Chapter 5

A

s they all tucked into a cooked breakfast on Sunday morning, Jeanne explained that she planned to start cleaning and airing the cottage so she could move in within a couple of days. From the way that Peter and Molly glanced at each other, Jeanne sensed that they were not particularly happy about her plan but were wise enough to keep quiet.

‘I can lend you a vac and mop. And I’ve got plenty of cleaning materials and cloths. Are you going to light any fires?’

‘Thought I’d light them in the sitting room and dining room and try and get the range going. There’s a load of coal out the back under cover I can use. I’ll make a list of essentials to buy tomorrow when the shops are open. Of course, back in England I’d be able to buy everything today.’

‘Yes, we’re a bit out of step here with Sunday trading. But at least we can now buy petrol and alcohol on Sundays, which we couldn’t when you lived here,’ Peter replied. ‘I’ll give you a hand with the range and the fires if you like. The range might be a bit temperamental after all this time.’

‘That’s kind of you Peter, but I don’t want to deprive you of your day of rest. You already gave up most of yesterday for me.’

‘Nonsense. As Molly will tell you, I just hunker down with the papers and she can’t get a word out of me for hours. I can work off this fattening breakfast I’ve just enjoyed. And it shouldn’t take too long.’

The car was loaded up with everything they needed and they quickly drove down the lanes to Le Petit Chêne. The weather was still holding and the sight of blue sea, golden sand and blue sky lifted Jeanne’s spirits. She was secretly glad that she did not have to tackle the fires and the range herself as she had never done it before and had not wanted to appear completely useless. Housework had never been top of her favourite occupations, always preferring the result to the process.

After unloading all the cleaning paraphernalia into the hallway Jeanne went around opening doors and windows while Peter fetched the coal.

They decided that the range was the priority as it provided hot water for the ground floor, leaving Jeanne to nip up to the bathroom to switch on the old immersion heater. As it took ages for the miracle of hot water to occur she decided to vac and dust the other rooms first, beginning with the dining room.

It had been little used in her grandparents’ time except for important meals like family celebrations and, more recently, funerals, Jeanne remembered sadly. Glancing at the large oak beamed fireplace she started on seeing the desiccated body of a starling among the scattered ashes of the hearth. Yet another reminder of death. When would she be able to forget?

Come on now, get on with it or you’ll have Peter wondering what’s the matter, she chided herself. Dominating the room was a large, and in Jeanne’s eyes, ugly, oak gate-leg table with six hard oak chairs spaced around it. The chairs were well made but uncomfortable. The worn rug couldn’t stop the cold striking up from the stone floor and into Jeanne’s feet as she worked.

She went across the hall into the third reception room, a small study which had been used by her grandfather as his snug, where he could escape with his pipe, newspapers and books. Her memories of him were limited as she was only ten when he died, but she had always held a mental image of a jovial man with twinkling blue eyes, curly white hair and a strong body. As he was a fisherman she’d seen him as like Captain Birdseye, but without the beard. An only grandchild – her father not having siblings – her grandfather had made much of her, allowing her the honour of joining him in his snug. He could tell such stories…

‘Go on, Granpa, tell me a story about those pirates you had to fight.’

She must have been about five or six, sitting on his knee, big eyes wide open as she listened enthralled.

‘Well, m’dear, there was about eight of ’em, and they just came out o’nowhere. But I was ready for ’em and…’

His tales were ones he had heard as a child and others he made up as he went along, like the pirates story. They were so real to her that she had been constantly on the look-out for pirates, expecting them to jump out from behind trees and rocks as she walked the cliffs with her parents. Jeanne sighed as her eyes swept over the dusty desk, battered easy chair and bookshelves. She could have sworn that the smell of fish which had always clung to him was still in the room, along with a hint of his tobacco. Shaking herself, she quickly dusted and vacuumed before going into the sitting room.

