Chapter 2

J

eanne left the office and headed back to her car. Distracted by her meeting with the Advocate, she bumped into a woman burdened with shopping, causing her to drop it.

‘Watch out!’ the woman cried, scrabbling to retrieve her errant purchases.

‘Oh, sorry! Here, let me help.’ Jeanne smiled apologetically as she collected up the rest of the items on the pavement. Within seconds, order was restored and the woman nodded and went on her way.

I must get a grip, Jeanne thought as she reached her car. Bumping into people is becoming a habit. She decided as it was still light for a while yet, she would go and see her cottage (odd thought that – now it really was hers) before going on to the Ogiers.

She swung the car into The Grange to take the road out to the west coast and the old cottage which had once been so important to her. A place full of so much love and laughter, before her world had fallen apart.

Driving southwards along the west coast from Vazon, she glanced towards the beaches on her right. People were still out walking in the afternoon sunshine, some with children skipping alongside and others with dogs bounding ahead, making the most of the fine weather and bracing sea air. Surfers rode the waves, particularly strong on this stretch of coastline. It was idyllic. Oh, to be a carefree tourist enjoying this beautiful island instead of a self-pitying, grieving saddo like me. She pulled a face. Where’s that tough ol’ Guernsey spirit you were once so proud of? It’s about time it resurfaced and brought back the smile to your face, my girl!

From the winding coast road she turned left into a narrow lane rising uphill and dotted with cottages on each side. About 200 yards inland she pulled into a drive belonging to a detached granite cottage with a mossy tiled roof. Her heart raced as she switched off the engine and looked at what was now her house. She knew the cottage dated back at least two hundred years and had been built by a fisherman, as had most of the others in that area. He must have been particularly successful because it had the largest plot in the lane with a good-sized garden to the rear and a spacious orchard to the side.

The central front door peeped out from under a gabled porch thick with clematis and roses growing up the trellised sides. Pairs of small-paned sash windows upstairs and downstairs either side of the porch created an attractive symmetry. Looking at it, Jeanne felt the house was watching her – and waiting. But for what? She shivered. In her heart she knew that by rights this shouldn’t be her cottage. It should have been her father’s and perhaps ultimately hers, but many years from now. That would have been the natural order of things, but in her family that natural order had been destroyed fifteen years ago.

Squaring her shoulders Jeanne walked to the porch and, after inserting her key, pushed open the stiff, creaking door. It had never been used very much, as the usual entry for all and sundry had been the back door, never locked, this being Guernsey. The low, beamed ceilings made the cottage somewhat gloomy as dusk approached so Jeanne had to switch on the lights, relieved that the electricity had not been disconnected. As she entered the sitting room on the left she was assailed by a musty, damp smell and this, together with the blast of cold air which hit her full in the face, prompted her to force open the windows to let in warm, salty fresh air. She gazed around at the room she had not seen for what felt like a lifetime.

The familiar, now dusty pieces of furniture, were still in the remembered places. Her grandmother had been a creature of habit, rarely moving things around for the sake of a change. Jeanne walked round, lightly touching the solid oak furniture which had been in the family for generations. The more modern sofas she remembered as being marginally more comfortable when piled up with cushions. But now they looked old and shabby. The picture of neglect was reinforced by the threadbare carpet on the oak floor and the thin curtains which looked as if they would not survive much more pulling to and fro. An ancient wood burning stove squatted on the granite hearth in the inglenook fireplace surmounted by an old blackened beam. There was no central heating as her gran had not approved of such “new fan-dangled” innovations and had not wanted her home cluttered up with radiators, pipes and a boiler. She had been happy to clean out fires in the main rooms all her life and made it clear to anyone who would listen that it was much healthier than central heating, even though the smoke did blacken the walls and ceilings.

Crossing the hall Jeanne entered the kitchen.

