Saints and Sailors

by Pam Rhodes

  Andrew raised his chin as he replied. “Michael’s an extremely talented performer and a good friend.”

  “Much more than just a good friend, I venture to suggest.”

  The younger man fell silent.

  “Look, Andrew, you can’t help who you love, and none of us has the right to impose our opinions on others. But in saying that, your mother does come to mind…”

  “You’re not going to tell her, are you?”

  “Of course not, but I hope that one day, before too long, you might feel ready to tell her and your dad yourself.”

  “They’ll never understand.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be a new thought to them, and at first they may struggle to accept it. But you’re their only son, and your happiness is important to them. It’s easy to see how much they love you.”

  “I just don’t want to disappoint them.”

  “Well, whether you do or you don’t will be as much about them as it is about you.”

  Andrew nodded as he thought this over.

  “In the meantime, if you need a good listener – one who’s faced a similar dilemma in the past – I’m here, OK?”

  “OK,” agreed Andrew, his face pale.

  And with what he hoped was a reassuring smile, Clifford picked up his music case and turned to leave. Andrew sat down heavily, his fingers going instinctively to the keyboard, where they started to play.

  CHAPTER 8

  ST PETER PORT, GUERNSEY

  God is near to all those who call on Him. The kingdom of heaven can be reached from any land.

  St Samthann

  The passengers breakfasting on deck the next morning were treated to a panoramic view of the waterfront of St Peter Port, with its grey and white stone buildings interrupted by rows of colourfully painted houses. The spires of churches and monuments reaching up from its winding streets and leafy alleys were dwarfed on the southern side of the town by Castle Cornet, the magnificent granite fortress which had stood guard on that spot since the eleventh century. Etched into the castle were the war wounds it had gathered over the years, especially during the English Civil War – Guernsey had supported Cromwell, which meant that the island’s Royalists had to hold out in the castle for eight long years.

  “The Channel Islanders were so brave during the Second World War, you know,” Arthur explained to his grandson Callum. The seventeen-year-old was tucking into a hearty breakfast of bacon, sausage, black pudding, eggs, mushrooms, beans and tomatoes, along with buttered toast to mop up the juices.

  “These islands were the only British territory to be occupied by the enemy, for five years from 1940 to 1945. We’d left them undefended, so they were almost handed to the Germans on a plate. When they sent a squadron of bombers over to pummel St Peter Port and the main harbour on Jersey too, the Germans soon realized there was no real resistance. You can imagine what a triumph it was to take over this jewel of British territory. They thought it was a strategic stronghold, the gateway to an invasion of Great Britain.”

  “Well, that never happened,” said Callum between mouthfuls, “so the islanders must have been OK.”

  “They had to become self-sufficient, because they were cut off from the mainland. And that was easier said than done, with the Germans helping themselves to any rations and produce they were able to grow themselves. Some people practically starved before the end of the war.”

  “That wouldn’t happen now,” said Callum confidently. “Military planning’s much more sophisticated these days. That’s why I want to join up. With all the terrorist groups in the world who need sorting out, the British Army’s always at the front when it comes to getting the bad guys. They either stop what they’re doing, or we’ll stop ’em – dead!”

  Arthur sighed. “Callum, you’ve got no idea about war. I hope you don’t find out the hard way how naïve you are. Soldiers die on all sides. Bombs and missiles don’t discriminate. If you’re in the way, you’re the one who dies, probably without you ever seeing the whites of your enemy’s eyes.”

  “Well, I’m joining up as soon as I’m eighteen, Grandpa,” retorted Callum. “It’s a proper job. I’ve been on training exercises with the school cadet force, so I’m not that naïve. You fought for your country. Why shouldn’t I?”

  Arthur eyed his grandson thoughtfully before his gaze focused further away. “Just over there, about twenty-five miles away, is the Normandy coast. We’ll be there tomorrow. It’ll be the first time I’ve set foot on that shore for more than seventy years.”

