Chapter sixteen
T
here was an autumnal edge to Friday, not surprising as October had crept in a couple of days earlier, almost unnoticed under the guise of warm sunshine. But now it was grey and clouds scudded across the sky, chased by a north-easterly bringing a Scandinavian chill to the island. Charlotte shrugged into her warmest sweater and topped it with a lightweight jacket labelled “Windproof and Stormproof”. She hoped it was true as she dashed out to Louisa’s car parked on the drive. Her friend had said she could use it while she was in Jersey and Charlotte had dropped her off earlier at La Folie. The couple planned to take a taxi to the airport straight from work later that afternoon and Charlotte had wished her a good weekend. Accompanied by a wink, which made Louisa blush.
Now Charlotte was on the way to visit Mrs Vaudin in St Martins and, in spite of the cool wind, felt a tremor of excitement. Reading Madeleine’s diary and the files in the archives, had brought the occupation to life for her and it would be fascinating to talk to someone who had lived through it. It was a matter of minutes before Charlotte pulled up outside the cottage off La Route des Camps.
The door was opened by a stooped old lady, leaning on a stick and trussed up in layers of old cardigans. She peered at her with bespectacled eyes.
‘You must be Charlotte Townsend. Come in, girl, out of the wind.’
She followed the old lady down a tiny hall and into a cramped sitting room where chairs and sofas jostled for space. Charlotte glanced around at shelves stacked with photographs and painted ceramic figurines.
‘Would you like a cup of tea, my dear? And some Gâche? I can’t carry a tray these days so if you could give me a hand–’
‘Of course! Lead the way.’
Mrs Vaudin shuffled through to the adjacent kitchen and switched on the kettle. On the side lay a tray already set with cups, saucers and a plate of buttered Gâche, a local fruit bread. Charlotte was glad she had accepted the offer as it must have taken the old lady some effort to prepare. Once the kettle was boiled she filled the teapot and carried the tray into the sitting room while Mrs Vaudin followed.
‘This looks lovely, thank you. Shall I pour? Sugar?’
‘Two sugars please. I still have my sweet tooth even though I’ve lost most of my teeth!’ The old lady cackled, displaying a gummy mouth. She stared at her. ‘You’re not local are you? And that accent of yours means you must be posh. Why are you talking to the likes of me?’
Charlotte wriggled on the chair. ‘No, I’m not local, Mrs Vaudin, but I am a friend of Jeanne, the writer of the book I’m…researching. She wants me to talk to anyone who lived here through the war, so you’re absolutely the right kind of person for me to meet.’ She flashed her warmest smile and the old lady nodded. ‘I understand you’ve lived all your life in St Martins and remained here during the occupation.’ Charlotte sat back, equipped with tea and Gâche.
Mrs Vaudin grunted, her eyes appearing even cloudier. She described her earlier years in the Parish and during the war, saying it was very different at that time.
‘I’m sure it was. Could you tell me a little bit about what it was like back then, Mrs Vaudin? My friend Jeanne wants to make sure she gets her facts right in her next book.’ Charlotte fished in her bag for a pen and notepad.
Mrs Vaudin talked and Charlotte wrote, asking the occasional question. Her account of what happened while under German rule tallied with what Charlotte had read, both in the archives and in Madeleine’s diary.
‘Did you hear anything about informers, Mrs Vaudin? I understand there were those who reported their neighbours for having forbidden radios and things like that.’
‘I did hear my parents talking about such things when they didn’t know I was listening, but no names were mentioned, like. People were angry about it, for sure. By the time we were liberated, everyone was looking over their shoulder. Bit paranoid we were. A bad business, all told,’ she said, with a shake of her head.
‘Yes, I absolutely agree.’ Charlotte coughed. ‘I understand a certain Edmund Batiste, who lived near St Martins Point, was accused of being an informer before dying in mysterious circumstances. Did you hear anything about that?’
The old lady sniffed. ‘Well, I know the Batistes, for sure. Everyone round here does. Old Harold’s the local bigwig, thinks himself some sort of lord of the manor! Not a real one, mind. Not like Mr Peter de Saumarez, who’s a proper gentleman and lives at Saumarez Manor down the road,’ she said, waving her arm yet again. ‘But I never heard of no Edmund Batiste.’ She frowned. ‘Died in suspicious circumstances, you say? What happened exactly?’
