Island of Secrets

by Karen Abbott

  “It isn’t your mother. It’s your grandmother, Angela. She spent time here, as you already know. She and Francine were best friends, and, yes, the other two are my parents. Now, which is the other one that concerns you?”

  Christi looked along the dresser but the last photograph she’d looked at, the one of the regal old lady, wasn’t there.

  When asked, Jean-Claude said Marie had dropped it and Georges had taken it into town to be reframed. It was a picture of Charles’ mother … Jean-Claude’s great grandmother … which left Christi feeling slightly foolish. She had nearly made a mystery out of nothing.

  Chapter Seven

  It was the end of the week after the Whit holiday weekend, when the population of the island trebled overnight and most of the mobile homes on site were occupied. Jean-Claude had been run off his feet and the computer-work had been neglected.

  “Can’t I help you with some of that?” Christi offered willingly. “I told you I am trained in secretarial work. I can use a computer and I know all about book-keeping.” At his hesitation, she added sharply, “I won’t pry into personal details, if that is what’s bothering you!”

  “I didn’t suppose for one moment that you would.” He regarded her carefully. “It would mean you being stuck in here for some of the time. I know how you are enjoying being in the open.”

  Her heart warmed to know that he had noticed her happiness—and that he cared. “That’s all right. I am beginning to find the afternoons a bit hot, now that the weather is warming up. I’ll start now, if you like.”

  “All right.” He grinned. “You might even get a pay-rise—I hate this side of the work.” The smile relaxed his face. She caught her breath at how much younger it made him look. He didn’t smile anywhere near enough, she thought. “Tell me, Christi,” he went on quietly.

  Her heart spun. It always did when he spoke her name in his own special accent.

  “… what are your feelings about this place?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you like it here? How does it feel? Are you homesick at all? … No, no. Speak in English, then you can speak your true sentiments.” As he spoke, he rose from his seat, indicating that she should sit, whilst he perched on the edge of the desk. His eyes searched her face as she marshalled her thoughts together.

  How could she explain that it felt more like home than home had ever felt, especially during the years since her parents died? That she awoke each morning with a song in her heart? That the work, though physically harder than anything she had ever known, was a pleasure to perform? That the sights, sounds and scents breathed life into her?

  She did her best and he listened, nodding, smiling at her hesitant words.

  “And what about our project here? Have you any thoughts about how we could improve the site? I want it to be one of the best!”

  She considered for a moment. “Yes. A children’s Play Area would be a good idea. And an up-to-date laundry where mobile-home owners could wash their bed-linen etc. And barbecues, where holiday-makers could relax and get to know each other. You could specialise in local produce and customs, for instance, those barbecued mussels you did the other night … and oysters, of course!”

  “Of course!” He paused. “What about Amusement Arcades and Hot-Dog stands? I believe they are very profitable.”

  She was shocked.

  “Oh, no! They would spoil the place! You aren’t …?”

  He laughed. “No, I’m not! I was just testing your thoughts on the subject.”

  His laughter brought the light discussion to an end and they returned to the accounts work on the computer screen.

  She thrilled at the closeness of his presence as he leaned over, pointing out some of the details that needed attending to. He rested his hand on her shoulder, pointing to some figures on the screen.

  “Yes, I see what you’ve done. Look. Those figures should be in that column, not here. Let’s just move them over. There now, that should add up all right.” They did. She turned to look up at him. His expression was unguarded and, for a moment, she caught sight of … Her heart skipped a beat. He did care about her, she was sure of it. So, why …?

  Not wanting to spoil their present friendship, she quickly turned back to the screen and typed in the next set of figures. “Why don’t you read them out to me?” she suggested. “Preferably in English! I still get numbers mixed up and I don’t want to make a mistake.”

  Just then, Virginie walked into the room. She scowled at the sight of them working so closely together.

  “I thought I would find you in here!”

  Her tones betrayed her resentment. She peered over their shoulders to view the screen.

  “I could have done that! I keep asking you to let me help.”

  “You have homework to do,” Jean-Claude told her calmly.

