Dr Jackson
St Helier, January 1945
They say it’s darkest before dawn, but this dawn is a long time coming. Our hope that the war would soon end was raised sky high after the Allied landing in Normandy in June. Surely it would only be a matter of weeks before we too would be freed.
But alas, we are still waiting. Months have passed, and the situation drags on with no hope of rescue on the horizon, leaving us dispirited, demoralised and embittered. When will British troops liberate us? Have they and the rest of the world forgotten us? Sometimes I think that having no hope is better than having hope that is continually dashed.
Disappointment is just one of the problems we face. A more pressing problem is lack of food. Ever since the Normandy landing, no food supplies have arrived from France and our situation is becoming desperate. We seem to be in a state of siege, worse than anything we’ve experienced over the past four years.
Some food deliveries have arrived on Red Cross ships, but those relief vessels are few and far between, and for the past few weeks we’ve had no flour at all, which is disastrous, especially as the potatoes we have to make do with are mostly rotten. I still have some of the provisions I squirreled away at the start of the Occupation, but they won’t last much longer.
As you’d expect, this situation has affected not only morale but also our health. Everyone looks gaunt and strained, and with the lack of nutritious food, people have become more susceptible to infections, so I am run off my feet trying to look after my debilitated patients with the inadequate medications at my disposal. Exhausted and anxious, I haven’t had the energy to write up my journal for the past few months.
August passed and September, with no end to our misery in sight. By October, our golden autumn was over. The trees had shed their leaves, and we had shed weight. There was little to celebrate at Christmastime. Now it’s 1945, but no-one is in the mood to celebrate the start of the new year while the war continues to drag on. The temperature has dropped, and the grey winter skies mirror our state of mind.
To make things worse, wood is unobtainable, so heating our homes is becoming impossible. I still have some logs in my woodpile, but they won’t last the whole winter and I go to bed almost as soon as I get home, to preserve the few I have left.
What with the famine conditions, power shortages and the scarcity of wood for fuel, people are cold as well as hungry. On top of that, we feel helpless and frustrated at being so close to the finishing line, which seems to retreat as we approach.
It isn’t much consolation that the German soldiers here are in a bad state as well. Their rations have also been severely reduced, and we often see them wandering around the rocks on the coast, heads down, searching for limpets to supplement their meagre diet. Some of them have been caught stealing food from the residents, for which they are severely punished by their superiors, who have probably stashed away some provisions for themselves, judging by their robust appearance.
I’ve noticed that the soldiers no longer look immaculate. They’ve lost their arrogant ‘supermen’ expression. In fact, from their chastened demeanour, it’s obvious that, like us, they are fed up with this war.
They’ve finally realised that the tales of Nazi victories they’ve been fed are lies and propaganda. They can see that their bloody Führer will soon be defeated, so they are likely to become prisoners of war. Which is probably why they’ve been going out of their way lately to be friendly and helpful.
I’ve gone into all this detail to describe our hardships during what I hope are the final months of the war because I’m aware that once the war ends, people will focus on the liberation, so I hope my record will go some way towards ensuring that future generations don’t forget the prolonged suffering that preceded it.
Perhaps because we are worn out, cold and hungry, these last months have seemed longer and more difficult than the preceding ones. I feel that an important part of my job is to keep my patients’ spirits up, because I have observed that one’s state of mind affects one’s health, and in the absence of necessary medications, all I have to offer them is hope and encouragement. But I am no Churchill, and as time goes on, I am finding it increasingly difficult to be positive.
I must admit that this isn’t entirely due to the continued uncertainty we live in and the physical hardships we suffer. It is partly, and possibly largely, due to the emotional cancer that has invaded my life.
And this is really why I have been too dispirited to record anything for the past few months. Knowing that Aoife has decided to leave for Ireland as soon as the war is over has cast a black cloud over my life that grows heavier and darker with every passing day, so I find myself in a paradoxical situation. While I long for the end of the war, at the same time I dread it. So instead of savouring every hour that Aoife and I still have together, I find it difficult to stop dwelling on the future that looms ahead without her.
I keep hoping against hope that I’ll be able to talk her out of it. So time and time again we go over the same fruitless discussion where I urge her not to expose herself to certain failure by confronting the might of the Catholic church, and she reiterates that she feels compelled to do it, regardless of the outcome.
