Chapter 7

H

igh on Jeanne’s list was finding her grandmother’s recipes and family papers and she began her search the next morning. After going through the cottage collecting a hotchpotch of paperwork she piled it all onto the kitchen table.

Then she remembered the attic.

Grabbing a torch she went up the ladder. It was cold and extremely dusty. Shivering, she looked around at the scattered boxes and all the items which represented her family’s past. There was an old wooden tailor’s dummy – she had forgotten that Gran had made her own clothes; an ancient leather sailor’s trunk bearing the initials O.E. Le P. – (Granpa’s?); a Singer sewing machine in a solid wooden case and various boxes filled with photo albums, old clothes, pictures and children’s toys. There was also stuff from her parents’ house that had been considered worth keeping, but she wasn’t ready to look through that yet. She found some older boxes filled with assorted papers and notebooks and took them down, one at a time.

Coughing up the disturbed dust, Jeanne washed her hands and brushed off the cobwebs before carrying the boxes into the kitchen. It was becoming cluttered in there and she decided to eliminate all the papers not worth keeping. Grabbing a black sack, she went through old bills and receipts that were no longer relevant; old magazines about fishing her grandfather had accumulated over many years, so well read that they were falling apart; and the parish magazines her gran had kept which looked unread.

Thinking about this, Jeanne realised that she had rarely seen her gran reading anything. She preferred to be doing something she considered useful, like cooking or gardening and was quite dismissive of reading as a leisure activity. She had always tut-tutted when she saw Jeanne with her head buried in a book which, as a teenager, had been most of the time.

‘You’re not reading again, my girl, are you? You could give me a hand in the garden. The herb beds need weeding and I want some chives, sage and rosemary to make up a remedy for old Mrs Le Prevost who’s been poorly. Now, put that book down and out you go!’

‘Okay, Gran,’ Jeanne replied, reluctantly putting down the P.D. James she’d been reading and went out to the herb bed. She usually enjoyed pottering amongst the herbs and loved their scent on her hands as she picked the bunches her gran had asked for, but she had just come to a particularly gripping part of the thriller and had been loath to break away. She sighed, anticipating the pleasure of getting back to her book later. Going back indoors she was given the rare privilege of helping Gran prepare the tincture for Mrs Le Prevost. Gran’s remedies were much sought after by elderly neighbours who preferred them to modern medicines.

Smiling at the memory, Jeanne remained thoughtful for a few more minutes. Books had been, and still were, very important to her but her gran had had a far more limited education. She had also held the traditional view that women were to run the household and raise children and not forge careers. Her daughter-in-law had met with approval by renouncing her job as soon as she had married her son, Owen.

Shaking her head, Jeanne filled the black sack with the unwanted items so that she could start sifting through the boxes from the attic. These yielded the most interesting finds yet – old notebooks with a mix of pasted in and loose pages, neatly written in varied handwriting. They proved to be recipes in English, French and the local dialect, Guernsey French and seemed to cover many years of cooking from both sides of the Channel. Jeanne’s heart began to race as she turned the pages. Wow! What a treasure trove, must go back more than a hundred years!

For Jeanne, Guernsey French, or patois, and related to the French dialect of Normandy, was equivalent to double-Dutch. It was no longer taught in schools and because most of the island children had been evacuated during the Second World War, there had been little chance to pass it on to the next generation. But the more elderly islanders still used it occasionally among themselves, particularly when they wanted to say something unflattering about the mainlanders or much younger locals. She remembered her gran chatting to her friends in patois and unable to understand a word they were saying. Probably just as well! She smiled to herself, putting the notebooks and loose recipes carefully to one side before looking at the other boxes.

One contained a variety of papers from her father’s childhood and youth. After a quick glance, she decided to go through them more thoroughly another time. Even seeing her father’s name on the papers made her stomach lurch. The ghosts of the past were not going to lie down quietly. Frowning, she opened another box which had been sealed long ago, full of yellowing, handwritten letters.

Intrigued, she flipped through the envelopes and noticed that none bore any stamps so must have been hand delivered. All were addressed, in the same handwriting, to her grandmother in her maiden name of Ozanne. With mixed feelings, she carefully opened the top letter. Mm, what are these? Perhaps I shouldn’t be reading them. They’re private letters belonging to Gran. Looks like a firm hand but the English is poor, can’t really make it out. Turning to the last page she glanced at the signature – ‘Wilhelm’.

A German! Was this written during the German Occupation? That was over sixty years ago when Gran was a young woman. Mm, could Gran have had a secret past? She didn’t destroy them so perhaps she meant me to read them one day? Or maybe I’m just trying to excuse my prying!

Troubled, she paced around the kitchen, deciding to read it properly later.

By now it was late morning and Jeanne made herself a coffee as she flicked through her grandfather’s papers. Most of them were old receipts from the Fisherman’s Co-operative on the Castle Pier where he sold his catch, bought by the catering industry and housewives wanting fresh fish.