‘He…he was beaten up and pushed over the cliff at St Martins Point. He was Harold’s older brother.’
Mrs Vaudin’s mouth opened wide.
‘You don’t say! Well, I never! I didn’t know there was a brother. All I know is Harold took over the farm and everything else when old man Batiste died. My pa did some work for him once, said he was a right stingy bugger with a vicious temper. Mmm,’ she said, looking deep in thought.
Charlotte, anxious not to cause rumours which might get back to the rector, went on to say it was only a story she’d heard, and it may have been far from the truth.
‘Oh, I know how easy it is for rumours to spread here! People’s words get twisted, like those Chinese whispers thingy. I had a friend once who said she thought her little girl might have an ear infection, and before you knew it, the word went round the little mite had gone deaf!’ Mrs Vaudin chuckled. ‘Wasn’t funny at the time, but it goes to show you have to be careful what you say, doesn’t it?’ She tapped her nose. ‘Don’t worry, my dear, I won’t repeat what you said. Wouldn’t want you getting into no trouble when you’re only trying to help your friend.’
She breathed a sigh of relief. That had been close! ‘Thank you, Mrs Vaudin, I appreciate your discretion. Now, I’d better leave you in peace. Let me clear everything away first. And is there anything else you’d like me to do while I’m here?’
Mrs Vaudin brushed aside any offer of further help, other than the taking of the tray to the kitchen. As she left, Charlotte opened her bag and pulled out a box of chocolates – soft centres fortunately – and handed them to the old lady.
‘Thank you so much for your time, you’ve been a great help. And for the lovely tea and Gâche. Goodbye.’
The old lady grinned and waved her off before shuffling back into the cottage.
Charlotte was left feeling somewhat wrung out, but pleased someone from outside the family had a poor opinion of Harold. A picture was building up of an unlikeable, greedy man which fitted Madeleine’s description perfectly. As she started the car she thought of the close call when mentioning the Batistes. She would need to be more careful another time.
~ ~
Andy checked the casserole slow-cooking in the oven. Yes, it should be cooked in time but perhaps he should add a drop more wine? He was on a mission to impress and the boeuf bourguignon was part of the plan. That and his natural charm and good looks, he teased himself. Although he had spoken to Charlotte on the phone a few times during the week, he had only seen her briefly when dropping round the diary. The memory of their day in Herm was still up there as one of the best days he’d experienced in a long time. Years, if he was honest.
Watching the potatoes simmering on the hob reminded him he had not invited anyone, let alone a beautiful woman, around for a meal for ages. Since splitting with Julie, he had thrown himself into the practice, working hard to build up his client list and achieve a measure of success against fierce competition. In this Andy thought he had succeeded. Word was spreading and he was now so busy he wondered if it was time to take on a young graduate. He shook his head – time to think about the business later.
For the moment the priority was impressing Charlotte. She was working hard on his behalf with the research and he wanted to show his appreciation. And he would like to think she was interested in him as well as the family schism. And proving what a dab hand he was in the kitchen might help, he thought, straining the cooked potatoes prior to creating a buttery mash.
The food was keeping warm in the oven when Charlotte arrived on time. Checking he hadn’t spilt anything on his clothes – no, all was well – Andy ran a hand through his hair before opening the door.
‘Charlotte, great to see you again. And looking so…well,’ he said, wanting to say gorgeous but thought it might be too much. Even though it was true. She was wearing a brown suede skirt and red sweater which emphasised her green eyes. He felt self-conscious in his jeans and open-neck shirt, standard weekend wear.
She smiled, her eyes sparkling as she thrust a bottle of wine into his hands.
‘You’re not looking too bad yourself,’ she replied as they moved forward into an embrace. He kissed her lightly on the mouth and felt his body respond. Quickly moving back he ushered her inside.
‘Umm, something smells delicious! Is cooking another of your talents?’ she asked, as he led her into the kitchen diner.
‘Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a talent, but I’m not bad. Having a French mother does have advantages where cooking’s concerned. You know how important food is to them,’ he said, encouraged by her compliment. ‘Please, take a seat and I’ll pour some wine. Lunch will be ready in five minutes.’ Once Charlotte’s glass was filled he checked the vegetables before joining her at the round table set with his best china and cutlery. She gazed around at the handmade wooden kitchen units, topped with a gleaming granite worktop set against soft green painted walls, and smiled.
