Unknown

‘I

t’s about Harold! Madeleine wrote early in the diary he wanted her for himself but she preferred Edmund and he couldn’t bear being rejected. He was only seventeen and, according to your grandmother, good looking but with an aggressive nature. She fell in love with Edmund for his gentleness and sense of humour.’ She paused, gripping the phone as she chose the right words.

‘Yes, there is. Well, Madeleine doesn’t say much more about Harold until about a year after her marriage, in ’44. Apparently tensions were rising as Neville, your great-grandfather and Harold were buying on the black market but Edmund never went along with it, saying he and his wife would prefer to starve rather than take food from the mouths of others. I have to say, Andy, your grandfather sounds like a really decent man,’ she said, clearing her throat. She found herself feeling emotional at the thought of the suffering of the islanders, so graphically described in the diary.

‘I’m sure he was; which is why I want to clear his name. Does the diary say anything about that?’

‘Not so far, but there’s quite a bit I haven’t read yet. Anyway, going back to Harold. She recalled the words from the diary.

“Oh, what a day it has been! I still feel sick to my stomach at what happened. While Edmund was busy – helping a neighbour – broken fencing, Harold turned up at our cottage, knowing I would be alone. I was in the kitchen. He tried to force himself on me. It was hard to fight him off. He is so big. I managed to grab a heavy saucepan – hit him on the head. It knocked him out for a few minutes. How afraid I was! I thought I had killed him but I could see his chest move. I was scared what he would do, so I ran out and hid behind a bush. I could see the front door – prayed Edmund would not return and find his brother on the kitchen floor. Thank God he did not! Harold staggered out – bleeding head – towards the family farmhouse. I went back and cleaned up the blood. I had just finished when Edmund returned. I must have looked bad, he asked me what was the matter – but I said was tired from cleaning, had an empty stomach.”

‘My God! How awful. So my grandmother says Harold tried to rape her and she didn’t tell her husband?’

‘No, she couldn’t. She didn’t want Edmund getting into a fight with Harold as he was bigger and stronger and was worried Edmund would be killed. I can understand that, can’t you? Remember everything was topsy-turvy in the occupation, tempers and nerves were stretched, and fights would break out easily. Or that’s what I’ve read in the police reports. And, as it happens, Madeleine was right not to say anything as next time she found herself alone with Harold, he threatened to hurt her if she told anyone. Poor girl. What a horrible thing to happen. Her own brother-in-law!’

‘I’ve always thought Harold was an unpleasant piece of work, but I had no idea he was capable of something like this. Makes you think, doesn’t it? It sounds to me as if he’s the one more likely to be an informer and not Edmund. It would fit his character, wouldn’t it?’

‘I hadn’t thought about it, but you’re right. Perhaps there’ll be more answers later in the diary. So far Madeleine hasn’t said much about collaboration or informers but I get the impression she led a sheltered life down in St Martins. I don’t think she and Edmund socialised much as the neighbours were pretty scattered across the open fields.’

‘Hmm. Well, thanks for telling me, Charlotte. This does give me cause to hope we’ll find something concrete.’ He was quiet for a moment before continuing, his voice bitter, ‘If I were to meet Harold now, I’d be tempted to punch his face in, if he wasn’t such an old man. And to think he had the nerve to not acknowledge my father. He’s a far better man than bloody Harold ever was.’

Charlotte felt so sorry for him, determined now not to give up until Jim regained what was due to him – and to his son.

The next morning Charlotte drove Louisa’s car out to St Martins’ vicarage. She had dropped Louisa off at La Folie earlier and had the use of the car for the day and planned to drive around the parish which had been home to the Batistes for generations. Except for one particular branch. There had been little time to read any more of Madeleine’s diary as Louisa had returned home early from work and had cooked supper for them both. Louisa had been intrigued by the diary’s revelations and they spent the evening debating what really happened to cause the family split. As Charlotte parked the car at the vicarage she crossed her fingers, hoping the rector, Martin Kite, would be willing to help.

She need not have worried. On explaining she was acting as a research assistant to Guernsey writer Jeanne Le Page, the rector gave her his blessing.

‘Jeanne’s books are wonderful and her research is immaculate. I particularly enjoyed the first Recipes for Love,’ he said, smiling. ‘There’s been one or two non-local writers who have twisted the facts in their books and it’s upset some locals, I’m afraid. However, as it’s Jeanne’s novel, then I’m sure my elderly parishioners will be happy to talk to you. Not that there’s many left, now. And some of them are, shall we say, not as nimble mentally as they were,’ the rector said, with a sigh. ‘I’ll ask around and pass on the contact details of anyone willing to chat. Would that suit?’

‘Oh, marvellous, Vicar. Thanks so much, I do appreciate you taking the trouble. As a thank you, I’d like to make a contribution to parish funds. I know how much churches rely on donations to keep a roof over their heads these days,’ she said, pulling out her purse and extracting fifty pounds.

‘You’re very generous, my dear. Thank you. And do please call me Martin. How about a cup of tea before you go?’

Charlotte accepted his offer, happy to talk further to someone who knew the parish well. She had to hold back from asking if he knew Harold Batiste. Be patient, she told herself, someone’s bound to know him from the war…

After saying goodbye to the rector, she drove off down Grande Rue before turning into one of the lanes on the right, leading towards the cliffs. Louisa had left her a copy of a Perry’s guide containing maps of the island so she would not get lost. The winding lanes meant Charlotte had to concentrate on any oncoming traffic and only managed to catch glimpses of her surroundings. Deciding it would be better to walk, she spotted La Belle Luce Hotel and pulled into the car park. Pleased to find a venue for lunch later, Charlotte set off for her walk. Having passed a cemetery along the road she headed there first, wondering if it was where the Batistes were buried. Seemed likely. Charlotte had always liked cemeteries and churchyards, finding them peaceful and soothing. Not morbid unless you had recently suffered a bereavement.