  “Yeah, I’m looking forward to that. Can’t wait to hear the story of your war, Grandpa. I’ve never heard you talk about it much.”

  Even when Arthur eventually spoke again, Callum failed to notice the pain in his grandfather’s eyes.

  “Well, I’ll tell you tomorrow. Then we’ll see if you’re still as keen to march off to war.”

  But Callum was too interested in ploughing through his breakfast to listen – and the thought of the reality of war, which his grandson simply couldn’t grasp, upset Arthur enough to put him off the thought of any breakfast at all.

  Back at the buffet restaurant, Neil was just heading for the door when he bumped into Brad coming out.

  “I was hoping to see you,” said Neil. “Are you still meeting Joanne today?”

  Brad glanced at his watch. “She’ll be here in about ten minutes. We’re having to meet early, because I’m on duty here this afternoon.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Terrified, resigned, sad beyond thinking…”

  “Well, perhaps it’s best not to over-think what’ll happen today. You and Joanne have got a lot to talk about.”

  Brad nodded forlornly.

  “Just remember how much you’ve always loved each other, and how you both loved Chris. Joanne may need your love very badly right now.”

  “I think she needs me like a hole in the head.”

  “You’re thinking again,” smiled Neil. “Go with an open mind. Listen as much as you talk.”

  Brad took a deep calming breath. “I might need a chat with a mate later today. What time are you back?”

  “We’re on the Guernsey Highlights trip around the island,” replied Neil. “Back about four, I think. We’re all going to the ‘Songs of Praise’ at five.”

  “OK.”

  “And Brad, I’m praying for you.”

  “Thanks.” Brad’s expression was grim as he replied. “I definitely need that.”

  Several minutes later Neil had been joined by Claire and Iris. They’d all selected their breakfast and chosen a table overlooking the quayside. Glancing down, Neil saw Brad walking away from the ship towards a woman who stood just inside the gate. She looked very small and alone as she watched the man who was striding over to meet her. When he reached her, they didn’t touch, but exchanged a few words then turned to go out of the gate, as distantly as two strangers who had just met for the first time.

  “Where’s Harry?” Brig came over to ask the question.

  “He’s a bit tired this morning,” sniffed Iris. “He’s been doing too much. I did warn him.”

  “And he had such a wonderful day yesterday on Tresco,” added Claire. “We did a lot of walking there, so I think his legs are giving him a bit of trouble this morning.”

  “He’ll miss out on Guernsey, then,” said Brig. “One of the most famous seafaring islands around the British Isles. Their sailors and fishermen are legendary.”

  “Brig!” snapped Daisy, stepping up behind him. “Let those poor people eat their breakfast in peace.”

  A momentary look of embarrassment shot across Brig’s face before he pinned on his usual resolute smile. “Well, I’ll take my leave of you, then.”

  “Thanks for asking after Harry, Brig,” said Claire. “I’ll tell him before we head out on our trip today. Have a good time yourself.”

  Brig shot a doubtful look towards Daisy, who was busy spooning melon pieces onto her plate at the buffet. “I’ll try.” And
with a click of his heels and a smart salute, he marched off in the direction of his wife.

  Before Claire left the restaurant, she gathered together a simple continental breakfast and a strong cup of tea, and carried the tray down to Harry’s cabin. Using the extra key she’d been given, she knocked before stepping into the darkened room.

  “Uncle Harry?” she whispered. “Are you asleep?”

  “No,” came the muffled reply from under the covers. “I’m just resting my eyes.”

  Claire smiled, putting the tray down on the bedside table. “Well, your eyes might like to feast themselves on the breakfast goodies I’ve brought for you. There’s a mug of tea too, just the way you like it.”

  He stirred then, his eyes peering over the bedclothes. “Thank you, Claire. I’ll have some later.”

  “You need something to eat now, so you can take your pills, and that tea will wash them down nicely. Come on. Let me help you to sit up a bit.”