I’ve never heard of anyone accusing a priest of rape. Who would believe her? Even in the unlikely event that it leads to an investigation, it would just be her word against his. And who could she produce as a witness? Her estranged parents wouldn’t help. She couldn’t prove it was the priest, and if he is still alive, he would deny it.
She maintains that this is not just to get justice for herself, but for the other girls who might take courage from her actions and realise that they do not have to remain helpless victims, that they can speak up against their abusers. I think she’s being quixotic, but she is unshakeable,
One evening, after we had gone over the same argument, and sat in tense silence on the couch, I recalled the plaintive Irish song she had once sung. I remembered the strange feeling I had experienced, as if someone had walked over my grave.
‘When you sang that song, did you already know you were going to leave, that we would part?’ I asked her. ‘Was I the one who was too young and foolish to understand?’
She looked surprised. ‘Of course not.’
‘So what made you sing that particular song about lost love?’ I persisted. ‘You must know other songs, but something made you choose that one.’
Aoife considered my question and then, in her lovely lilting voice she said, ‘I don’t really know why. Yeats’s poem came into my mind at that moment, and that’s all there is to it, so.’
She could see I wasn’t satisfied with her answer and, to diffuse the tension between us, she said lightly, ‘Perhaps it’s the little people that put it into my mind.’
The weak light from the standard lamp cast a glow over her pale face and made gold highlights dance on her hair whenever she moved. Gazing at her, I ached for the loss that was about to befall me. She was sitting beside me, but already I was grieving her absence.
Then very slowly, she said, ‘Do you think it’s possible that, deep inside, I knew something I didn’t know I knew?’
I know that many people, particularly those who are trained in scientific subjects, tend to dismiss such ideas as fanciful if not downright foolish, but I have always kept my mind open to things not explicable by logic alone. Like the mysterious presence I felt before I went to sleep, which vanished as soon as I turned on the light. Was the room haunted by the troubled soul of the previous occupant? Was it the physical manifestation of my own anxiety? Or was it fate knocking at my door? In the end I had to concede that I couldn’t explain it and perhaps I never would.
Our conversation had shifted from poetry to leprechauns and metaphysics, but I was too preoccupied with her return to Ireland to concentrate on anything else.
How would she manage alone in a town where she would be shunned and vilified? I couldn’t bear to think of her going through such a devastating experience, her reputation dragged through the mud. Or of me living here alone, without her.
But Aoife had a question of her own.
‘Have you thought about your marriage?’
That startled me. Because of our long separation, Margaret’s silence, and my feelings for Aoife, I no longer considered myself married, but her question forced me to confront the fact that no matter how long Margaret and I had been separated, legally we were still married.
And Jamie. The bond that linked me to him had never weakened, but I had come to consider him a separate entity, overlooking the painful fact that he was inextricably yoked to my relationship with his mother.
I had never given up hope that when the war was over, we would finally meet and be together, but I had never considered what legal negotiations that might involve, or how acrimonious they might turn out to be.
Aoife’s question brought me down to earth. For us to be married, I’d have to divorce Margaret. But on what grounds? I couldn’t claim she had deserted me. Or been unfaithful. According to the law, I was the unfaithful one. But also she could quite correctly claim that I’d failed to support her and the child financially during the Occupation. Maybe she would claim desertion? So perhaps she might agree to divorce me. But what if, from sheer spite, she refused? And if we did divorce, how would that impact my ability to see Jamie? Would she try to stop him from seeing me? Would he even want to see me? After all, he doesn’t know me and she has probably turned him against me. For all I know, she has never told him about my letters, so he would think of me with resentment if he ever thinks about me at all. And where would we live after the war? Would she return to Jersey or stay in England with her family?
The light flickered and went out, and we sat in the dark while outside the light of the moon cast long shadows on the lawn. Aoife shivered, and I threw a log on the fire. I drew her so close that I could feel her heart beating under the navy Guernsey that I’d wrapped her in to keep warm. Entwined, we continued to sit in silence as the turmoil in my mind intensified.
For once, I had no answers. The irony of it didn’t escape me. Other people turned to me for help with their crises, but I couldn’t solve my own. In fact I had no idea what to do.
As we sat there, in unhappy silence, I was tormented by a dangerous topic I longed to share with her but didn’t dare to raise. I was at a loss to know whether I even had the right to speak of it, or whether doing so might unbalance the delicate equilibrium that she had created in her life.
