Chapter twenty-three

C

harlotte sat in the kitchen, playing with a bowl of muesli. Her stomach was clenched with nerves and she had to force the food down. The upcoming meeting with Maud was uppermost in her mind and she was surprised to find herself so nervous. She was just an old lady who probably couldn’t even remember there had been a war and an invasion. She brought herself up sharp. No, that was wrong, Martin had specifically said she was compos mentis and remembered the past more clearly than the present, like a number of older people. So why was she so afraid of seeing her? Chewing a spoonful of muesli, Charlotte realised she was afraid, not of Mrs Batiste, but of failing Andy and his father. If she messed up this interview it would be the last chance she had of talking to a member of the family. Up to now the research had been impersonal, detached. But Jim’s aunt could hardly be labelled ‘detached’. Although she and Andy had discussed what to ask, Charlotte had not been convinced by his suggestions. She needed to talk to someone not emotionally involved. It then occurred to her there was someone who could help. Reaching for the phone she tapped in the number.

‘Jeanne? How are you? Surviving I hope,’ she said, brightly.

‘Charlotte! Lovely to hear from you. Yes, all is well chez nous, thanks. Harry’s at nursery, which is a godsend, and Freya has just settled down for her nap. How are you getting on with the research for my book?’ she asked, with a laugh.

‘It’s that I wanted to talk to you about. I’m seeing Mrs Maud Batiste this afternoon, Andy’s great aunt. And I’m worried about what to talk about. How to steer the questions to the family etc. Any ideas?’ She explained about the rector having talked to his parishioners.

‘That's great news about Maud. But I see your concern. Let me have a think,’ Jeanne said, before silence came down the line.

‘Right, how about this?’ she continued, ‘Concentrate on what she’ll expect you to ask, that is ask about the farmers in the parish, how they managed short-handed etc. Then you could ask about her role; did she work for anyone in particular or stay at home? Ask about her family. You could then lead the conversation to the Resistance and from there to collaborators and informers. Did she hear anything about it happening in the area? If she’s happy to talk you could then bring up Edmund and what happened to him. See what her reaction is. She must have known him as you said she was going out with Harold before he died.’

‘Sounds good, thanks. I’m so conscious of scaring her off as, after all, she and Andy are on opposite sides here. She’s not likely to say anything to disinherit her grandson, is she?’

‘No, but she might let something slip. I think the best way of approaching this is to treat her as if she’s not important and relax. It’s amazing how much people tell you when they’re off guard.’ Jeanne chuckled.

‘Good idea. At the very least, Jeanne, I hope to give you some helpful background information for your book. The island archives are a mine of information, aren’t they?’ She went on to talk about what she had researched and Jeanne agreed she would be glad to read her notes when she had finished, together with Madeleine’s diary.

Charlotte eventually said goodbye feeling a lot more cheerful about seeing Maud. Now all she had to worry about was Andy and her mother. Not that there was much she could do about either. With regard to her mother, she planned to call her every day or so to see how she was, but not visit unless specifically asked.

The situation with Andy was trickier. Although they had spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening together on Sunday, Charlotte had sensed a slight withdrawal on his part. As if he didn’t quite trust her feelings for him. This had been hurtful but she had refused to let him see it, particularly after such a wonderful few days together. Men! Why do they have to be so complicated? Couldn’t they see life was never as simple? That sometimes the head vied with the heart where relationships were concerned, she thought, banging her mug on the worktop as she switched on the kettle for another cup of coffee.

Louisa had again lent Charlotte her car for the trip to St Martins, even though she had offered to hire one. The suggestion had been brushed aside, Louisa saying there were far too many cars on the tiny island roads as it was. Thinking it was a pity the weather was too overcast to put the roof down, Charlotte drove slowly down La Route de Jerbourg, keeping an eye out to the right for the sign pointing to La Vielle Manoire. It was hard to miss, a prominent polished granite stone bore the name in gold lettering at the beginning of a lane marked “Private”. The narrow lane veered round a bend and she drove for another hundred yards before the house came into view.

Charlotte was confronted with a building looking nothing like a traditional Guernsey farmhouse, but one with a strong resemblance to a French chateau, but not one in the best tradition of such chateaux. It was clear from the result at one time it had been a good sized granite farmhouse but someone – and she did not need to guess who – had added extensions and raised the roof to create a three-storeyed building and then stuccoed the result. Her mouth dropped open as she took in the mismatch of windows, doors and incongruous shutters vainly trying to give an impression of an old, Georgian mansion such as could be seen in Queens Road, St Peter Port.

As she stepped out of the car, her first thought was what would Andy make of it? Heading to the porticoed front door, she could see a swimming pool to one side, set in what was probably once the original farmyard, but was now made to look like a Mediterranean courtyard. It would be funny if it wasn’t for the fact the house was rightfully Jim’s inheritance, not Harold’s, she thought, ringing the bell.

A middle-aged woman dressed in a carer’s uniform answered the door.

‘Miss Townsend? I’m Sal, please come in, Mrs Batiste is waiting for you in her room.’ She ushered Charlotte inside, adding, ‘She’s having one of her good days today so I’ve settled her in an armchair near the window. Likes to look outside at the garden, she does. Bless her, it’s all she can do these days. Hasn’t left her room these two years past,’ the woman said, shaking her head and leading the way up the oak staircase which looked as if it had been lifted from another house and shaped to fit in this one.

The dark hall was cluttered with ornate antique furniture. Charlotte shuddered mentally. Her mother had her faults, but at least she had good taste. As Sal bustled along the landing Charlotte asked her what was wrong with Mrs Batiste.

