Chapter twenty-four

C

harlotte, in spite of her shock, drew herself up and, with a cool “Good Afternoon”, walked past Harold and slipped into Louisa’s car before he could say anything. As she turned the car around she saw him standing with his mouth open and his hand raised as if to say, “And who are you?” A tall, heavy man, his beady brown eyes were like currants amongst his jowls and the thin white hair combed back from his forehead reminded her of the Mafia boss from The Godfather. The expensive suit and the big Merc parked beside the garage spoke of a man who enjoyed the more expensive things of life. Suppressing a shudder, she drove as fast as she dared down the narrow lane and onto the main road. That was not supposed to happen, she told herself. Harold was not due back for another hour and she could only be grateful she left when she did. And what would Maud say to him when he asked who the visitor was? Trying not to think about it, Charlotte concentrated on driving safely back to Louisa’s.

Once home Charlotte put the kettle on for coffee, the image of Maud’s anguished face alternating with the surprised face of Harold in her mind. From what she had heard and seen they seemed to be the antithesis of each other, a most unlikely coupling, she thought. Once her coffee was ready she sat down and phoned Andy.

‘Hi, it’s me, I’ve just been to see Maud and managed to bump into Harold. Could have been tricky!’ She described the interview and her impression of his aunt. ‘Something odd happened when I asked about Harold losing his brother, she became quite upset and asked me to leave so she could rest. I definitely touched on a nerve and she also said Edmund was no traitor and a kind man. So, what do think?’

‘You’re right about it being odd. It might just mean she liked Edmund even though she was Harold’s girlfriend. Perfectly normal. Or, she knows something about what happened but won’t say.’ Andy paused, and she heard his fingers drumming on something. ‘Either way, it’s interesting stuff and I’m very grateful to you for doing this, Charlotte. What’s your take on it?’

‘I think she knows something. And if it’s to do with Harold then I can see why she’d be reluctant to say more. He looks like a bully and she’s so frail and totally dependent on others and couldn’t risk angering him.’ She sighed. ‘Problem is I can’t in all conscience suggest we meet again as she answered all my questions pretty thoroughly. We’ll have to hope someone else knows something. The rector did say he’s still asking around so…’ she said, feeling both excited and deflated at the realisation of how close she may have come to the truth.

‘Hmm. So you’ll stay on for the moment?’ His voice was hesitant.

‘Of course. I can’t leave while Mother’s here. She’s booked in till the end of the week and I’m not sure if there’s a room for her after then. Something to do with a possible cancellation.’

‘Does that mean if she leaves at the weekend you’ll go back with her?’

Charlotte was torn. Her mother did not actually need her at home, having staff around, but it would depend how she was feeling.

‘I don’t know. I’ll think about it once we know what’s happening. Would…would you like me to stay?’

‘Of course I would!’ he cried, ‘but you made it clear your life’s in London–’

‘That’s not what I said! I pointed out it was a big decision and something I couldn’t rush. And with my mother so ill I can’t plan for the short-term, let alone the long-term. We need to spend more time together to see if we have a future as a couple, but with Mother…’ She bit her lip, trying hard to sound more composed than she felt.

His voice softened. ‘I’m sorry, Charlotte, I’m being unreasonable. But I’m scared if you go back to England you’ll forget me and that will be that.’

‘It’s not likely to happen, Andy. But you’re not the one contemplating turning their life upside down.’ She felt drained, not sure what she wanted any more. Much as she wanted to be with Andy, his insecurity seemed to equal her own.

‘You’re right. Look, I’ll be busy the next few evenings catching up on work, but if you’d like to go out on Thursday I’d love to see you.’

Charlotte agreed, but thought he could surely have put her before work if she was to return soon to England. Did this show he wasn’t as keen about her as he said? Before she had time to dwell on it further, Louisa arrived home wanting to know the outcome of the meeting with Maud Batiste.