Ever since I began to suspect the identity of Aoife’s child, I haven’t been able to stop wondering if I was right. Perhaps I’d jumped to the wrong conclusion. I had to know the truth. So yesterday I decided to check it out once and for all. At the Jersey Archive office, I asked to see documents pertaining to L’Abbaye. It had ceased operating as a home for unwed mothers some years ago, though the nuns were still in residence and continued to look after a small number of orphans.
My fingers shook as I leafed through the birth entries for 1925. And there it was in black and white: Aoife O’Connor, aged sixteen, gave birth to a baby girl who was adopted by Flora and Harold Deveraux.
I had imagined that ascertaining the truth would put my mind at rest, but instead it created a dilemma that almost tore me apart. I was now in possession of crucial information that Aoife herself didn’t know. Although I sensed it might be wiser to remain silent, I wondered how Aoife would feel if she discovered at some later date that I not only knew who her daughter was, but that I had met her. Surely she’d be furious that I’d withheld information of such profound significance in her life.
Ever since confiding in me about her baby, she had never expressed any longing to see her daughter; never said she dreamed of contacting the child she had given away, or shown any curiosity about her life. I wondered if she wanted to spare herself the anguish of confronting her loss, or perhaps avoid rejection, in case her child refused to meet her.
Either way, it was a personal issue and I sensed it would it be insensitive of me to raise it.
And yet.
We should listen to our instincts. Mine told me that revealing this secret could lead to disaster. That it wasn’t mine to divulge. It was hers to deal with as she chose.
I was perched on the razor-sharp edge of an upturned sword, knowing that any movement I made – or failed to make – could cause us both injury from which we might never recover. And yet, knowing what I know, how could I remain silent? I struggled between courage and cowardice.
I cleared my throat. Several times. I drew her closer.
She looked at me questioningly. ‘Are you all right, my darling?’
I took a very deep breath. I had to proceed very carefully. ‘A woman came in to see me today and said she had a baby when she was single, and had given it up for adoption,’ I began. ‘Some years later she got married but she never told her husband about the baby she had before they met. She never talked about that child or tried to find out anything about it. She said she had decided to start a new life and put the past behind her.’
I paused and then asked, ‘What do you think about that?’
Aoife pulled away and gave me a hard look. ‘And what would make you want to ask me that?’
That should have warned me to make some excuse and drop the subject but having embarked on it, I felt it would be cowardly to back away.
‘It made me think about you and wonder if you ever think about your child. It would be natural to think about her, especially now that you’re going to Ireland, wouldn’t it?’
‘Well you seem to know all about it, so you tell me what’s natural and what isn’t.’
I could feel her shrinking away from me, and even in the dark I could see her eyes flashing with anger. I’d wedged myself into an uncomfortable corner, and it was too late to extricate myself.
She was staring straight ahead, avoiding my eyes. It was some time before she spoke, and when she did, her tone chilled the air around us.
‘When I told you what happened, I broke a silence that had lasted twenty years. I broke it because I love you and I didn’t want to keep a secret from you.’
I stretched out my hand but she pulled hers away and turned to look straight at me.
‘I thought you would understand how painful this subject was, and that you would respect that. But since you seem to need more information, here it is, and I hope this will be the last time we have to talk about it.’
Her tone made me wince. She had never spoken to me so coldly before, and I wished I had listened to the warning voice in my head while there was still time.
‘I have made a good life for myself here. Bringing babies into the world and seeing the mothers’ elation at producing life’s greatest miracle is a privilege I am grateful for. You ask if I ever think about my own child. Of course I do. It’s an ache that never goes away. She is a part of me but I’m not part of her life and probably never will be. I hope she is healthy and happy wherever she is, and that the people who adopted her are good to her. But I will never make inquiries about her whereabouts because that wouldn’t be fair. I made my decision to give her up, and I don’t want to create conflict in her life, especially if she doesn’t know she’s been adopted. But if the day ever comes when she tries to find me, I’ll be waiting with open arms.’
She slipped out of my embrace, stood up, took off my Guernsey sweater and placed it on the couch. ‘I think I’ll be going now,’ she said, and left.
I sat in front of the dying embers for a long time, too shaken to move. Cowardice has its price, but so does courage.
I tried to visualise life here without her and I knew that it would be like living in a winter without end, never seeing the sun’s light or feeling its warmth.
The solution startled me with its clarity. This didn’t have to be the end. I didn’t have to stay here alone. I didn’t have to live without her; there was nothing to keep me in Jersey.