  “I ought to be able to leave school and work here full time! We wouldn’t need any other help then,” she persisted, pushing her way in front of him, so that she was between Jean-Claude and Christi.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Christi caught sight of Virginie’s hand moving towards her but was concentrating on the screen. Suddenly it went blank. Christi’s mind froze. What …?

  “See! She doesn’t know what she’s doing. What did I tell you?” Virginie said triumphantly to Jean-Claude.

  Christi quickly grabbed hold of the mouse and clicked onto ‘undo’. She breathed with relief when everything came back on the screen.

  “It’s all right. I’ve got it back.” She knew what had happened—it had happened accidentally enough times for her to know how it could be done deliberately—and so did Virginie! Of that, she was sure. But, knowing the girl’s unhappiness, she had no intention of saying so.

  “Leave us whilst we are working, there’s a good girl,” Jean-Claude chided his cousin.

  He gently moved her aside, returning his attention to the work Christi was doing.

  “Now, the other problem I had was on the next page.” He clicked the mouse onto the double arrows at the bottom of the screen, bringing up the following page. “This can’t be right, look.”

  Virginie left them to it, knowing defeat when she saw it.

  Neither Christi nor Jean-Claude saw her go. They were too intent on the work in hand. They worked steadily through the evening, Jean-Claude explaining some procedures and showing Christi various files and lists of contractors he used with some of the work.

  Eventually, he yawned deeply. “Oh, excuses moi!”

  Christi smiled at him. “Why don’t you go to bed? I’ll just finish this and print it out. Then we’ll be all set for tomorrow.”

  Jean-Claude was tempted.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?” He stretched himself. “It has been a busy day,” he conceded.

  “Days!” corrected Christi. “Go on. I won’t be long.”

  Jean-Claude went and Christi worked on. She felt a breakthrough had been made into whatever it was that held Jean-Claude back from her. They worked well together and she felt a lot closer to him.

  The remainder of the work didn’t take long. While the printer was working, she tidied up the desk and then closed everything down. It wasn’t very late but the house was quiet. Everyone else had gone to bed. They didn’t keep late hours because of the early starts they made each morning.

  Suppressing a yawn, she made her way to the bathroom.

  Jean-Claude’s bedroom door was slightly open. Virginie’s voice came from within the room. “But I love you, Jean-Claude. I want to be your girl-friend. I am old enough to make love with you. You do care me, I know that you do!”

  Christi hurried past. She didn’t want to hear Jean-Claude’s answer.

  She slipped into the bathroom and quietly closed the door. For a moment or two she leaned her back against it, her eyes shut tight against the fleet of images that skimmed across her mind. Did Jean-Claude have deeper feeling for his cousin than she had suspected? She had to admit that she didn’t want to think of Jean-Cla
ude making love to anyone—except her.

  The sound of a door shutting and a half-stifled sob, as light footsteps fled along the corridor, confirmed her need for compassion. She waited a few minutes, then switched on the light. She swiftly washed herself and cleaned her teeth. Although she was tired, she wasn’t sure that sleep would come easily to her—but she needed her bed.

  As she grasped the knob of the bathroom door, it swung open towards her. “Oh!” She couldn’t help the surprised yelp.

  It was Virginie, red-eyed and still crying. She stared at Christi in obvious shock.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Christi began, her heart going out to the girl. “Oh, come here,” she said, attempting to enfold the girl in her arms. “Virginie, we shouldn’t always be fighting. Why can’t we be friends?”

  Virginie stepped backwards, her eyes blazing. “Friends? I hate you! I wish you’d never come here!”

  Christi knew that there was nothing she could say that would ease the girl’s hurt. She allowed her arms to drop to her sides and she turned to go.

  “He only wants you because of your share of the estate. He wouldn’t look twice at you otherwise!”

  Virginie’s voice was sharp with the hurt she was feeling—but it wasn’t the tone that stopped Christi in her tracks. Her mind was running backwards and forwards over the words she had heard. Had she translated correctly?

  She slowly turned round.