On Tuesday morning the rector rang to ask how she had got on with Maud. Charlotte mentioned how Maud had become upset at one point and she hoped it was not as a result of her questions. Martin said he would be calling round to see her and would ask, but he doubted it. ‘Mrs Batiste is, as you saw, extremely frail and I’ve found her quite an emotional lady. I will say you asked after her though. Oh, and the other reason I rang is to pass on the names and numbers of two more parishioners who would be happy to talk about the occupation. Do you have a pen and paper?’

Charlotte wrote down the details, perking up at the chance to continue her research. After saying goodbye to Martin she made the calls, arranging to see a Mrs Falla that afternoon and a Mr Sebire on Wednesday. Then she phoned her mother, and after listening to moans of how bored she was, wished she had not bothered.

‘I know there’s not an awful lot to do except swim and walk, but the idea is, Mother, for you to rest. Giving your body a chance to heal. How are you feeling, physically?’

‘A little better, I suppose. Everyone seems pleased with my progress and I admit I’m well looked after and the food is excellent. Did you know the chef’s published a book?’

Charlotte sighed. ‘Yes, I’m the publisher. And another book will be out soon.’

‘Oh! You didn’t tell me. Well, he’s very good. Mrs Combe could learn a thing or two from him…’ Her mother continued in this vein for a few moments until Charlotte interrupted to ask if a room was free for the following week.

‘Not as far as I know. Even if there was I might still go home at the end of the week. Gillian and Paul have already said when I leave they will continue supplying me with their remedies.’

Charlotte’s heart sank. It looked as if she would have to make the difficult decision of whether or not to play the dutiful daughter. ‘In which case, Mother, while you are here, would you like me to take you out for a drive? See a bit more of Guernsey?’

‘Thank you for the offer, Charlotte, but I’m not one to play the tourist.’

‘Fine. But I think you would like St Peter Port, it has a great selection of shops to explore and I’d be happy to show you around. We could have lunch or something,’ Charlotte persisted dutifully.

‘It might be diverting, although I’m sure it can’t compete with Bond Street. Shall we say Thursday? I have a clear morning I believe.’

They agreed on Thursday morning and Charlotte clicked off the phone with a sigh of exasperation. Wondering why she had let herself in for a morning of trailing round shops – and lunch! – with her mother, she paced around the garden, her arms flailing. Added to which she did not want to return to England yet, it was too soon and she knew her mother would drive her bonkers if they were under the same roof for more than a few hours. And she still needed to make time, when her mind was quiet, for her writing. Would it ever happen? Aargh! What should she do?

Mrs Falla lived in a cottage on the road down to Saints Bay and proved to be a chatty, but not particularly informative, old lady – unless you wanted to hear tales of Mrs Falla’s problems with her husband and children, which Charlotte did not. When she went through the list of questions, Mrs Falla managed to digress to other irrelevant subjects and by the time Charlotte left she felt in need of a stiff drink. The thought she might have to repeat the whole experience again the next day was depressing.

That evening Paul joined them for dinner and Charlotte was glad of the chance to talk to him about her mother.

‘I spoke to Mother today and it seems she will probably leave this weekend. Will she be all right to go home?’

He gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Your mother’s in no immediate danger, Charlotte, and is definitely stronger than when she arrived. But even if she were to leave, we can continue with the supplements, herbs and dietary advice, and she could see Gillian in London. Being here does make it easier to keep an eye on her and the physical therapies are a great aid to healing. However, I’m not totally convinced Annette wants to put up a fight, to be honest…’ Charlotte felt sick. Why wouldn’t her mother want to put up a fight, to live? Surely she hadn’t given up? The thought was too awful…

‘She’s going through the motions but…’ he shrugged, ‘I’m not sure her heart’s in it. I’ve tried, as has everyone else, but she seems to have closed down and, as you know, your mother is a strong-minded lady and not easily persuaded. I’m sorry,’ he said, gripping her hand.

Charlotte, stricken at what his words implied, whispered, ‘I wonder why she bothered to come here and – and agree to receive help.’

‘For you, Charlotte. She did it for you. Annette comes across as a hard, uncaring lady, and to some extent she is, but I believe she does care about you, although she won’t admit it. And I suspect you have mixed feelings about her, don’t you?’

