Xanthe
St Helier, April 2019
Xanthe sits on a brown leather chesterfield in the lobby of the Pomme d’Or Hotel, waiting for the real estate agent. On the dot of ten, the hotel door swings open and Jill Anderson strides in, brisk and businesslike in a black tailored suit and high heels. On their way to the house Xanthe has rented for a month, the agent keeps up a relentless flow of conversation, undeterred by her client’s minimal responses. Jersey has become the flavour of the month, Jill says, and congratulates Xanthe on renting one of the most desirable properties in St Helier.
‘So centrally located and comfortable,’ she gushes. ‘Modern yet full of character. With a large garden and an orchard. Where else would you get all that so close to town?’
It’s a large building with a bow-fronted facade on St Mark’s Road. ‘Back in the 1940s, the owner turned part of the garden into a vegetable patch,’ Jill says as she turns the key in the lock. ‘They kept chickens, too, so with the eggs, apples, pears, beans and cabbages, they must have been pretty self-sufficient. Can’t imagine anyone doing that now.’
As they enter the high-ceilinged lounge room, Jill says, ‘The house stood empty for ages, but a few years ago the owner arrived from England, had it renovated, and let it. Makes you wonder why they didn’t move into it themselves. Or sell it. Property like this is scarce these days, and it would have fetched a good price.’
From the French windows, Xanthe looks out on the emerald lawn of the level garden. Past the lawn, the orchard looks neglected. Small, wizened apples hang off the branches of the apple trees, and birds have feasted on the pears, which are scattered half-eaten on the ground. There’s no trace of the vegetable patch the agent mentioned. She wonders why, on this island with such an abundance of fresh produce, anyone would go to the bother of planting their own vegetables. And why a house in such a good position close to the centre of St Helier would have been left empty for so many years.
After giving Xanthe a tour of the kitchen and laundry, and explaining how to use the washing machine, the agent gives instructions about the oven that Xanthe knows she will never use. Then Jill places her card on the benchtop and urges her to get in touch if she needs anything. Relieved to hear the front door close behind her, Xanthe goes upstairs.
Like the kitchen, the bathroom has been renovated, and the bedroom walls have been painted an inoffensive shade of cream. The rooms are bright and spacious, and she is pleased that they have left vestiges of their original character, like the old fireplaces in the lounge room and the bedroom.
Outside the sun is shining. Determined not to waste any time, Xanthe leaves her bag on the bed, gets into the grey Nissan she has rented, and heads for the Jersey War Tunnels to see the Occupation Museum that Bill McAllister recommended.
Driving with both windows open, her hair blowing in the breeze, she inhales deeply. The air is fresh, unlike the humid, polluted air in Sydney, and the light here falls differently. But as soon as she thinks of home, her mood darkens and she grits her teeth. I won’t think about it, she reminds herself. For one month she will enjoy life on this delightful island. Here she wasn’t a failure, a disappointment to her parents, or the butt of criticism from her superiors. Here she could slough off the mantle of failed doctor and reinvent herself as just another tourist in search of a relaxing holiday.
Driving the Nissan down St Mark’s Road, past rows of Georgian houses and the granite church of St Mark’s with its square tower, she follows Queen’s Road down to the coast and skirts the wide curve of St Aubin’s Bay. She pulls up to have a look at the granite castle whose round tower and battlements seem to float in the water just off the coast. According to the sign, this is Elizabeth Castle, and visitors are warned not to attempt walking out to it except at low tide. She makes a note of the kiosk near the shore that sells ferry tickets to the castle, but keeps driving.
Past the bay, she turns into a lane that leads inland. Suddenly she jams on the brakes. Looming in front of her is a medieval manor house whose turrets, arches and dormer windows resemble something out of gothic novels like Dragonwyck, Jane Eyre and Rebecca – books she loved as a teenager.
She checks the name. Manoir de Courcy. Unable to resist a closer look, she parks the car and walks up to the ornate wrought-iron gate, which swings open when she leans against it. She has already taken a few steps on the curved gravel driveway, lined with beds of daffodils whose golden heads seem perched on long straight necks, when she looks up and freezes.