She was making good progress when Peter shouted, ‘I’ve got the range working!’ Joining him in the kitchen she heard the familiar rumble of the old Rayburn. A dishevelled looking Peter was beaming with the pride common to men when they’ve got any gadget or machine working against the odds.

‘Brilliant, Peter. Thanks. You’d better show me what to do in case it goes out.’

Peter made a start on the fires while Jeanne went upstairs to clean the bedrooms and get out of his way. When the fires were glowing downstairs he went home, leaving her to work on.

She decided to just, very quickly, dust and vacuum the small bedroom and was in and out in five minutes, shivering the whole time. Perhaps if I bought a small electric fire for the room it would make a difference?

The water upstairs was now hot so Jeanne was able to give the bathroom a clean before going downstairs to the WC by the back door, a room best described as functional and uninviting. Drab green painted walls matched those of the bathroom, enclosing an old-fashioned pedestal wash basin and a large antiquated WC with the original chain and tank. Jeanne grinned at the thought of her grandparents buying what must have been several tins of that awful paint and not letting any of it go to waste. After giving the room a good scrub and mop she turned finally to the kitchen, which was now actually dirtier than when they had arrived that morning, thanks to Peter’s work on the range.

By five o’clock Jeanne had had enough and was glad to shut up the cottage for the night. She checked the fires were safe and the range was stoked up before leaving. Starting the car she caught herself thinking about what Peter had said about renovating the cottage. Perhaps maybe, just maybe, it might be worth doing. After all, it could be exciting to bring it to life, as Peter and Molly have done at their cottage. Images of smart kitchens and bathrooms flashed through her mind. Hey, steady on, girl! There’s a little thing called money needed here, remember. And you’d have to live here for some months – not what you’d planned, was it? Mm, I need to think about it.

Arriving at the Ogiers’, Jeanne ran upstairs for a shower and a much needed change of clothes. Refreshed, she went into the kitchen to give Molly a hand and told her how much she had done that day.

‘It looks and feels so much better already. Amazing what a difference it makes when a house is warm. I should be able to move in on Tuesday if I can keep the fires going and buy what I need tomorrow. It’ll be a real adventure!’

‘If you’re sure, my dear. You know you’re welcome to pop back whenever you want. Now, let’s go and sit down with a cup of tea and check on Peter.’

In the sitting room Peter was surrounded by what looked like all the Sunday broadsheets and he appeared to have nodded off, quickly coming to with the rattle of cups. As they sipped their tea Peter mentioned that the gardener would be happy to meet Jeanne at the cottage at about four o’clock the next day.

‘His name’s Jim Le Prevost and has a young lad working for him. They’re both hard workers and Jim won’t rip you off.’ Taking another sip, he added, ‘Do you want to talk to any builders yet? The chap who helped here was pretty good and you can mention my name if you phone him.’

‘I’ll do that, thanks. Perhaps tomorrow.’ Jeanne stared at them both. ‘This doesn’t mean I’ve made a decision to renovate yet, you know. I’m just getting the facts. I might still sell, take the money and run.’

Peter and Molly assured her that they understood and the newspapers were passed around for the women to peruse.

It was a quiet, but enjoyable, evening as they tucked into a traditional Sunday roast with all the trimmings, accompanied by Peter’s excellent smooth red Rioja. I could get used to this, Jeanne thought, as the food and wine soothed her aching body. They made an early move to bed and this time, Jeanne slept a deep, dreamless sleep.

Monday morning dawned a little duller though it remained mild, clouds scudding across the sky propelled by a light easterly wind. Peter had already left for school but Molly was not working until later in the morning and she and Jeanne sat down to enjoy a healthy breakfast of cereals and juice.

‘You’ll probably find all you need at the Bridge, Jeanne. Quayside is more or less a one-stop shop for anyone setting up home. The Co-op supermarket is just down Nocq Road which I think was being built when you left. There’s some nice little cafés too if you want to treat yourself to a coffee break. Oh, and by the way, I’ve just remembered the phone’s been disconnected. I’ll give you the directions for the telephone office so you can get back online.’

