Xanthe
St Helier, April 2019
Before she is fully awake, Xanthe stretches out her arm to feel the other side of the bed but the crumpled sheet is cold and empty. Daniel has gone. Was the tenderness and passion of the previous night merely a dream? Did she really hear him repeat her name in a breathless way no-one had ever done before? And did she quiver in his arms as she joyously lost control and knew that for most of her life, she had been faking it?
Her searching hand touches paper. A handwritten note, hurriedly scrawled. Her head still on the pillow, she reads it. Sorry, had to go. You were sound asleep, didn’t want to wake you. I’ll pick you up at twelve. Can’t wait to see you. Then a PS: I kissed thee ere I left thee, no way but this, that after a night of love to leave you with a kiss!
She laughs aloud. So he’s poetic as well. Like her, he must have studied Othello for his HSC. It’s already ten o’clock, and over a big leisurely breakfast – thankfully unlike Hugh’s spartan meal of dried rusks and hot water she has muesli, scrambled eggs, toast and Nespresso – she reaches for her phone to google The Citadel. She has never heard of Hugh’s favourite book. The Wikipedia entry states that AJ Cronin was a doctor whose autobiographical novel The Citadel was an international bestseller when it was published in 1937. So he was a doctor too. A chain of medicos stretching across nearly a hundred years.
At last it’s twelve o’clock, and she runs outside as soon as she hears Daniel’s car pull up. He jumps out and wraps his arms around her. ‘Let’s go back to bed,’ he murmurs, nuzzling her ear.
She wonders if he’s joking, but she can feel his body harden against her, and a moment later they are running up the stairs two at a time, throwing off their clothes and falling onto the bed, all reference to Othello forgotten.
‘I couldn’t focus on the documents this morning. Couldn’t wait to get you into bed again,’ he says, gazing at her.
‘The earth moved for me too.’ She smiles. ‘And I loved your Othello paraphrase.’
‘I thought of quoting Romeo and Juliet, but I didn’t want to risk bad karma. You know how they ended up.’
‘What about A Midsummer Night’s Dream?’ she suggests
‘You want to be compared to Bottom the Weaver? Or maybe the Ass?’
They burst out laughing and fall back into bed. When they finally get up, they shower together, and he soaps her body so sensually that she feels like making love again.
As they sit at the kitchen table waiting for the coffee to percolate, she says, ‘You mentioned once that you were divorced. Someone from Melbourne?’
What she really wants to know is how long they were together, and what went wrong.
He is stirring the sugar far longer than necessary, and she waits.
Eventually he sums it up. ‘We met too young, lived together too long, and married too late. She was the one who wanted to get married, but I already knew it wouldn’t work.’
‘Even though you were living together?’
‘I suppose it became a habit. It wasn’t that we didn’t get on, but I sensed something was missing. We were more like good mates than lovers. When we split, a great weight dropped off my shoulders, but she was devastated.’
‘She obviously didn’t think of you as a chum.’
‘No. And you? What’s your story?’
She shrugs. ‘Not much to tell. Too involved in study, too exhausted at work.’
‘But you must have had boyfriends over the years?’
She thinks back. They have now all faded into insignificance, the ebullient Russian entrepreneur who introduced her to vodka and wanted to control her life, the arrogant Aussie journo who always let her down, the A&E registrar who was always trying to change something about her …
‘You want to hear my litany of failed relationships and unsuitable blokes?’
‘What do you think of long-distance relationships?’
She knows where this is heading. ‘I had one of those too. It worked for a time until I discovered that distance confers a gloss on relationships that proximity destroys.’
‘That sounds cynical.’
She hears disappointment in his tone but before she can amplify her comment, he changes the subject. ‘Shall we go out?’
‘I’d like to drive to Gorey,’ she says. Hugh’s account of his visit to the de Gruchy farmhouse has piqued her interest in that part of Jersey.
He glances at his watch. ‘I’ve arranged to see Edward de Courcy at three, and it’s almost two now. That’s if you still want to come?’
‘Of course I do. Maybe we’ll have time to go to Gorey later.’
As they drive towards the manor house, along narrow winding country lanes in dazzling sunlight, it feels as if they are driving through a botanical garden lined with tall shrubs and white-flowering hedgerows, where blackbirds caw as they wing among the branches of oaks and maples.