The front door has just opened, and the man she assumes is the lord of this manor, in tweed jacket and riding boots, is striding towards her. Too late to turn back. Mortified, she feels like a schoolgirl caught sneaking out of school. She thinks she sounds like one, too, when she begins to stammer an apology.
‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to trespass, but I’ve never seen such a magnificent manor house …’
He interrupts her with a smile and holds out his hand. ‘I’m Edward de Courcy.’ He says it as if it means something.
She introduces herself, and wonders how to extricate herself from this embarrassing situation.
He says, ‘I detect an unfamiliar accent. You’re not American or Canadian. Where are you from?’
She tells him and is starting to back away when he says, ‘What a coincidence. I’m heading for the airport now to pick up someone from Melbourne who claims to be some sort of relative. I think he discovered we have a common antecedent on one of those ancestry sites. Seems everyone these days can trace their antecedents back to Jersey.’
She is about to tell him about her own connection through a woman called Nellie, but decides against it. It’s pointless to mention a distant relative she isn’t interested in.
He is surveying her as if he too is weighing something up. Then he says, ‘I don’t know anything about this Melbourne chap, or if we’ll have much to talk about once we’ve established that his great-uncle three times removed was the bastard grandson of the fifth son of the second wife of a de Courcy back in the sixteenth century.’
Edward de Courcy is the image of an English aristocrat with his silver hair, ruddy complexion, and slightly supercilious manner with its hint of noblesse oblige, but she can’t help laughing at his comment.
She is still figuring out how to make a graceful exit when he says, ‘If you’re not busy, Xanthe, why don’t you come back in an hour or so and join us for a drink to celebrate this serendipitous encounter with your compatriot?’
She isn’t interested in meeting another Australian, but the prospect of being invited inside this manor house is too exciting to resist.
An hour later, she raps the lion’s head knocker on the massive timber door and is examining the elaborate heraldic crest above it when a plump woman in a black dress, lace-up shoes and a white apron opens the heavy door and ushers her into what looks like a baronial hall.
Xanthe gazes at the cathedral-like ceiling, uneven timber beams and oak-panelled walls. The windows are hung with wine-coloured velvet curtains with gold tassels, and the walls are hung with large portraits in ornate gilded frames.
It occurs to her that this scenario resembles the beginning of a gothic novel. Jaded medico arrives in a strange country and snoops inside the grounds of a chateau, when the lord of the manor catches her in the act and invites her inside. Of course in a gothic novel he would have been tall, dark and mysterious, and they’d have had a torrid love affair until she discovered he had a mad wife locked up in the attic, and a jealous housekeeper lurking around the shrubbery.
Disappointingly, however, Edward de Courcy is the antithesis of a fictional hero, without a psychotic housekeeper or crazy wife in sight. What’s more, the motherly housekeeper who opened the door and is now offering them glasses of sherry from a crystal decanter on a silver tray is no Mrs Danvers. Instead of being locked up in the attic, his wife Emily is a vivacious woman with a mass of white hair and a merry laugh who wants to know about Xanthe’s plans in Jersey.
Seated in an armchair facing their host, the guy from Melbourne stands up and introduces himself. His name is Daniel Miller, and from the conversation between him and their host, Xanthe figures out that he’s an academic of some kind. He doesn’t say much, but he doesn’t appear to be as overawed by their surroundings as she is. She watches him while he is talking to their host and notes his cleft chin, a feature she has always found attractive.
Sipping her sherry, she turns her attention from Daniel to the portraits of bewigged men and bejewelled women whose elaborate hairstyles and intricate costumes seem to illustrate fashion through the ages. Following her gaze, Edward de Courcy waves his arm casually towards the portraits.
‘The de Courcys arrived in Jersey with William the Conqueror, who, as you probably know, was the Duke of Normandy.’ He lets that sink in while he sips his sherry. Looking from Xanthe to Daniel, he adds, ‘You realise, of course, that this makes Jersey the oldest part of the British Empire.’
All this is new to Xanthe, but it explains the French place names she has noticed. Daniel is nodding, and she supposes he is better informed about history than she is. Then she remembers why he has come to Jersey and realises that of course he would have checked out the family history – the history of his own family – before leaving home.