  “What did you say?”

  Virginie’s reddened eyes brimming with tears. A look of shock spread over her face—as if she were having second thoughts about her outburst and was only just realising exactly what she had said. She pressed her lips together and returned Christi’s stare.

  Christi tried again. “Tell me again what you just said.”

  “You had better ask Jean-Claude!”

  Virginie pushed past her to the sink and began to splash some cold water on her face. “He’s the boss around here. At least, he was until you came on the scene! Now, if you don’t mind …” She paused, her meaning insolently clear.

  Christi stared at her. It didn’t make sense. What did she mean, ‘your share of the estate’? She didn’t have a share in it. How could she?

  “Can I get washed now?” Virginie snapped.

  “But …”

  “Like I said … ask Jean-Claude.”

  “I will … don’t you worry.”

  Stunned, she made her way to her bedroom. She looked at her watch. It was almost twelve o’clock. She couldn’t tackle him now. It was far too late … and she needed a clear head. But, when morning came … she would demand some answers!

  She hardly slept—but that didn’t surprise her.

  She kept turning Virginie’s words over and over in her mind. Could she have misunderstood her? She knew it were possible—but Virginie’s reaction to her challenge didn’t bear that out. No, there was definitely something going on and she meant to get to the bottom of it.

  The sky was bright when she swung her feet out of bed. A glance through the window revealed the promise of another sunny day—she only wished it would be sunny in other ways but her tight stomach told her otherwise.

  A tepid shower put some life into her and she quickly dressed in shorts and T-shirt. When she arrived in the kitchen only Georges, Marie and Luc were there. The dishes by the sink gave evidence of early eaters.

  “Bonjour Georges et Marie. Salut, Luc,” slapping palms with him. “Where are Jean-Claude and Virginie?”

  “Virginie has an early Sports Meeting that she had forgotten about, so Jean-Claude has taken her to school early,” Marie told her.

  Christi slipped into her place and poured some fruit juice. Hmm. That was convenient for Virginie! Why did she get the feeling that she was getting out of the way?

  “Jean-Claude will be back later,” Georges added. “He had to call at the Intermarché in Dolus for some supplies.”

  Luc left for his school and Christi accompanied Georges to the stables to begin the morning duties there. She didn’t want to tackle Georges without Jean-Claude but, on his return, Jean-Claude went straight out on the tractor to prepare the ground for a new gravelled driveway he was creating around the site. It wasn’t until the mid-morning break time that Christi had the opportunity to raise her queries.

  “Did you have any problems last night?” Jean-Claude asked as he picked up a croissant. “I’m sorry I had to leave you to finish off on your own.” He smiled amicably at her.

  Christi didn’t return his smile. “There were no problems with the accounts—but, yes, I do have a problem.”

  “Oh?”

  She wasn’t finding this easy. She sat down, glad that she could now converse in adequate French, since what she had to say was pertinent to the three others. “Virginie tells me that I have a share in this estate. What does she mean?”

  As Christi spoke, Jean-Claude’s expression tightened. The two men exchanged glances with each other. Marie gave a startled gasp.

  “When did she tell you this?” Jean-Claude demanded. He looked angry. Christi wasn’t sure whether it was with her or with Virginie.

  “Last night, after you had all gone to bed.”

  “No wonder she wanted to leave early this morning,” Marie commented.

  “She was out of order,” Georges growled. “Just wait until she comes home!”

  “But, what did she mean?” Christi persisted. “I don’t understand. Did your grandmother leave me some shares?—But, she couldn’t have. She didn’t know anything about me, did she? My mother, then? She was my mother’s Godmother, wasn’t she? Did she leave Mum some shares, not knowing that she had already died?”

  Jean-Claude laid a hand on her arm. “It’s a bit more complicated than that.”

  He looked questioningly at Georges and Marie, before giving his attention back to Christi. “I’m sorry you have found out like this.” He glanced back at the others with a helpless shrug of his shoulders. “We will have to tell her the whole story.”

  “That’s good of you!” Christi burst out, with more than a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “How long were you going to keep it from me?”