‘Speaking of relatives,’ Daniel says as they approach Manoir de Courcy, ‘have you tried to trace that ancestor of yours?’
She shakes her head. ‘I can’t see the point. My mother only mentioned Nellie once, in passing, and apart from her first name, I don’t know anything about her, or how she was related to us. Obviously it was a very distant connection.’
‘Still, why not follow it up while you’re here?
‘You’re the historian, not me,’ she says, as Daniel parks the car outside Manoir de Courcy.
She feels the same heart-beating excitement when she walks through the gate and along the daffodil-lined drive, as she did the first time. Once again she catches her breath when the white-aproned maid ushers them inside the imposing baronial hall that resembles a historical portrait gallery.
But as soon as they enter Edward de Courcy’s study, she feels a coolness in the air. With a perfunctory greeting and brusque gesture, Edward motions for them to sit down on the other side of his large oak desk. She glances at the leather-bound volumes with gilt titles stacked on the bookshelves lining the walls and wonders if, like his ancestors, they also arrived with William the Conqueror.
Edward is wearing a tweed jacket. His trousers are tucked into his long countryman’s boots, suggesting that he is about to inspect his property or go hunting.
‘I hope you’re enjoying your holiday,’ he says, and without waiting for her response, he turns to Daniel and asks, ‘Well, what dirt have you managed to dig up on us so far?’
She is surprised at his bluntness, but Daniel doesn’t react. ‘That’s not my aim. All I’m trying to do is find out what actually took place.’
‘That’s exactly what that journalist told me last year, oozing with false sincerity, but she had a hidden agenda. She maligned us and ended up stirring up a hornet’s nest just so she could write a sensational article. Made out we were a den of anti-Semitic collaborators. I want to stress that we were under enemy occupation and everything was done in order to protect the population.’
‘Maybe not the entire population,’ Daniel comments.
As Edward leans forward, Xanthe notices that his bald head is covered in brown age spots, and she wonders how old he is. He sounds defensive, as if he personally was under attack, though he must have been very young at the time.
He holds up a hand, which is also splashed with age spots. ‘Before I answer any questions, I want you to assure me that I won’t be misquoted or quoted out of context in this so-called thesis of yours.’
Daniel points to the mobile he has placed between them on the desk. ‘That’s why I’ve brought this, so I can record what you say, exactly as you say it. I realise that this is a sensitive subject, and I appreciate your help.’ Then with a trace of resentment he adds, ‘But you don’t have to worry. I’m not in the habit of misquoting sources.’
Edward grunts and nods. ‘All right. Fire away.’
‘It seems to me that there was a huge discrepancy between the States’ attitude to the Jews and their attitude to some other groups in Jersey, and I wonder if you can explain that.’
‘Well, it might seem that way to you, but it certainly wasn’t the case.’
‘I’m basing that on a document I came across,’ Daniel continues. ‘Your father was the Bailiff at the time, the most powerful member of the Jersey government, but although he tried to protect British army personnel from deportation, he seems to have acceded to the deportation of the Jews without making any effort on their behalf.’
Xanthe notices that Edward is tapping his foot on the floor, and with an irritation he can barely manage to conceal, he says, ‘Look here, there were about twelve Jews living in Jersey at the time. As you know, we were occupied. Were we supposed to put the entire population at risk by opposing German orders?’
‘So did it all hinge on numbers? Even though these twelve were also Jersey citizens? Not because they belonged to a different religious group?’
Edward bangs his fist on the desk, all pretence of urbanity gone. ‘There you go again, accusing us of anti-Semitism just because we didn’t want to risk our delicate equilibrium.’
‘You mean your model occupation. Isn’t that what a historian once called it?’ Daniel suggests.
‘Call it whatever you like, but it was a delicate balance that we didn’t dare to upset for fear of the consequences.’
‘I get that, but the consequences for those twelve Jersey citizens were appalling. They had their businesses closed, so they couldn’t earn a living, their belongings were confiscated, and they lived in abject terror until they were deported to concentration camps where some of them died.’
Xanthe thinks back to the story of Lionel Stern’s suicide, and she misses Edward’s next words.
‘Perhaps you’re not aware that my father did oppose one of the German orders,’ she hears him saying when she tunes in again. ‘You should know that he objected to the demand that the Jews wear a yellow star on their clothing whenever they went outside. And as a result of his intervention, they dropped that demand,’ he says. He looks pleased with himself, as if he has won the argument.