‘What a lovely room. I like the way you’ve kept a cottage feel but included some modern touches. Feels cosy. And welcoming,’ she said, her eyes locking onto his.
He licked his lips, his mouth inexplicably dry. ‘Thanks, I’m pleased with the way it turned out. And…and the rest of the cottage, which I’d be happy to show you after lunch, if you like.’
‘Love to. In the meantime I’m starving! My gastric juices have gone into overdrive thanks to that wonderful aroma. Would I be right in guessing you’ve added wine to whatever it is you’re cooking?’ she said, her head tilted.
Andy laughed. ‘You’d be right! A good old-fashioned boeuf bourguignon positively swimming in Burgundy. And accompanied by mashed potato and steamed beans. Would Madam like to eat now? Or we could wait a little longer–’ he teased.
‘Now, please! Do you need a hand?’
He was already lifting the casserole out of the oven to put on the worktop before taking out the dish of mashed potato and the warmed plates.
‘No, it’s all done. I only need to strain and butter the beans. You stay put while I prove to you I’m not only a great cook but also a rather mean waiter.’
He set the dishes on the table with a flourish and gave a slight bow.
Charlotte chuckled. ‘Not bad so far. And it all looks divine. Your mother taught you well.’
He sat down, beginning to feel his tense shoulder muscles relax under her smiling gaze.
‘I guess. She was determined I would make someone a good husband one day and saw my being a reasonable cook as a step in the right direction. I did share the cooking with my ex, and she seemed to enjoy what I made. My father, on the other hand, has no interest in anything which happens in the kitchen except when the meals are served in front of him. He’s a relic of the chauvinist era, I’m afraid.’
Charlotte helped herself to the food and waited while Andy filled his plate.
‘Well, I have a confession to make.’ He looked up, shocked. ‘Oh, don’t worry, it’s nothing terribly awful, but I’ve never learnt to cook. Never needed to, you see. But I’m making an effort now and Louisa is helping me. I’ve progressed from being completely useless to knowing how to prepare vegetables and, at a push, how to cook them.’ She beamed at him and he couldn’t resist laughing.
‘I see. My mother would be horrified but…’ he waved his arms, ‘I’m not. Surprised, yes. Presumably there’s always been someone to cook for you?’
She told him a little about her background, enough for him to realise her upbringing was even more privileged than he’d imagined. While he chewed on this distracting thought, Charlotte took a mouthful of the casserole.
‘Andy, this is wonderful! My congrats to the cook and whoever taught him,’ she said, her eyes dancing.
‘Thanks. I’m glad you like it. I’ve made a French apple tart for pud and before you ask, yes, it’s another of Mum’s recipes.’ He released an inward sigh. Knowing Charlotte must have dined at the very best restaurants had been a huge concern. Andy acknowledged he was no Raymond Blanc.
‘Lovely. I look forward to it. Now, I simply must tell you what I’ve found out…’ Andy was all attention while she gave him the gist of what Madeleine had written in the remainder of her diary. Although there were no revelations, he was content to listen as Charlotte, in a husky voice, which he found incredibly sexy, described his grandmother’s experiences. It made it so much more real to him and he wondered how much his father knew. Sometime soon he’d have to raise the subject with him but Andy wanted to wait until he had something concrete to impart. Something that would change his father’s life.
‘…and I went to see this sparky old lady yesterday and although she couldn’t tell me much, what she said did corroborate Madeleine’s view of Harold.’ Charlotte filled him in further as they ate their food, which, he had to admit, was cooked to perfection. He sent a mental ‘thanks, Mum’ to his mother as he listened.
‘So, there we are. What do you think?’ Charlotte asked, before scooping up a final mouthful.
‘I think the finger’s pointing at Harold, for sure. We just can’t prove it, yet. And nothing you’ve learnt incriminates Edmund in any way. I’m more and more convinced he never snitched on anyone. Sounds totally out of character. Whereas Harold…well, it’s something I could imagine him doing. We know he and his father were happy to buy on the black market and hide some of their extra food, making both of them unscrupulous. And Harold tried to rape Madeleine which puts him beyond the pale.’ He stood up and paced around, anger at Harold taking hold. ‘It would give me enormous pleasure to bring the bastard to justice, and it can’t come soon enough. But how can we prove it?’ His heart raced and blood pounded in his ears as he pictured his uncle’s smug face.