The chill from the slate floor struck up into the soles of her trainers as she walked round the large room. Jeanne ran her fingers along the wooden tops of the two freestanding cupboards, leaving a trail through the dust. Under a window sat the old stone butler sink with tarnished brass taps which she now turned on – yes, there was water, she discovered. Good.

Next to it was the blackened range which she recalled as consuming coal at a prodigious rate. As she touched it she realised, with a shock, that this was the first time that she had ever known it to be cold. The range had been the true heart of the house. The absence of its warmth spoke such volumes that Jeanne shivered, whether from the cold or her grief she wasn’t sure.

The smell of the kitchen felt wrong to her. It was musty and the air tasted brackish, like dirty water. It had been so different once, with the smells and tastes of baking, especially bread. Closing her eyes she could picture a familiar scene.

A wonderful aroma of freshly baked bread filled the kitchen as a young Jeanne, hands covered in flour with white streaks on her face, frowned with concentration as she kneaded the mixture in the bowl. Her mother stood next to her, hands in a similar bowl as Gran pottered about, calling out instructions.

‘Now, not too firm or the mixture’ll be too dry. But not so light as t’ leave it uneven. Mm, you’re getting the hang of it, Janet, but I’m not so sure about our Jeanne!’ She chuckled and her plump, smiling face brought a small grin to the girl’s face.

‘I’m no good at this, Granny. I’ll just watch Mummy.’ She looked at her mother who smiled her lovely wide smile, tossing her long, dark hair out of harm’s way. The hair that Jeanne had inherited.

‘Never mind, darling. I’m sure you’ll be a great cook when you’re older. I’ll teach you what Granny’s teaching me, which I have to say, is rather a lot!’ She smiled at her mother-in-law who then explained the next stage in preparing a perfect Guernsey Gâche.

Jeanne’s eyes watered as she remembered the words spoken so lightly by her mother years ago. She had not had the chance to teach Jeanne very much, who never did master making Gâche.

After a quick rub at her eyes she opened the doors of the two wall cupboards which still contained the everyday china her gran had used. She turned to gaze at what had been Gran’s pride and joy, a dust coated, but still beautiful, enormous solid oak dresser. Handed down through generations, it had been made locally by a master cabinetmaker, whose name, Martin Le Mesurier, had been carved on the back. The best blue and yellow porcelain was laid out on the shelves giving a welcome, cheerful air to the otherwise stark kitchen.

Jeanne reached out and carefully picked up a plate, gently stroking away the dust to reveal the oh-so-French pattern she remembered well – a legacy of her gran’s Norman ancestry. With a sigh, she replaced the plate on the shelf and moved over to the old pine table in the centre of the room.

The top was scored by the knives used over the years by busy housewives as they chopped, sliced and pared. Six pine chairs of varying design were drawn up around it, used for most family meals with diners huddled next to the range for warmth in the winter and in summer basking in the sun pouring through the opened windows. Jeanne traced the marks on the table with her fingers and found, on one edge, the initials she had laboriously carved as a child – J.L.P. They were barely visible and she grinned at the memory of what she had once thought of as her ‘secret’. But her gran had found them and her usually smiling face had looked so hurt that Jeanne had burst into tears, and promised not to be a bad girl, ever again. But of course there had been more scrapes, inevitable for the tomboy she had been.

Just off the kitchen, well away from the range, was a walk-in pantry in which had been stored milk, cheese, butter, meat, eggs and all other perishables. Gran had never had a fridge but the pantry had faithfully preserved the family supplies. Jeanne was thankful to see that any fresh food had been disposed of as the vision – and smell – of five months’ old milk and bread didn’t bear thinking about. All that now graced the shelves were empty storage jars and the old-fashioned tins so beloved by her gran for storing home-baked cakes and biscuits.

Suddenly feeling chilled and despondent, Jeanne decided to leave the rest of the ground floor and climbed the solid wooden staircase to the landing, off which lay four bedrooms, the bathroom and airing cupboard.