‘I am aware of it, and good on him for doing that. But having succeeded in making his opinion heard, have you ever wondered why he didn’t go on to oppose the other anti-Jewish orders? They too might have been rescinded if the most powerful man on the island had insisted.’
Edward makes a dismissive gesture. ‘You weren’t here, so you can’t judge our situation. We were fortunate that the States were given a measure of autonomy, but we didn’t want to push the Germans too far.’
Xanthe notes that he talks as if he were responsible for his father’s actions.
‘So the Jews were to be sacrificed on the altar of a balance that had to be maintained to keep the Germans onside,’ Daniel says. ‘Although of course we can’t know what would have happened had your father objected to other orders instead of acquiescing to them. Like the appropriation of Jewish businesses, which left people with no means of earning a living.’
Edward suddenly makes a conversational detour. ‘Did you know that we have erected a memorial to the Jewish slave labourers? And that one of our States’ members is a Jewish gentleman?’
Daniel nods. ‘And I believe he has written an account of what happened to the Jews here during the Occupation.’
After a brief pause, he adds, ‘Did your father ever talk to you about what happened to the Jews? Did he ever express regret at the way things turned out?’
‘My father was very proud of his role in steering our island through that terrible time with minimal deportations and deaths. In June 1940, the British government washed their hands of us. After demilitarising us, they urged my father to do his best, and wished him the best of British luck. I think that in the circumstances, he did a magnificent job for which all the people of Jersey should be extremely grateful. After the war, he received a congratulatory message from His Majesty King George VI.’
‘The leaders of some European nations, like Denmark for instance, refused to give up their Jewish citizens,’ Daniel points out. ‘Their king even pinned a yellow star to his own jacket. Do you not think it was possible for the States to protect the Jewish citizens? After all, without their help, the Germans wouldn’t have known who was Jewish and who wasn’t.’
Edward seems taken aback by this question, and Xanthe wonders if it had ever occurred to him before. His eyes have lost their belligerent gleam, and for the first time he seems to be considering Daniel’s comment.
He gazes out of the mullioned window, and after a long pause, he says, ‘It’s easy to know the answers in hindsight, but when you are in the midst of a perilous situation, you do the best you can as you see it at the time. You weren’t here.’
Daniel and Xanthe walk out of Manoir de Courcy and blink against the dazzle of sunlight in the forecourt.
‘We knew he’d be defensive and try to protect his father, but I do think he had a point,’ Xanthe says as they drive away.
‘That depends on your definition of human rights and morality, and whether you think that small groups should have fewer rights than larger ones. I’m about to get hold of some documents that relate to the actions of their top legal official, the Attorney-General, and the Aliens Officer who investigated and defined who was and wasn’t a Jew.’
She glances at her watch. ‘I keep forgetting that the days here are so long. It will be light for hours yet, so we still have time to go to Gorey.’
‘What’s the attraction?’
‘I’d like to find the de Gruchy farmhouse.’
‘The what?’
She realises why he looks puzzled, and decides to tell him about the journal she found in the house. It’s a relief to share her secret discovery, and she tells him about Hugh’s life, and his dedication to his patients.
‘A journal written during the Occupation? By a doctor who lived through it? What a find. I suppose you’ll donate it to the historical society?’
Now she regrets having told him about it. Her connection with Hugh Jackson has become so close that it feels as if he has been confiding in her, telling her about the secret life that he concealed from others, and talking about him feels like a betrayal.
She has regarded it as a personal rather than historical record, and she is shocked at the possibility of strange eyes reading it. What would Hugh think? After all, he must have had a reason for secreting his journal instead of handing it over to the relevant government body after the war.
He obviously didn’t want it to be read, yet he hadn’t destroyed it. Perhaps some of the information was too sensitive and might incriminate people who were still alive. But even if that was the case, over seventy years have elapsed, and she suspects it’s her duty to hand this historical journal over to the custodians of the island’s past.
‘I’m still reading it,’ she says. She knows she is being evasive, but she can’t bring herself to release her proprietary hold on the journal. Not yet. Not until she is clear what she should do.
She notices him glancing at her from time to time, as if poised on the edge of a question he hesitates to ask for fear of disturbing an unspoken balance. Then he says, ‘Have you ever wondered why you are so involved with this diary?’