‘Andy? Are you all right? Do please calm down. There’s no point giving yourself a heart attack. I’m sure we’ll find a way to prove what actually happened. Someone has to know and I’m sure it can’t be long before the truth will out.’ He felt Charlotte’s hand on his arm and raised his eyes to her face, her forehead creased in concern.
‘I’m sorry, for a moment I…I lost it.’ He grinned ruefully. ‘It’s become a bit of an obsession, I’m afraid, and I mustn’t let it control me. But that bastard Harold!’ He added, his fists clenched.
‘I know and I sympathise, I really do. I’m not even part of the family and my blood boils too! Now, I don’t know about you, but I was really looking forward to a slice of apple tart as promised. If it’s as scrumptious as the casserole–’
Andy took a sharp breath. He was meant to be impressing this gorgeous woman with his culinary skills and instead had acted like a crazed idiot. Hardly the way to a woman’s heart!
‘Sorry. I shouldn’t let Harold get to me like this, but because of…of what my father’s lost, he does. Promise I’ll calm down,’ he said, smiling. ‘I’ll serve the tart. Would you like some fresh Guernsey cream with it?’ He cleared the plates and various dishes before taking the foil off the apple tart. Using a pastry brush he swirled apricot glaze over the circles of apple slices.
‘Cream would be lovely, thanks. To hell with the diet,’ she said, laughing and Andy’s shoulders dropped in relief. Perhaps all was not lost.
Once he had served up slices of tart and cream they each took a bite. He looked at her enquiringly.
‘Delicious! You really can cook, Andy. What’s your signature dish?’
‘You’ve just eaten it. Boeuf bourguignon has always been my favourite and rarely lets me down. Although my coq au vin has won me some praise over the years,’ he replied, trying hard not to imagine what it would be like to take Charlotte to bed. Watching a woman licking a spoon was so sexy. Swallowing, he reached for his wine.
‘What a coincidence. It’s another of my favourites. It’s hard to beat those classic French favourites, isn’t it? I do get so tired of the modern food trends like sushi, or a miniscule piece of meat or fish perched on a jus that wouldn’t feed a mouse. Do you agree?’ She tilted her head and gazed at him, a spoonful of French apple tart poised in mid-air.
Andy forced himself to concentrate and for a while the conversation turned to tastes in food and the atmosphere seemed to lift. He sensed Charlotte was determined to jolly him out of the earlier mood as she recounted tales of underwhelming meals at overpriced posh restaurants as well as some of the more memorable ones. He made a pot of fresh coffee and once they had finished he offered to show her around.
‘This was originally two small cottages and I had them knocked into one to make a decent family home as well as providing me with an office,’ he said, leading the way into the hall.
‘Was this where you lived with your wife?’
He turned to face her. ‘No, we rented a flat in Town as we didn’t earn enough to buy. We were very young. I only bought this place five years ago so I chose everything. It might be a bit too masculine for your taste,’ he said, leading her by the elbow into the sitting room.
He watched as Charlotte looked around and he tried to see it through her eyes. The room was large, two rooms knocked into one, and he had kept it simple. Pale cream walls contrasted with the oak beams of the ceiling and the original fireplace, now housing an enormous fire basket filled with logs, ready for when the weather turned chilly. A large modern rug, swirls of blues and greens, sat on the reclaimed oak floor in front of a dark grey low-line sofa long enough for him to stretch out on and watch the huge television opposite. A window at the front gave a view onto the drive and the French window at the rear led onto the neat garden composed of a patio, a small lawn and flower beds.
Charlotte turned and smiled. ‘It’s definitely a man’s room but beautifully done. I’d guess you don’t spend a great deal of time in here.’
Andy nodded. ‘You’re right, I don’t. I’m either in the kitchen knocking up something to eat or in my office when I’ve brought work home. Which is probably most nights. I need to get a life,’ he said, realising he sounded a bit of a saddo.
‘You’re not the only one! Although I’ve stopped bringing work home, I don’t get out much since my divorce. Coming over to Guernsey is my attempt at being normal; spending time with people and making friends,’ she said, her face clouding. ‘It’s not easy to start again, is it? How did you cope?’