She opened the door to what had been her grandparents’ bedroom; a reflection of the shabby discomfort of the sitting room, it had the same musty smell. Although the room was a good size it only possessed a double bed with a small side table, a wardrobe and a chest of drawers with a chair beside it. Possessed of few ornaments and with no signs of feminine vanity except for the small wooden mirror on the chest. Gran had been a warm, lively woman but she had not been concerned with her appearance and wore the same old clothes till they fell to pieces.

Jeanne picked up a framed black and white photo of her grandparents on their wedding day, their faces smiling self-consciously at the camera.

‘Hello, Gran, I’m back,’ she said softly, running her fingers over the picture.

Taking a deep breath she then lifted up the only other photo, a large colour one of her laughing parents. Her eyes were drawn to her mother, proudly cradling her baby self. Involuntarily, her left hand went to her own stomach and as she replaced the photo on the chest, her throat tightened.

‘Oh, Mum, how I miss you! There’s so much to tell you and it really hurts…’

Her stomach clenched as waves of grief swept over her and her breath was reduced to short, hard gasps. She couldn’t bear it, she really couldn’t! No-one could. Falling onto the bed, Jeanne gave in to all the pent-up emotions brought to the surface by her return. She had to be strong and face the demons before they destroyed her. Easier said than done when you felt like shit.

It was a while before she felt anything like calm again but time was pressing. After glancing into the two other double bedrooms she checked out the bathroom which was as austere as she remembered. Still painted a horrible green, it possessed a chipped enamel bath on claw feet, an old fashioned WC and a big pedestal washbasin.

She walked across the cold, cracked lino – an even more bilious shade of green – and tried the tap on the bath. Rusty brown water trickled out, nearly drowning a spider slumbering near the plughole. After a few minutes the water cleared and Jeanne switched off the heavy tap and repeated the process with the washbasin. As she let the water run she scrutinised herself in the foxed mirror, hardly large enough to hold an entire face.

Reflected back was a mass of long, dark hair framing a pale face dominated by what were normally large, bright blue eyes, but now reddened and puffy. Under the somewhat ordinary nose, her mouth was unsmiling and the overall effect was almost sullen. God, I can’t meet Molly and Peter looking like this, and splashed cold water onto her face, wiping it off with a tissue. A quick repair job with the makeup in her bag, a tentative smile and the transformation was complete. It was if another person entirely had stepped into her skin. Feeling pleased with the improvement – as after all, she didn’t want to depress her hosts – she went onto the landing.

Jeanne hesitated, her hand on the stair rail, but instead of going down as she had intended, she went along to the last and smallest bedroom and opened the door.

An icy blast nearly knocked her off her feet and she braced herself before stepping forward. The room was colder than the rest of the house by at least fifteen degrees. It was like walking into a cold store. The smell that caught at the back of her throat was a mix of mustiness and something she couldn’t quite place which left a metallic taste in her mouth. She gave only a cursory look at the room she had hated since a small child. Her eyes travelled over the single bed, cupboard and small chest of drawers set out on the bare, dark oak floor.

She had always been puzzled by the increased chill factor which she had felt whenever she had been obliged to enter this room. Thank goodness she had never had to sleep there, her parents’ modern house having been only a short distance away. Unfortunately, it had been the room used for storing surplus bits and pieces, occasioning the odd foray to find things her gran had needed.

With a feeling of relief Jeanne shut the door and ran down the stairs and out of the front door. As she locked up she again thought back to the happy, carefree days spent here so long ago. As a child she had not noticed the cold or shabbiness, it had been so full of the love and warmth of her family. It had seemed like a wonderful place to her then and looking back she realised it was her loving family which had transformed the ordinary house into a memorable home.

Jeanne had known for years that one day she would inherit the cottage and had, more recently, imagined returning with Andy to help lay the ghosts. She had envisaged them playing at happy families with their children running about in the orchard, laughing and shouting at each other. But now that dream had been cruelly shattered and the thought of living there alone was too awful. She had to sell the cottage and move on – but where?