Xanthe bristles. ‘Of course I have. It’s like listening to a voice from the past, describing the problems of that time. Why?’
‘I wonder if it’s more than that. Maybe you feel a professional and personal connection with this doctor that might help you solve your own dilemmas.’
‘I think you’re reading too much into it.’ But she feels irritated, the way she always does when someone presses a button she has managed to conceal from herself.
As they follow the winding road northwards, they round a sharp bend and she sits forward. ‘Stop!’ she shouts. ‘There’s someone lying on the road.’ Even before he has come to a complete halt, she has already jumped out of the car and is crouching over a man who isn’t moving.
He doesn’t respond when she asks his name. She puts her ear to his chest and picks up his limp arm. ‘Shit,’ she mutters. ‘No pulse.’ She checks his mouth to make sure his airway isn’t obstructed by vomit and places her fingers against his neck to check his carotid artery. He isn’t breathing.
She turns to Daniel. ‘Quick, call the ambulance, and tell them it’s urgent. He’s in cardiac arrest so they need to bring a defibrillator.’
While she’s talking, she’s pumping the man’s chest, putting her entire weight behind her strong, rapid movements. ‘If I can’t get him breathing he won’t have a hope.’
Several minutes later, they hear the welcome shriek of an ambulance. Metallic doors slam, and two paramedics come running towards them holding the defibrillator. She steps back to give them room. She and Daniel watch anxiously as the man’s chest jerks hideously with each jolt of electric current.
With a curt nod in her direction, the paramedics lift the man onto a stretcher, and slide it into the back of the ambulance. ‘We’ve got a heartbeat. We’ll take him to the hospital in St Helier. Good you were on the scene and knew what to do. Another minute and he wouldn’t have made it.’
‘I thought you were going to crack the poor guy’s ribs, the way you were pummelling him,’ Daniel says as they watch the ambulance speed away.
‘Sometimes you do crack their ribs,’ she says as they get back into his car. ‘It makes a horrible crunching sound.’
‘I think you need a drink. Or at least a cup of tea,’ he suggests. ‘We’ll go to Gorey another day.’
The little teashop in the next village has trellised roses beside the front door, white lace curtains, and pots of scarlet geraniums on the windowsills. They choose a table by the bay window, and order a Devonshire tea.
He studies her. ‘You were in your element back there. It was touch and go, but you were totally in control.’
‘Well, I’ve done an A&E term, so I knew what to do.’
‘It wasn’t just that you knew what to do. It was like you were doing what you were always meant to do.’
The waitress brings a tray with cups and saucers of rose-patterned china, bowls of home-made raspberry jam and thick cream, a silver teapot, and a plate of freshly baked scones whose warm aroma pervades the teashop. While Xanthe spreads jam and cream on her scone, Daniel’s eyes don’t leave her face.
She puts down her scone, sighs, and looks away. ‘That’s part of the problem. What I was always meant to do almost destroyed me.’
‘So have you thought about what you’ll do when you go home? Can you imagine doing anything other than medicine?’
Xanthe sighs. ‘I want to get away from it, but I don’t know if I can. All my life I’ve wanted to help people, to make them better, but I’ve only made myself worse.’
As the waitress pours scalding tea into their cups, a plume of steam rises from the pot and curls towards the beamed ceiling. Wiping a rim of cream from her mouth, Xanthe says, ‘In a way, I’m a bit like you, the victim of familial expectations, only you’ve found your niche within them.’
They are sipping tea in companionable silence when something strikes her and she puts down her cup. ‘You once said that wars never end. It’s the same with family history, isn’t it? Look at Edward de Courcy, who feels obliged to defend his father’s position during the Occupation, even though he couldn’t have known anything about it at the time. But he still carries the moral responsibility. And your research is a direct result of your grandfather’s actions – or lack of them – during the Third Reich. I have Jewish friends in Sydney whose lives are defined by the Holocaust, even though they weren’t alive at the time. How do we escape the weight of family history?’
He reaches across the table and takes her hand. ‘Perhaps there’s no escape. It will always shape us, one way or another. All we can do is find some kind of accommodation. A coming to terms. Finding a balance.’
By the time they drive back to St Helier, the shadows have lengthened across the viridescence of the lawns, and somewhere in the darkened woods a nightingale is singing.