‘Ever since the Norman Conquest – 1066 you may recall – and down through the centuries,’ their host continues, pointing to one of the earliest portraits, a woman garbed in a medieval conical hat with a long gauzy veil, ‘the de Courcys have distinguished themselves in every major land and sea battle, crusade, revolution, revolt and rebellion that England has been involved in. John de Courcy was at Richard the Lionheart’s side during the siege of Jerusalem, and Edward de Courcy fought beside Henry V at the Battle of Agincourt. I daresay you’ve heard of Sir Walter Raleigh? He was governor of Jersey during the reign of the first Elizabeth and built Elizabeth Castle, which he named in her honour. During the English Civil War, King Charles II took refuge here, in the home of George de Courcy.’
He waits for their reaction, and then, turning his gaze on his Melbourne relative, he says, ‘During the English Civil War, George de Courcy supported Charles II, and after the Royalists had defeated Cromwell, the king rewarded George with a large grant of land in the New World. And do you know what he called it?’
Xanthe shakes her head, slightly irritated. How could she possibly know? Daniel Miller, however, just waits. She suspects he knows.
‘New Jersey!’ Edward de Courcy cries triumphantly. ‘Do you see? It’s called New Jersey, in honour of our ancestor and our island!’
Edward de Courcy is justifiably proud of his heritage, and she is fascinated by this extraordinary family history. No wonder Daniel was eager to meet the last Jersey member of this illustrious family.
Emily de Courcy turns to her husband. ‘You’ve bored these young people quite long enough with your stories, Edward,’ she says, and turns to Xanthe. ‘Do tell us something about yourself.’
‘I’ve recently graduated in medicine,’ she says carefully, ‘and I’m taking a short break.’
Emily nods. ‘A doctor! How marvellous! You young people are so lucky these days, to be able to travel overseas. When I was your age, we were fortunate to travel to England or Wales. I still remember the first time my parents took me on the ferry to Weymouth! It was such a treat!’
‘Now you’re boring them, my dear,’ Edward points out.
Emily ignores his comment. Turning to Daniel, she asks, ‘You said before that you were engaged in an academic project. I should very much like to know what it is.’
‘I’m working on my PhD,’ he replies. It seems to Xanthe that he’s being cagey, but perhaps she is merely projecting her own reticence on him.
Emily forges ahead, undeterred. ‘A PhD, how frightfully interesting. You must be very clever. May we know your subject?’
‘The treatment of Jews in Jersey during the Occupation,’ he says evenly.
The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees, and the bonhomie has dissipated. Edward de Courcy walks over to the mahogany sideboard, picks up the crystal decanter and refills their glasses before returning to his armchair, and it seems to Xanthe that this is a ploy to give himself time to respond.
‘You’re going back to a time many of us would prefer to forget,’ he says to Daniel, and Xanthe senses that beneath the quietly controlled words and suave manner, he is bristling. ‘I do hope you haven’t come here in search of sensational stories about Jews and collaborators. For the past few years, journalists and amateur historians have had a heyday publishing such stories, full of fabrications and exaggerations that malign decent people. Let me assure you there was no collaboration in Jersey during the war, and our leaders did all they could to protect the Jews.’
Xanthe is taken aback by Edward’s vehemence. Why is he so hot under the collar, and why did he sound so defensive about collaboration, which Daniel hadn’t even mentioned?
Emily looks from her husband to their guests, gives a bright smile, and tries to steer the subject into neutral waters, but Edward cuts across her conciliatory words, places his glass on the tray, and clears his throat.
‘I’m afraid I must leave you, a business meeting, you know. But thank you for coming. I do hope to see you again.’ And with that, he strides from the room.
Xanthe looks at Daniel but she can’t read his expression. He is obviously a man who listens more than he talks. She figures he is probably one of those irritating men who keeps his thoughts so well concealed that you never know what he is thinking – a trait that contributed to the breakdown of her last relationship. She looks at him again. Surely he is as shocked as she is. After all, he has come all this way to meet a relative who has just rubbished his project and snubbed him.
Emily tries to keep up friendly chatter but she can’t lighten the atmosphere. After thanking her for her hospitality, Xanthe and Daniel leave, and walk towards the gate in silence, their footsteps crunching on the gravel drive.
