,’ she said. I couldn’t think for the minute who he might be. ‘The grandson of Queen Elizabeth,’ she said. ‘The grandson?’ I said. ‘Goodness, how the time fly!’ ‘Come indoors,’ she said.
She stepped out of her sabots on the mat, and put on a pair of black satin slippers, and hung her scoop behind the door. Her hair was white, but thick yet, and she had it cut short and frizzed. I had to take off my beret and was ashamed for her to see my bald head. ‘You are looking well,’ she said. ‘So are you,’ I said. ‘It is a wonder, then,’ she said, ‘seeing as I am so many years older than you are.’ I wasn’t going to quarrel. The kitchen hadn’t changed, and was shining and spotless. The first thing I noticed was the silver Guernsey milk-can I had given her was back in the place of honour on the cabinet, among the windmill and the lighthouse and the ships. She saw me look at it. ‘I buried it while the Germans was here,’ she said. She put a kettle on the terpid. ‘Sit down, and I will get you some tea,’ she said. For some reason, I sat to the table on the form against the wall, instead of on one of the chairs; and Neville sat beside me. I hadn’t thought it might remind her; but it did. ‘My ghosts, my two ghosts, will go away now,’ she said.
I can only write down the few words was said on my short visit to Liza. I cannot say how deep they went; and Neville had no idea. She was spreading a brightly-coloured table-cloth on the table. ‘Would you like some pickled ormers?’ she said. ‘I have some left.’ ‘For sure,’ I said, ‘but I don’t know if Neville like them.’ ‘I have never had any pickled,’ he said. ‘Then try some,’ I said. ‘I will,’ he said. ‘Is his name Neville, then?’ she said, ‘Neville what?’ ‘Neville Falla,’ I said, ‘from Paradise in the Vale.’ She set cups and saucers and plates and knives and forks on the table; and the jar of ormers and a loaf and butter, for us to help ourselves. She was thinking. ‘Was your mother a Guille?’ she said to Neville. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘why, did you know her?’ ‘I wonder if it can be she was the daughter of Don Guille,’ she said, ‘who was the son of Jurat Guille?’ ‘My great-grandfather was a Jurat Guille,’ he said, ‘I know, for my mother often spoke of him. She was proud of it.’ I knew then who he was. Liza knew I knew.
She poured out the tea, and sat down to eat facing us. ‘Est-il marié?’ she said to me. I answered her in patois so as he wouldn’t know what I was saying. He wasn’t yet, but was going to be soon, I hoped. Who was the girl? she wanted to know. Adèle de la Rue, whose aunt kept a shop at St Andrew’s, I told her. Liza knew the family. The father, Fred de la Rue, so-called, was not a de la Rue really, didn’t I know? Edna de Mouilpied from the Villocq married a de la Rue; but the first boy wasn’t his. Nobody knew who the father was. I didn’t say a word, or give a sign, but it flashed through my mind, and Liza saw it flash, God knows how! I met Edna de Mouilpied one Sunday evening outside the Câtel Chapel, and took her down Skin’s Lane. I saw in the Press soon after she had got married, and hadn’t given her a thought since. Neville looked up and said, ‘I wish to God you people would speak a language a human being can understand!’ I said, ‘I was only telling Liza about your Adèle.’ ‘What is she like?’ said Liza. Neville looked puzzled. ‘I don’t know I can say exactly what she is like,’ he said. ‘As a matter of fact, she is rather like me,’ I said, ‘only much better looking.’ Liza threw her head back and laughed in the old way. ‘I should jolly well hope she is better looking,’ she said, ‘or it is a poor look-out for Neville!’ ‘Now you come to mention it,’ said Neville, ‘she is rather like you; and just about as bullet-headed!’ ‘This rascal hasn’t a spark of romance in him!’ said Liza. ‘I am glad it is not me h
e is going to marry.’
There wasn’t much more said over the meal. Neville was too busy eating and enjoying it; and helped himself a second time. Liza was watching his every look and movement; and it was pitiful to see the pride and joy in her old face. He was flesh of her flesh: and I wished with my whole heart he was of mine; but then Adèle couldn’t be. How will I face her the next time I see her? When we had done, Liza asked if we’d had enough; and we both said we’d had plenty. She got up to clear. ‘Neville,’ she said, ‘d’you mind filling the bucket for me with water from the well?’ ‘With pleasure,’ he said; and went out with it. It was only an excuse to get him out of the house. As soon as he was gone, she said, ‘How is he off for money, the boy?’ ‘He will have enough,’ I said, ‘I have seen to that.’ ‘I am glad,’ she said. ‘Paul has been very good to me, and expects what I’ve got.’ I said, ‘Neville has been very good to me: and expects nothing. He inherit that from you.’
He came in saying it was going to be a beautiful evening, and it was a shame for us to be indoors. I saw Liza’s face flinch with the pain; but he didn’t mean to hurt her. He didn’t know. ‘Yes, you must go now, both of you,’ she said, ‘and enjoy yourselves.’ ‘It has been lovely meeting you, Miss Quéripel,’ he said, ‘and thank you for the grand tea.’ He held out his hand; but she went to him and put her arms under his, and her hands round over his shoulders, and lifted up her face. He bent and kissed her on the forehead. He is far from people, as a rule, is Neville; yet when he do come close, he know exactly the right thing to do. She let go of him, and opened the front door for him to go out; and he went down the path. She came to me then, and caught hold of me; and I held her close and kissed her on the mouth. She was small and frail, smaller than me now; but her mouth was hungry yet, and she was soft as a young woman in my arms. ‘Je t’aime, Liza,’ I said. She said, ‘Je t’aime, Ebenezer.’
The Book of Ebenezer le Page Page 55