In her mind’s eye she saw herself as a little girl sitting in her grandfather’s van, intoxicated by the smell of freshly caught fish and so happy that she had been asked to help, that she bounced up and down in excitement.

Granpa, twinkling, turned to her, ‘Calm down, m’dear. Not sure the ol’ springs can cope with all that bouncin’. Soon be there, eh.’

When they arrived at the wholesalers he gave her a small tray of fish to carry, making her feel important.

‘There you are, lass. I’ll take the big ’un.’

Jeanne was honour bound not to drop it and she didn’t, even though her arms ached. She walked so slowly that her grandfather had to shorten his stride to avoid bumping into her. Reaching the counter, she passed the tray to a smiling man waiting with outstretched arms. After putting down his own much heavier load, Granpa had patted her head and said, ‘Good girl. I couldn’t have managed without you, eh.’ Jeanne had glowed with pride all the way home and couldn’t wait to tell her parents how much Granpa had needed her help.

The smell of freshly caught fish that always clung to the van and to her grandfather had remained with her over the years and whenever she went into a fishmongers she was reminded of him, winking at her as she carried that tray.

He had died at sea, still working at seventy. His fishing boat had been caught in a sudden squall and been dashed onto the hidden rocks, notorious in these coastal waters. A strong and capable sailor, he was knocked out and alone. His mate, who should have been with him, was taken ill at the last minute and her grandfather had gone out to collect his lobsters, fetching premium prices at that time.

After his death Jeanne and her mother had spent more and more time at her gran’s cottage and less in their own house not far away. Her father, an engineer, worked abroad for weeks at a time so they were happy to be with Gran. A couple of years after Granpa’s death her father had secured a job on the island, enabling him to spend all his free time with his family.

Jeanne sighed as she turned over the fragile pieces of paper which still stirred up such vivid images of the past. She didn’t want to throw the receipts away but was unsure what use they had, apart from being a link with the past.

As a writer she was conscious that seemingly innocuous documents might have a relevance at some time and she began to toy with the idea of a story or article based on the papers now strewn over the table. Having decided that she needed proper containers and files, she went out and bought a selection from a shop in Cobo.

By the time she had sorted the papers into labelled files she was hungry and cooked herself a light lunch. After clearing away she still had a couple of hours before the builder was due and concentrated on the recipes.

The majority of these were in her grandmother’s handwriting, but she did not recognise those written in French, which looked much older. The paper was almost brown with age and the ink and writing seemed to belong to an earlier era, perhaps the 1800s, she guessed.

Jeanne vaguely remembered being told that her gran’s family, from Normandy, had connections to well-known mid-nineteenth century Parisian restaurateurs. They had catered to the gourmands of the city and their food had, according to legend, been of the highest standard. When the couple retired they went to live with their married son in Normandy. It was this couples’ daughter and her husband who had moved to Guernsey sometime in the late 1800s or early 1900s, as Jeanne remembered the story.

It was thrilling to think that she might be in possession of the recipes that had originated from those Parisian restaurateurs, possibly written down by their son or granddaughter. Scanning them she hoped that her schoolgirl French would be up to translating them.

She grinned as she read Daube de Boeuf Provencale and was able to translate it sufficiently to recognise the recipe that Molly had pinched from her mother, Janet. All the French dishes were of the classical haute cuisine style and a complete contrast to the local Guernsey dishes usually favoured by her grandmother. She guessed that the French dishes were cooked on more formal occasions and at times when her grandparents could afford the expensive ingredients required, such as beef and wine, which had to be imported into the island.

The local dishes were based on ingredients more readily and cheaply available, such as fish, shellfish, rabbit, pigeon, chicken and eggs. Jeanne fondly remembered some of Gran’s chicken and rabbit dishes and thumbed through the recipes in her handwriting to find them. Written in a mixture of Guernsey French and English made them difficult to follow. She read some of the headings – ‘Bouidrie d’Poulet et Legumes’, obviously something to do with chicken and vegetables – ‘Aёn Pâtaї à Lapins’, rabbit? – ‘Enne Jarraiё d’Haricäots’, probably the famous Guernsey Bean Jar and ‘D’Ormés Picqueläi’, something to do with ormers, a local delicacy, Jeanne guessed. Struggling, she decided to ask Molly for advice on the translations.

As she was flicking through the notebooks, trying to make sense of what her gran had written, the doorbell rang and Jeanne was surprised to find that it was already half past four. She opened the door to greet Martin Brehaut and invited him in. Of medium height, with his dark hair showing flecks of grey, his eyes darted around the kitchen as she led him through.

‘Thanks for coming so quickly, Martin, I know how busy you builders are.’

‘No problem. Good to see the old cottage again.’

He must have noticed her puzzled expression as he went on, ‘About five years ago I did some work on the roof for your grandmother as well as one or two other little jobs she had at the time. Hope the roof’s stayed sound since then?’ His smile was hesitant.

Hmm, she thought, a shy and honest builder. That’s a plus.

‘Yes, I think so. Shall we go round and I’ll explain what I’d like done?’