She bit her lip as the memory of her father’s funeral flashed into her mind. A grand affair it had been too, as her mother had asked most of the county, or so it seemed. But Sir Michael had been much liked and the church was full to the point of bursting, with a number of people crowding outside to pay their respects. Charlotte would have preferred a quiet, family service so she could express her grief instead of needing to hide behind a frozen mask for the day. Her mother had played the part of brave, grieving widow to perfection, dabbing at her eyes occasionally, but never allowing tears to fall. Charlotte had never been sure whether or not it had been a true love match. Her parents did seem to care for each other, but spent much of the time apart. ‘Oh Daddy, I do miss you!’ she cried softly, trying to hold back the threatening tears.

Taking a couple of deep breaths, she began weaving her way around the serried ranks of graves, larger ones containing generations of families. The names were predominantly local, with the occasional foreign and English name confirming the ingress of immigrants. Some tugged at her heart: the loss of a young child or an adult dying well before they reached their prime. Just as Edmund had done. Moving further into the cemetery she found his grave. The inscription on the plain granite headstone was brief:

Edmund Batiste

1924–1945

Dearly loved husband

God Bless

Charlotte was shocked Edmund’s family had not acknowledged him, leaving his widow to bury him and provide the headstone. Nearby stood the grave of his parents, Neville, who died in 1947, and Enid in 1925. Andy had mentioned she had died giving birth to Harold. The headstone was large polished granite.

A chill took hold of her, like the proverbial walking over the grave and she shivered, turning back to Edmund’s grave. For the first time she noticed the shrivelled up flowers sticking out of the inset vase. Someone still cared, she thought, and assumed it was either Jim or Andy. Glancing further along, Charlotte saw an impressive, polished headstone belonging to another Batiste. This time it was Harold’s son, Gregory, who had died in 1985, and apparently merited a much more elaborate headstone than his uncle.

She gritted her teeth in anger at the snub accorded to Edmund and, with a shock realised she was taking it all personally. As if she was a part of the family and not an impartial researcher. She needed to stand back, not let it get to her. After all, she might be leaving the island soon and had her own pressing problems…

A few minutes later Charlotte returned to the hotel for lunch, which left her calmer. She followed it with a brisk walk down the lanes towards the clifftops. The views and sea air worked their magic and she found herself humming a tune as she gazed over hedges into fields of grazing cows. It was all so peaceful now, but what had it been like during the occupation? With a shortage of manpower it must have been hard work looking after livestock and any surviving crops.

Charlotte felt guilty as she considered her own pampered life. Hardly her fault. Fate – or karma as Buddhists believed – played a part in which family and generation you were born into. She had listened with rapt attention to Paul’s lectures on Buddhism at La Folie and had loved the idea of karma, similar to the Christian idea of “As ye sow, so shall ye reap”. As she stood on the cliffs overlooking Moulin Huet Bay, the heartland of the Batiste family, she was convinced if there had been any skulduggery in the past, then it was high time it was revealed. An unwelcome thought floated into her mind. Was she being entirely altruistic with her offer of help? Or was she beginning to enjoy spending time with Andy and wanted to continue? With a toss of her head, she turned round and strode away.

Later that afternoon Charlotte settled down in the dining room with Madeleine’s diary, using the table as a desk. Following on from Harold’s attack, Madeleine made sure she was rarely alone until one day she heard he had a girlfriend, Maud. She described her relief Harold would no longer need to “bother her”, adding, “I wonder what this girl is like? Harold’s such a brute and is so full of himself. What girl would be attracted to him?” Charlotte recalled Andy saying Harold’s wife was called Maud and she was still alive but frail and virtually bed-ridden. So, the attraction must have been mutual. She read on.

It was now late in 1944 and Madeleine wrote in detail about the lack of food and other essential supplies since the D-Day landings in the August. The Germans – and hence the islanders – had relied on France for supplies but the usual routes were now cut off with the Allied advance.

On a personal note Madeleine confided their plans to start a family had been postponed as both she and Edmund were concerned about the impact of pregnancy on her starved body. The family was better off than most as they grew their own food and had a few cows, but they had to share any so-called excess and the quotas per head were reduced from August onwards. Charlotte was intrigued to learn Madeleine prepared her own spermicidal sponge as a contraceptive device and her supplies of spermicide and soap were dwindling.

Charlotte stood up and made herself a cup of tea, her head full of pictures of thin, weary islanders becoming more and more desperate as the war dragged on. Young women like Madeleine, barely twenty, dreading becoming pregnant at a time of shortage of both food and basic medicines. That last winter was particularly harsh, colder than ever and with no fuel for heating or cooking after the loss of both gas and electricity by December. As she stirred her tea, Charlotte could not begin to imagine how awful it must have been and hoped to get the chance to talk to those who had lived through the nightmare.

Sighing, she returned to the diary and Madeleine’s tale. In spite of the deprivations, she appeared to be more upbeat as the year drew to a close. Life-saving supplies from the British Red Cross arrived aboard the SS Vega in December and the ship returned another four times before the end of the war. Madeleine wrote how the word was going around the Germans were losing the war and it could not be long before the islands would be relieved. She described how hidden, forbidden wireless sets kept the islanders updated with the latest defeats in Europe and how happy she was it would soon be over. Charlotte’s heart ached for the girl, wishing she didn’t know the unhappy ending. Forcing herself to read on, she came to the entry dated 5th April, four days before Edmund died. Would there now be some clues about what happened?