‘Thanks. I’ll buy a local SIM card for my mobile while I’m at it. The Bridge is a good idea. I remember it as being a great place to shop. It’ll give me an excuse to drive around the coast and see what’s changed over the years.’

Jeanne gingerly reversed the car out under the arch before driving down the lane to the coast road and heading north. This was one of her favourite stretches of road, following the sea right up towards L’Ancresse in the north of the island. She hummed to herself as she watched the waves crashing against the rocks at Cobo. There don’t appear to be too many changes around here, she thought. Keeping the car at a steady 35 mph, the maximum allowed on the island, she turned inland at L’Islet to join the road leading to the Bridge. This was the area around St Sampsons harbour composed of shops, banks and restaurants and it was usually easier to park there than in Town, as St Peter Port was known.

After buying everything on her list from Quayside she went on to the supermarket. Not having a fridge or freezer meant that she could only buy a small quantity of perishable foods but she stocked up on store cupboard staples to last for a few weeks, in case she stayed longer than planned.

Glancing at her watch she decided to take Molly’s advice and have a coffee and walked down the road to a smart-looking café on the corner she had noticed earlier. It looked busy but she found an empty table in a corner and ordered her favourite cappuccino. Sitting there listening to the chatter around her she thought how nice it would be to belong somewhere again, being able to meet friends for a drink and a gossip. It was so long since she’d done that. It had been lonely working from home and she’d lost touch with friends, particularly after moving in with Andy. She had devoted all her time to him – a classic mistake made by so many women, she thought sadly.

Whatever happens now, I must change my life so that I spend more time socialising, and it would be good for my writing as well. She loved people-watching and often made mental notes of interesting characters. Overheard snatches of conversation triggered off ideas for her stories. Perhaps I could make a start by going to the barbecue this weekend. She flushed at the memory of Marcus at the beach. Mm, he’s very attractive but do I really want a new relationship? No, I don’t, it’s much, much too soon after…but a friend would be nice. Surely it’s possible to be just friends with a man? Mm, not sure about that. She sighed, picking up her cup.

As tables around her cleared Jeanne became aware of two men sitting nearby. Sipping her drink she glanced up at the man facing her. There was something familiar about him – what was it? Late thirties, she guessed, with dark, curly hair and thick eyebrows framing deep blue eyes and a firm mouth. His complexion was slightly olive with the extra colour of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors. She wracked her brains. Oh no, it’s Muscles, that man I bumped into on the ferry! Without thinking she rubbed her arms where he’d gripped her. They had come up in bruises as expected. The conversation drifted towards her as Muscles spoke.

‘I’m sorry for the delays, Mr Evans, but my hands are tied. I can’t work without the materials I need and you did keep changing your mind about whether you wanted teak or mahogany.’

The man with his back to Jeanne looked rather large. He started waving his arms about, nearly knocking over his coffee cup. Clearly angry, he said in a loud voice, ‘I don’t give a toss about your problems and how you sort them, but I still want my boat ready by the end of the month, as agreed. I’m paying you a small fortune and I’m entitled to change my mind about which wood I want. Now I’ve chosen teak you can get on with it! I don’t care if you have to go to Timbuctoo for it, that’s your problem, not mine. Understand?’

Although Jeanne could only see his back she could sense the glare on Mr Evans’ face as he thumped his fist on the table. She peeped up at Muscles from behind her raised cup and he looked flushed, his jaw tightly clenched in an apparent effort to stay calm. Not surprising, she thought, considering what a horrid man this Mr Evans seemed to be.

‘Okay, Mr Evans, you’ll have your boat ready as agreed. But there can be no more changes to the design or finish now.’ His deep voice was cold.