She felt his eyes bore into hers and looked down. ‘Yes, we’ve always had a difficult relationship, and I feel guilty for not…loving her enough. I do love her, but I don’t like her very much. Such an awful thing to say.’ Charlotte felt tears threaten and grabbed a tissue. Louisa, who had been sitting quietly at the table, threw her arms around her. She allowed herself a moment to compose, not wanting to break down in front of them.

‘I’ve wasted everyone’s time then, haven’t I? You, Gillian, the therapists…’

Paul shook his head. ‘Not at all. We’ve shown Annette there is hope for remission if she wants to continue with the treatments and it’s up to her now. And you’ve proved you care, which is the important thing. Come on, have some more wine, it might help.’

Charlotte took a grateful sip, willing herself to stay in control. She had to face this alone.

Paul went on to ask how her research for Andy was progressing.

Glad to change the subject, Charlotte told him about Mrs Batiste and the mood lightened. Paul was staying over and Charlotte disappeared early to bed. As she lay waiting for sleep to claim her, all she could think about was Paul’s words – “she did it for you”. Squeezing her eyes tight she forced herself not to cry.

The next morning a cold wind propelled dense, grey clouds across the sky, reflecting the heaviness in Charlotte’s heart. It was an effort to shower and dress and she would have preferred to spend the morning snuggled under the duvet, but was due to meet Mr Sebire at eleven. After a double strength coffee she felt better and checked the Perry’s guide for his address. It turned out he lived not far from La Bella Luce Hotel and should be easy to find.

Glad of the thick coat she had brought over from London, Charlotte grabbed her bag and ran outside to Louisa’s car as the first drops of rain arrived. Once she had located the wipers, she reversed out and headed off to St Martins. Ten minutes later she pulled into the tiny drive of a whitewashed granite cottage with a wooden porch. The door was opened so quickly she guessed Mr Sebire had heard her car. A short, bald man, his bright blue eyes twinkled up at her.

‘Miss Townsend, please come in. What a change in the weather! Let me take your coat.’ He fussed around her before leading the way into a room so clean and neat it looked unlived in. Taking a seat on a blowsy patterned sofa, Charlotte accepted his offer of tea. He left and returned quickly with a tray burdened with a teapot, two cups and saucers and a plate of biscuits.

Once settled, she asked him about himself, and learnt he was a widower who had lived in the cottage all his life. His grown up children had moved away – one to L’Ancresse and one to Grand Rocque. He managed to make it sound as if they were at the other end of the earth, not on the same small island. Charlotte warmed to the old man who, at nearly 90, was proud to be looking after himself and the cottage unaided. Mr Sebire answered all the general questions without any digression, unlike Mrs Falla.

‘We’re particularly keen to learn more about the local Resistance, Mr Sebire. Did you get involved yourself, or know anyone who did?’

He grinned mischievously, displaying a row of gaps in his teeth.

‘Of course I did! Wanted to give them Jerries what for, I did. Was good fun at first, but towards the end it got nasty, with people being arrested and sent away. Not that it stopped us, mind. We just had to be more careful,’ he said, with a wink.

She smiled. ‘I’ve spoken to other islanders and someone mentioned the Batiste brothers, Edmund and Harold as being in the Resistance. Did you know them?’

His face clouded. ‘Yes, I knew them. I worked a bit for their father, Neville. Edmund was a nice lad, but that Harold!’ He shook his head. ‘He were a nasty piece of work. Never trusted him. Something shifty about him, I reckon. Greedy bugger, too. He and his dad dealt on the black market, they did. No wonder he’s worth so much now.’

Charlotte leant forward, all ears. ‘But I understood it was Edmund who betrayed some neighbours and died violently.’

‘He were no traitor! Someone started those rumours about him days before he died. All smelt a bit fishy to me, but I couldn’t do anything except tell people not to listen to no rumours. I had my suspicions at the time and I’m convinced now I was right, after what happened.’

Her heart was beating faster as she asked, ‘What suspicions?’

Mr Sebire looked her in the eye. ‘Why, it was Harold who started those rumours, of course. To protect his own skin.’