  Reluctantly, Harry allowed himself to be propped up on his pillows so he could see her clearly, sitting on the bed opposite his.

  “How are you this morning?” she asked.

  “There were a lot of steps up and down in Tresco, weren’t there?” groaned Harry. “And all that walking too. I loved it, but my knees weren’t so keen.”

  “Are you going to take things easy today, then?”

  “I think I should.”

  “It’s a pity you’ll miss Guernsey. They say the island is really pretty.”

  “With pedigree cows that produce the most marvellous cream, so Iris tells me,” said Harry. “I gather you’ll be having a strawberry cream tea on your tour today.”

  “Iris has mentioned that three times already this morning.”

  “She certainly has a sweet tooth – although she always protests when I say that.”

  Claire leaned forward to lace her fingers through his. “I’ll miss you. Wish you were coming with us.”

  “Well, I promise to behave. I’m thinking of taking my book out on deck in the sunshine somewhere. That sounds like the perfect day to me.”

  She smiled, but there was concern in her voice as she stood to leave. “You are all right, though, aren’t you? You don’t need anything? You know you can always ring the steward from the phone right here.”

  “I do know that, and I’ll be fine. Have a wonderful time. Enjoy the cows – and Iris.”

  With a quiet chuckle, Claire planted a loving kiss on his cheek and gave him a quick wave before closing the door behind her.

  Half an hour later, Harry stood up to draw back the curtains in the cabin. The small window gave a view of the quayside, where a row of coaches were waiting to ferry passengers around the island on various trips. Suddenly, he saw the group who interested him most: Neil, hand in hand with Claire; Iris following on with Peter and Val Fellowes at her side. He banged on the window, wondering if there was any chance they could hear him. He soon realized they couldn’t, but he carried on watching as they gave in their tickets and climbed into the coach. Minutes later, as the bus pulled away from the ship, he glimpsed Claire’s face looking back at him, almost as if she sensed him watching her.

  And then they were gone.

  “Well, Neil, is this church small enough for you?” grinned Peter as they all walked up the lane towards the Little Chapel at Les Vauxbelets.

  “I wouldn’t fit much of a congregation in there,” laughed Neil, looking up at the two sets of curved steps leading to the chapel. Behind them, Sister Maureen arrived with her guidebook, Catholic mothers in tow.

  “This Little Chapel is a labour of love,” she read loudly. “In December 1913, a de la Salle monk called Brother Deodat arrived in Les Vauxbelets, and when he saw this woody slope of land facing the valley, he had the idea to build a grotto here like the one at Lourdes. By March of 1914, he had built a tiny chapel nine feet long and four feet wide, but when his efforts were criticized, he spent the following night tearing the building down.

  “But he couldn’t forget the idea, so he set to work on another chapel, which ended up being the same width but a little longer than his original attempt. This chapel survived until September 1923, when Brother Deodat tore it down again after the Bishop of Portsmouth had got stuck in the doorway.”

  “Well, no wonder,” frowned Iris, eyeing the tiny entrance. “Any normal-sized person who likes cream teas would get stuck in that door.”

  Sister Maureen chuckled before continuing to read.

  “So Brother Deodat set about building a third chapel, which is the one we see now. It was hard work, as day after day he had to collect pebbles and tiny pieces of broken china to decorate the shrine. Then, following an article in the Daily Mirror newspaper showing a picture of the chapel, the shrine became famous, and gifts arrived from around the world, bringing everything from pieces of exotic mother-of-pearl to brightly coloured chips of china donated by the locals.

  “Over the years since, decoration has been completed on the walls and ceiling in the crypt, and a Way of the Cross has been built around the chapel mirroring the Way at Lourdes, with fourteen traditional Stations of the Cross. The fifteenth, symbolizing the Resurrection of Our Lord, is deemed to be the Little Chapel itself.”

  All those listening were plainly moved by the story, none more so than Sister Maureen herself, who seemed close to tears as she closed the guidebook.