‘Old age mainly, but she had a stroke two years ago which took the use of her legs and her left arm.’ She then added in a whisper, ‘Broken-hearted she is, too. Lost her beloved son Gregory, not that he was much of a son to her, and Harold’s not been what you could call a loving husband, either.’ Sal tapped her nose and winked, leaving Charlotte to draw her own conclusions.

‘Here we are, Maud, your visitor’s arrived. Shall I bring up a pot of tea for you both?’

Charlotte walked into the large, stuffy room which was as cluttered as the hall, taking a moment to realise the woman addressed was the tiny figure virtually lost against the cushions in the armchair by the window. She moved closer to see a frail woman, whose wispy white hair framed a gaunt face criss-crossed with wrinkles and bearing a prominent, hooked nose. Rheumy grey eyes stared back at her.

‘Would you like tea, Miss Townsend? Or do you prefer coffee?’ a voice stronger than she expected asked politely.

‘Tea would be lovely, thank you.’ Sal nodded to them both and left. Charlotte went to shake the old lady’s hand, but realised too late the good hand was twisted out of shape in her lap. ‘Oh, I’m sorry–’

‘No need. As you can see I can’t shake hands, but please sit down. You’ll have to pull the chair up close so I can see and hear you properly.’ Mrs Batiste nodded towards a chair nearby and Charlotte moved it as near as was feasible. She saw a little gleam of intelligence in the old eyes and felt sorry for her. Something told her this woman had led an unhappy life even before her son died.

‘It’s very good of you to see me, Mrs Batiste, giving me the opportunity to talk to people like yourself who lived here during the occupation. You must have so many stories to tell,’ she said, smiling.

The old lady gave a mirthless chuckle. ‘True enough! I agreed to talk to you as I read the first book of Jeanne’s, Recipes for Love, I think it was called. Thought it was very good.’ She sighed. ‘My eyes were better then, but now I need Sal to read to me. It’s not the same but better than nothing. Anyway, I’m happy to help Jeanne with another book if I can.’

‘She’s very grateful, I can assure you.’ She crossed her fingers as she said this. Although this woman was the “enemy” she hated lying. Even a white lie. ‘What a…lovely house you have, Mrs Batiste. Have you lived here long?’

‘Thank you. I’ve lived here since I was married, back in ’47, not long before the old man died.’ Her face clouded, as if the memory was not a happy one. Whether of the wedding or Neville’s death, or both, Charlotte could not be sure. ‘Of course, it wasn’t like it is now. It was just an ordinary farmhouse with cow sheds and the dairy and not much else.’ She sniffed. ‘My husband, Harold that is, he wanted to have the biggest, smartest house in the area and he was happy to spend his money on it,’ she said, her lips pursed.

Charlotte was saved from replying by the arrival of Sal with the tea tray. After putting it on a side table she said, ‘You can be mother, Miss Townsend, can’t you?’

She nodded and after making sure Maud needed nothing else, Sal left. Charlotte poured the tea into a china cup for her and a child’s beaker for Mrs Batiste, who was able to hold it with her help.

After allowing time for her to have a drink, Charlotte took out her notepad. She went through the list of general questions Jeanne had suggested, before moving on to ask about her own family. Mrs Batiste was happy to answer them all, and Charlotte guessed she appreciated someone taking an interest in her life. Only fifteen when the Germans arrived, Maud had just left school and helped her parents on their small farm, which adjoined that of the Batistes.

‘It’s how Harold and I knew each other, you see. Not that I saw much of him except when there was a local get together. He went to the Boys Grammar and I went to the Girls so we only met in the holidays. We began courting when we were eighteen, in 1944.’

‘Gosh, you have been together a long time, haven’t you?’ Charlotte said, making notes. She cleared her throat. ‘Jeanne is particularly keen to learn anything about the local Resistance. Did you know anyone who was a member?’

‘Well, I knew two who were, for sure. Harold and his brother Edmund.’

Charlotte’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Oh, that is interesting! Do you remember anything they used to do to hamper the Germans?’

‘Well, no-one ever told me much about what they did in case I was questioned by the Germans, but I do remember Edmund got into trouble once for giving some food to a Polish POW. The Germans wanted to arrest him but his father talked them round. Paid them off, more like,’ she said, with a nod.

‘That’s odd, I had heard Edmund was an informer and was beaten up and probably killed by a POW.’

Mrs Batiste seemed to shrink into herself. ‘He was no informer, not Edmund. But…’ She stopped, looking nervously around the room. ‘Edmund was a good man, no matter what was said about him.’ She lifted her twisted hand as if in emphasis.

‘Which is good to hear, Mrs Batiste. It couldn’t have been very pleasant for your husband to have his brother accused. And then killed,’ she said, gently.

The old lady looked down at her lap, as if mesmerised by her twitching fingers.

‘No, I suppose not.’ She raised her head and Charlotte noticed tears in her eyes.

‘Are you all right? I’m sorry if I’ve brought back bad memories.’

‘It’s not your fault, dear. But I am tired and need to rest now. Could you go downstairs and ask Sal to come up, please? It’s – it’s been nice to meet you.’

Charlotte saw pain as well as grief in her face and felt a frisson of shame for pushing her so hard.

She patted her good arm, saying, ‘Thank you again for talking to me, Mrs Batiste. I’ve really enjoyed meeting you. Do take care.’

Charlotte found Sal in the vast, elaborate kitchen and passed on the message before heading for the front door. Once outside she came face to face with the man who could only be Harold.