‘Oh, to be honest, it wasn’t that bad for me. Julie and I drifted apart, realising we weren’t right for each other quite early on. So it was all very amicable and we stayed friends. She’s remarried and had kids and we bump into each other occasionally. Hard not to on a small island! I carried on as usual, working hard and seeing mates when they dragged me out of my cave,’ he said, his hands thrust into his pockets.
‘And haven’t there been any women to drag you out of your cave? Bearing the proverbial club in an act of role reversal?’ she asked, hands on hips.
Andy swallowed. If she only knew! ‘Nooo, but I sense it’s time to come out of hibernation and join the real world a bit more. Now the cottage is finished and the business is going well, I have no more excuses.’ He jingled the loose change in his pocket, watching her reaction.
Charlotte stared at him for a moment and then lowered her eyes so he couldn’t see her expression.
‘No, you don’t have any excuses.’ Looking up she smiled, saying, ‘Are you going to show me the rest of your home? I’d love to see the garden as well.’
‘Of course, let’s go outside first.’ A pulse beat in his neck as an image filled his head of Charlotte, bearing a club and wearing a skimpy animal skin yanking him into a cave for nefarious purposes. He hoped the air outside would cool his erotic thoughts. Opening the door, he stood back to let her go past and her arm brushed against his. His body’s response did little to temper the thoughts and Andy took a couple of paces away from Charlotte as she studied the garden.
‘How charming! Small but perfectly formed, with enough space to eat outside and catch some sun. And low maintenance. Perfect!’ she cried, turning around.
‘Thank you. The original gardens were tiny but added together they are, as you say, perfect. I’m not much of a gardener so Jeanne helped me with the beds. Their cottage has a fab garden, enormous compared to mine. The gang often end up there for a BBQ.’ He walked to the edge of the lawn, surveying the plants and shrubs displaying the last of the autumn colours of red and orange.
Charlotte shivered. ‘It’s too cold to stand outside, let’s go in and you can show me the rest of the cottage.’
Once inside Andy led her to his office, across the hall from the sitting room.
‘My main office is in Town, but it’s handy to have a designated space here too,’ he said, waving his arm around the room, a miniature version of his professional office. White walls, white desk and shelving full of books. A small window gave a restricted view of the back garden.
Charlotte nodded and he then showed her the downstairs cloakroom before offering to continue the tour upstairs. At this point Andy wondered if showing her the bedroom – tidied and immaculate just in case – was appropriate. Would it look like he was coming on to her? She had come for lunch as a friend. Not on a date, exactly.
‘I’d love to see upstairs, Andy. How many bedrooms have you got?’ she asked, her eyes large and soft.
‘Uh, three. I turned a fourth into an en suite–’ he was interrupted by the shrill ring of the phone. Muttering ‘excuse me’, he lifted the receiver to find it was his mother.
‘Hi, Maman, everything all right?’
‘Oh, Andy, mon chèr, you are there! Your father has been so stupid! He was lifting a heavy box, which he has been told not to do, and his back, it gave way and he fell on the floor and cannot move. Can you come, please, and help get him to bed? He is too heavy for me.’
Andy was jilted out of his good mood. ‘Of course, don’t worry, I’ll come right away. Are you sure he doesn’t need a doctor or go to A & E?’
‘No, once he is lying down, all will be well. Thank you, mon chèr. I will tell him you are coming toute de suite!’
He cursed under his breath. Great timing, Dad! Turning to Charlotte, he explained what had happened and he had to leave.
‘Of course, absolutely. I do hope your father’s better soon. And thank you for a wonderful lunch, Andy. Will you phone me later?’ she said, picking up her bag and jacket. He thought he saw a flicker of disappointment in her eyes. Or was he fooling himself?
‘Yes, for sure. Perhaps we can go out for dinner again soon.’ He helped her with the jacket and kissed her gently on the mouth. The thought of his father bent in agony distracted him. He had to go.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbled.
‘It’s okay, another time. You must hurry…’ she kissed his cheek briefly before opening the front door and striding to the car. Starting the engine, she gave a quick wave and left. Andy grabbed his keys and banged the front door shut, hoping his father hadn’t caused himself too much damage this time.