  “Don’t be angry. We had to make sure who you were first,” Jean-Claude explained.

  “What do you mean? You know who I am. At least ...”

  “We know who your cousin said you are,” Jean-Claude corrected. “But a lot of money is involved, and our livelihoods. We had to make sure.”

  “And have you? Made sure, I mean?”

  “Not quite, not officially, anyway. But I am expecting confirmation at any time.” He paused. “I would have told you then … you must believe that.”

  Christi stared at him and then at Georges and Marie. “No, I don’t know. How can I?” she said quietly. “So, what is it all about?”

  “This is going to take time. Make some more coffee, will you, Tante Marie. Here …” He poured a cup for Christi and handed the pot to Marie.

  Christi added some milk and took a sip. “Right. I’m all ears!”

  Jean-Claude took a deep breath. “First I must tell you who you are—and I do believe it, even though we haven’t yet had positive official word.” He was speaking in English, for which Christi was grateful. He took hold of her hand. “Your grandfather, Pierre, was my grandfather’s brother … his elder brother. Pierre married Angela, an English girl who came to work here just before the Second World War started; Charles married Francine.” He made an embarrassed gesture. “The photograph—the one I said was my great-grandmother … she was your great-grandmother too. Did you not notice a certain resemblance to yourself?”

  Christi gasped in surprise. “Well, yes. There was something.” Her eye-brows puckered. “But I don’t understand. How …?”

  “What was your mother’s family name … before she married your father?” Jean-Claude asked patiently.

  Christi looked puzzled. “Why … it was Sinclair. What has that got to do with it? Oh!”

  A glimmer of understanding dawned. “Yes, I s
ee what you mean. Sinclair … St. Clare. Oh, I never knew! But … ” She was still puzzled. “… why did my grandfather leave? … And change his name? What happened?”

  Jean-Claude’s expression saddened.

  “That is the tragic part of it. It was a mistake. We all know that now, but at the time, things looked different. It was during the war, you see, before your and my time. France was under German occupation. Thousands of loyal patriots formed the Resistance to help fugitives to escape and the fight back under cover—we have talked of it before.”

  He shrugged. “There were informers. They infiltrated many groups. It seemed that there was one in the group here. It was narrowed down to two men—Pierre and another man called Paul. Then Paul was killed—and the full suspicion fell on Pierre. He denied it, of course—but that meant nothing. He shouldn’t have been on the next assignment. He had arranged to take his wife, pregnant with your mother, to safety in England—but he insisted on going with them, hoping to thus prove his innocence. It was a complete rout. Nine of the group were killed … Pierre amongst them.”

  Christi felt a large lump in her throat. She had never known her grandfather—but the sense of loss was just as great. “What happened to my grandmother?”

  Jean-Claude shook his head.

  “Pierre had managed to take her across the channel in a fishing boat to go to stay with her parents. He could have stayed over there but he didn’t—he came back”

  “Didn’t that prove his innocence?”

  Jean-Claude shrugged. “Some thought so—others didn’t. You have to imagine what it was like at the time. It was a matter of life or death—and feelings ran high. There isn’t anything much worse than to be betrayed by someone you thought was a friend. It split the group apart.”

  Every so often, Jean-Claude turned to include Marie and Georges in the telling, rapidly translating what he was saying.

  “So when did the truth come out? From what you said at the beginning, I presume it did.”

  “Yes. It was after the War was over. Some records were found in the German Occupation headquarters. They named Paul’s wife as the informant—but she was long gone by then. She disappeared with the rest when they knew the end was near. By then, everyone had lost contact with Angela. The only communication was a letter from her asking Francine to fulfil her promise to be the baby’s Godmother, which, as you know, she did. Later, when the War was over, Francine tried to contact her sister-in-law but her letters came back unopened. We knew there was a baby girl, called Fleur, but nothing else—until your cousin wrote to us claiming … Well, that was the problem. We didn’t know what she was claiming. It seemed to be no more than a summer job for you—but we expected it to escalate.”