Mr Evans stood up and as he moved to the side Jeanne saw that he possessed the belly of the over-indulged and the cut of his blazer and sharp-creased slacks proclaimed him to be wealthy as well. A florid face hinted at too great a love of alcohol which she knew to be one of the hazards of being a social go-getter on the island. Assuming he does live here of course. Perhaps he was a tax exile with money to burn and not much else to do except boss around those with less, she thought. Her hackles were rising on behalf of Muscles. She found this amusing as he had been so brusque with her the other day. Calling her drunk, indeed! But he seemed able to take care of himself, rising to shake hands, briefly, with Mr Evans who, with a grunt, marched off. Muscles sat down, letting out a deep sigh as he drank his coffee.

Glancing up he saw Jeanne looking at him and he scowled, quickly finished his coffee and left. Jeanne continued drinking her cappuccino and thought about what she had just witnessed. The man she thought of as Muscles appeared to be a boat builder and it looked like Mr Evans was a rich man who needed bringing down a peg or two. Hope he gets seasick in his new boat, she smiled grimly. Muscles still seemed to be a bit grumpy but at least he had a reason to be, with clients like that.

Leaving the café she went back to the car and drove down towards Town and the telephone company’s office. She was impressed when told that the phone would be connected by the following day.

After Jeanne had unloaded all her purchases into Le Petit Chêne she went round feeding the fires and the range, enjoying the warmth permeating the cottage. Plugging in her shiny new electric kettle – her gran had rarely used anything electrical – she made some tea to go with the sandwich she’d bought.

It was time to start properly on the kitchen and most of the contents of the cupboards and larder ended up in black sacks. The majority of her gran’s pots and pans were definitely past their use by date, being very heavy and blackened from years of constant use. Once the cupboards had been cleaned, the new pots were safely installed and the food put away on the scrubbed marble shelves in the pantry.

Jeanne went upstairs to Gran’s bedroom. It was certainly the best room to choose, in spite of the memories. The sea could be seen from the front window and it was brighter than the other bedrooms. The mattress was in reasonable condition. It didn’t seem damp but it was a bit musty. Jeanne filled up two new hot water bottles and placed them on the bed, covering them with a clean blanket.

She then brought up the largest electric fire she had bought and plugged it in, setting the thermostat on high. She also carried up the new bedding and put it on top of the clean blanket. Going downstairs again – this was better than a step class, Jeanne thought, grinning – she fetched the two smaller heaters. The bathroom heater she plugged into a socket on the landing and placed just inside the room. It was a pity she couldn’t have it on when having a bath but she didn’t fancy electrocuting herself. Her gran might have seen that as her comeuppance for using an electric fire, of course. She put the other heater on, full blast, in the small bedroom and quickly shut the door. Well, if that doesn’t warm it up, nothing will.

There was still some work to do in the kitchen and it was all beginning to look much fresher and brighter when the doorbell rang. Jeanne opened the door to find a well-built man of about forty, with a ruddy, outdoors complexion and wearing gumboots, a well-worn sweater and muddy jeans.

‘Afternoon, Miss Le Page. I’m Jim Le Prevost. Peter Ogier asked me to call round,’ he smiled, stretching out a dirt-encrusted hand.

Jeanne gingerly shook his hand as she said, ‘Thanks for coming, Jim, and at such short notice too.’ Ushering him into the hall, Jeanne led him down towards the back door where she slipped on her boots before they went into the garden.

‘What exactly would you like me to do?’

Jeanne discussed her ideas for tidying the garden, including cutting the grass and hedges.

Jim nodded and rubbed his nose, deep in thought.

‘Right then. I reckon it’ll take me and the lad about three days to do what you want. We could start next Monday, if that’d suit.’ He named his price, which Jeanne thought was reasonable in view of the hard labour involved.

‘That’s fine, Jim. I look forward to seeing you next week then.’

In the kitchen, Jeanne emptied the dresser of her grandmother’s best china and washed it carefully. She left it to drain as she polished the dresser with some newly purchased lavender-scented beeswax. Once dried she re-arranged the china on the now gleaming shelves, pleased to see the whole dresser shining with renewed life and colour.