  “Come, mothers!” she cried as she set off up the sparkling, colourful stairs. “Prayers and penance. Follow me!”

  At exactly that moment back on The Pilgrim, Harry was opening the door onto the side deck, looking up and down the long rows of loungers for somewhere to stretch out and read. The ship was unnaturally quiet with all the passengers ashore on Guernsey, and he smiled at the thought of the peace and quiet he would be able to enjoy for an hour or so. Glancing up at the sky, he decided the sun probably wouldn’t hit this part of the ship for some time, so he climbed a nearby staircase to the next deck level. Here, he found a line of lifeboats suspended above his head as he made his way along to find a small area of deck right at the very front of the ship. Just a handful of loungers were on offer there, so he rolled up his towel as a cushion for his head, and with a sigh lay down with his book open on his chest.

  Small bundles of cloud scudded across the blue sky, and he shaded his eyes from the warm sun, rising to its height as the clock ticked towards noon. Perhaps he nodded off, because when he opened his eyes again he wasn’t sure where he was or why he was there. His head felt muggy, there was a dull ache in his chest and his limbs felt too heavy to lift – but he was so warm and comfortable, he had no wish to move.

  Slowly he became aware that he was not alone. There was a woman standing a few yards away to one side of him, and he sensed that he knew her, although it was hard to see her clearly. He closed his eyes for a moment to help him focus, and when he opened them she was right at his side.

  “You’re tired, Harry; so tired…”

  Was he hearing those words, or was her voice just echoing around inside his head? Squinting to see her image more clearly, he breathed in sharply. “Rose?”

  “You found our roses, Harry. You remembered…”

  Struggling to find his breath, he would have stretched out to touch her if only he could lift his arm. It was then that he realized she was carrying a bunch of small yellow roses, and that fragrant golden petals were tumbling around him.

  “I never told you…” he began.

  “… that you love me? I know, Harry. I’ve always known.”

  “Is it time?”

  “Yes.”

  He felt her hand touch him then, and suddenly his arm was weightless as he reached out to her. He was standing beside her now, looking down at her dear face as he remembered her on the day she’d become his bride, her eyes full of love, yellow roses in her arms. Breathing in the sweet aroma, he was dimly aware of their golden petals swirling around them as he bent to kiss her.

  The lounge was filling up quickly as several hundred
passengers took their seats for ‘Songs of Praise’. Richard and the ship’s technical team had already run sound checks on the Good Heavens! choir. There had been a somewhat heated discussion with Carole, who felt her professionally trained voice should be right in front of the sopranos’ microphone, but the engineer pointed out that once she started singing, no one else could be heard at all, and he moved her to the back line, where she glowered with indignation. As musical director for the event, Brian was checking the order of the hymns he would be conducting. Clifford was at the grand piano, while Andrew made final adjustments to the sheet music spread out on the electronic keyboard. The drummer and guitarist from the ship’s band had joined them too, so the music would have rhythm and harmony. Pam was sitting in the front row alongside the interviewees, looking over final details before the event began.

  “Has Claire still not found him?” asked Iris as she walked in with Neil. “He can’t have gone far.”

  “No, you’re right,” agreed Neil. “He’s probably disappeared into someone else’s cabin for a chat – or he did mention there was a film showing downstairs in the cinema which he fancied seeing. Either that, or Claire’s wandering round the ship one way, just missing him as he wanders in the other direction.”

  “Harry’s been talking about coming to this ‘Songs of Praise’, though,” Iris pointed out. “Perhaps he’s lost track of time. That happens as you get older.”

  “Well, Claire will keep looking for him and bring him down to join us. Let’s save a couple of seats for them.”

  “Good afternoon, everyone,” greeted Pam as she moved to the middle of the stage, microphone in hand.

  There was a general hush as people settled down.

  “Well, I’m not sure if you can raise the roof on a ship, but we’ll have a good try as we sing together some of our most popular hymns, old and new. So let’s start by getting to our feet to sing ‘To God Be the Glory’.”