As soon as they are outside the gate, Xanthe says, ‘I can’t believe what just happened. He didn’t even arrange to see you again. You must be shocked at his reaction.’
‘Not at all,’ he replies. ‘I expected it.’
‘But why? All this happened so long ago. After all, the war ended over seventy years ago.’
He shrugs. ‘Wars never really end.’
‘Well, I’d like to hear about your PhD,’ she says.
For the first time he looks at her with interest. ‘Really? If you have time tomorrow, I guarantee to bore you for several hours.’
‘I’ll take my chances,’ she says.
The unexpected turn in the conversation at Manoir de Courcy reinforces Xanthe’s decision to visit the museum that Bill McAllister mentioned. Perhaps it will help her understand the contentious issues Edward de Courcy raised.
At the end of a pretty country lane, behind a circular flowerbed planted with cornflowers and pansies, a stark red cross painted on a whitewashed granite wall indicates the Jersey War Tunnels. As she enters the long, dark passageway leading to the exhibits, she is transfixed by the spine-chilling sound of spades and hammers striking rock. According to the information on the wall, this tunnel is a hundred metres long, and was dug with picks and shovels by thousands of slave labourers during the Occupation.
The eerie sound effects and the cold air inside the thick granite walls make her shiver. How could they have hollowed out this solid rock using only picks and spades? Above a plaque that says most of them died of starvation or exhaustion, she sees names and nationalities scratched into the walls. The names are Russian, Polish and Spanish, interspersed by an occasional Star of David. As she continues walking towards the ticket office, she wonders why the Germans constructed tunnels here.
Intrigued, she walks on. Through a half-open door on her left, she sees a room where a long mess table is littered with plates, cups and unwashed beer glasses. Then she hears laughter and glasses being clinked in noisy toasts while drunken German voices sing ‘Lili Marlene’. In the background there’s the deafening sound of shells exploding. Although the room is deserted, the army jackets draped on the backs of some of the wooden chairs give the impression that the officers have just stepped out for a moment and will soon be back.
On the wall, an official notice from the German Kommandatur catches her eye. A dance will be held on 5/4/41 at West Park Pavilion for the German soldiers, who will be pleased to welcome their friends as usual. Admission 6d. Curfew at midnight.
Xanthe wonders about the girls who danced with the enemy. Why did they fraternise with the occupiers? What did their families and friends think of their behaviour?
As if in answer to her questions, signs beneath the photographs of handsome German soldiers ask visitors to consider what they would have done during the Occupation if polite German soldiers had stopped in the street to pat their dog or admire their baby, or if they said they were lonely, missed their families, and offered to buy their children an ice cream. They are polite and respectful, speak good English, and miss their homes and families. The sign asks, Would you invite them home?
Xanthe looks at the photos of the innocent-looking soldiers, and wonders how the locals did react. She also wonders what she would have done. Her thoughts turn to her unknown relative Nellie, who must have been a young girl at the time. Did she walk past the Germans and avert her gaze, or was she one of the good-time girls who attended the dances?
The signs make the German soldiers sound innocuous, almost as though they were victims of the war themselves, just like the locals. Then she reads the orders they posted in Royal Square. Cycling two abreast was a crime, ownership of more than one dog was forbidden, all fishing was prohibited, and in October 1940 a register of Jews was to be compiled and Jewish businesses were banned from trading and were to display a yellow printed notice: Jüdisches geschäft. That didn’t sound so harmless. She thinks back to Edward de Courcy’s indignant comment and rereads that order. It looks as if the Nazis pursued their discriminatory racial laws in Jersey.
Under the glass of some display cases, she reads letters from informers denouncing their neighbours for owning a wireless, or for having more coal than regulations permitted. There are documents regarding people who have been deported to prisons in France, or concentration camps in Germany, for infringing an order or defying the occupiers, and gradually the dark nature of the Occupation reveals itself, with denunciations, punishments and deportations.
She reads the anti-Jewish order again. Was a list of Jews ever compiled? What did happen to the Jews of Jersey? Then she thinks about Daniel Miller. They have arranged to meet for coffee at the Royal Yacht Hotel the next day, and now she can’t wait to find out more about his thesis.