It was now late afternoon and she went upstairs to check on the bedrooms and bathroom. All were fine except the small bedroom which she was shocked to find was still freezing although the fire was blasting out heat. How odd, she thought, unplugging the fire. No point in wasting electricity in here, anyway.

Downstairs she topped up the fires. The rooms were warming up a treat, the thick walls helping them to retain the heat.

Once back at the Ogier’s, Peter helped her to unload the car before they joined Molly in the kitchen and Jeanne described what she’d achieved and that she was now ready to move into the cottage the next day.

Peter chipped in. ‘Would you like to ring the builder now? You could say I’ve recommended him.’

The builder, Martin Brehaut, agreed to come round at 4.30pm on Wednesday.

By the time Jeanne had made her call, Molly had finished cooking the supper and they all chatted companionably as they ate. Peter then disappeared to work in his study and Jeanne lent Molly a hand in the kitchen. While Molly made a pot of tea Jeanne wandered into the sitting room. On one of the shelves were small framed photos of Phil and Natalie as babies. She picked them up and the dreaded memory was awakened. Pain shot through her as that awful day was re-played in her mind.

‘I’m going to keep my baby, whatever you say!’ Jeanne cried as Andy stood over her, his face taut with anger.

‘You’ve done this on purpose, haven’t you? Trying to trap me into something I’m not ready for. Well, you’ve made a big mistake, my girl. I told you what to do and if you insist on having the baby we’re finished. You’d better start packing your stuff and find somewhere else to live. I’m off to the pub and I’ll be back late.’

Jeanne collapsed on the bed, shaken to the core. Andy ran down the stairs, slamming the front door.

Oh my God! How’s it come to this? How can I have so misjudged his reaction to my pregnancy? She’d thought he had wanted children as much as she did. While they were in Tenerife she’d been sick with a tummy bug and this must have affected her Pill. She’d found out she was pregnant a month later and had been ecstatic. Andy had been anything but.

‘What! I don’t want to have kids yet. I’m not ready to be tied down with all that domestic stuff. In a few years’ time, maybe, but not yet.’ Andy, normally laidback, was red-faced, pacing up and down the kitchen as Jeanne sat heavy as stone on the stool.

‘You did this deliberately, didn’t you? Forgot to take the Pill?’

‘No, of course I didn’t! I was sick, remember? That must have stopped the Pill working properly.’

‘Well, you’ll just have to have an abortion then. If you want us to stay together that’s what you have to do.’

An abortion! I can’t do that. It’s my baby we’re talking about here. Surely he’ll come round in time? I’ll just humour him for now. She felt miserable.

‘Okay, I’ll…I’ll look into it.’

Andy had calmed down and they had not talked about it for a while. She had known it was weak of her. She should have discussed it with him but had been scared. Scared that he would leave her if she had their baby. She hadn’t wanted to push him into walking away, believing he would accept the idea eventually.

But on that fateful day, two months ago, they had had a row and she had blurted out the truth – that she was keeping the baby…

As she was lying on the bed, wracked by sobs and wondering what on earth she was going to do or where she was going to go, the doorbell rang.

Andy. He must have forgotten his key. She jumped off the bed and headed to the stairs. She was so sure it was him and he’d come back to say sorry that she didn’t look where she was going…her eyes were blurred…she was barefoot and slipped on the wooden stairs, crashing to the hall below. She landed heavily, twisting her ankle. Trying to stand was agony so she crawled to the front door, crying out, ‘Just a minute, I’m coming, Andy!’ before pulling herself up to open the door.

‘Thank God, you’ve come back…’ Only it wasn’t Andy, but their neighbour, Mary.

The disappointment was so intense it hit her like a physical blow. Then waves of stomach cramps took hold and she gasped with the pain.

One look at her face and Mary called an ambulance.

It was too late. By the time Jeanne had arrived at the hospital she knew she had lost her baby.