Martin nodded and they went from room to room while Jeanne consulted the list Peter had drawn up. He made little comment, just nodded occasionally at appropriate moments. Once upstairs, Martin went up into the attic on his own and was gone so long that Jeanne was concerned that he may have knocked himself out on a low beam. Just as she was about to go up the ladder, his now much greyer head appeared in the hatchway and he joined her on the landing.

‘Yes, it’s dry, for sure, and the beams are sound. No sign of dry rot or woodworm.’

Jeanne smiled her relief and they checked the bedrooms, with Martin tapping and knocking on the walls and ceilings as they went round. As she opened the door to the little bedroom she waited for a reaction from him but none came, he just tapped and knocked as before. They went outside for Martin to take a good look at the walls and roof.

‘Can see a few tiles that’ve slipped and the gutter’s leaking in places,’ he said as he pointed to rusty stains on the walls and down the drainpipe.

‘Best to replace the lot with black plastic and get rid of the old iron ones,’ he added. Jeanne nodded her agreement and they then inspected the windows and doors, made of weathered wood but still sound. Once they had checked everything off the list Jeanne asked him if he wanted a cup of tea but he shook his head.

‘Best get going, Jeanne. Lots to do tonight. I’ll work out some figures for you by next week and drop ’em in. Need to talk to my plumber and electrician first, though.’ Nodding at the cottage he added, ‘Be good to see the old place come alive again. Mrs Le Page was a nice ol’ dear but she wasn’t as bothered about the cottage as the garden, eh?’

‘No, she wasn’t, but at least she kept it dry and in one piece.’

Martin nodded and left, bearing his copy of the list of works.

Jeanne decided that she, at least, needed a cup of tea and switched on the kettle. As she stood waiting for it to boil she thought about Martin Brehaut. She liked his quietness and the fact that he hadn’t bombarded her with lots of extra work he considered necessary. He had accepted that she only wanted the basic professional work doing and that she would do the finishing touches herself, sourcing her own fittings. He had even offered her his builder’s discount on sanitary fittings and tiles – another plus.

After she had finished her tea Jeanne phoned the Ogiers. Peter answered.

‘Jeanne, I’m glad you phoned, I’d been wondering how you are. Staying warm?’

‘Yes, very warm, thanks. But it sure is a messy job cleaning out those fires every day. Makes you appreciate the wonders of central heating! Martin Brehaut came round today and I was quite impressed with him. I should get his quote by next week and then I’ll have to chat up the bank manager.’ She paused. ‘Is Molly there, Peter? I’d like a quick word if she is.’

Molly came to the phone and Jeanne told her about the papers she had been going through. She mentioned the recipes and the problems with the Guernsey French.

‘Do you know anyone who could translate them for me?’

Molly thought for a moment and answered, ‘Yes, I do. There’s a Mrs Le Maitre who, like us, is a member of La Societé Guernesiaise and is fluent in the patois. I could give her a ring and ask her. Is there much to translate?’

‘About thirty recipes, I think. But they’re all quite short and some are partly in English, too. I’m trying to translate the French recipes which are a bit easier but if I get stuck would you give me a hand? Your French was pretty good if I remember rightly.’

‘Yes, of course. I’d love to see the recipes anyway, particularly if they’re as good as the Daube de Boeuf Provencale. How exciting! Perhaps you could write a cookery book, Jeanne.’

‘Mm, perhaps. Hadn’t thought of that. Have to see how they turn out in English and if the ingredients are easily available.’

She tingled with her writer’s buzz.

‘There’s something else, Molly. I’ve found a number of letters written to my grandmother before she was married and they’re from a German. Do you know anything about Gran’s past, perhaps during the Occupation?’

‘No, I don’t. Your grandparents were very private people and your father never said anything. Do you think these are love letters then?’ Jeanne heard the disbelief in Molly’s voice.

‘Well, at first glance I certainly think so! The English isn’t very good so I’ll have to read them more thoroughly to be sure. There’s about forty letters so I think they must have been, at the least, very good friends! He was called Wilhelm.’

‘Heavens! It certainly sounds as if there was something going on. A number of local women did have German lovers during the Occupation and some even had babies. A few married after the war although I don’t think many stayed here. I suppose it would have been awkward for them and any children. Well, I’m all agog now! I love mysteries – hope you’ll keep me informed.’

‘For sure. Gran didn’t start going out with Granpa until after the war as he was in the navy fighting for king and country, so she was a free agent. I guess the tricky bit was his being the enemy. But it might make a good story.’

‘Hmm, I can hear the wheels in your writer’s brain grinding from here,’ Molly laughed. ‘The scent of a good story and a delicious meal, what a combination!’

Jeanne laughed. ‘Hey, who’s getting carried away now! I’ll let you know if there’s anything to be excited about when I’ve read a few letters. In the meantime, I’d be glad if you’d talk to Mrs Le Maitre for me.’

They said their goodbyes and Jeanne began to think about what she was making for supper that night, the talk of food having made her hungry. It would be something simple, but the thought of all those mouth-watering recipes prompted her to go through some of them that evening so that she could buy the ingredients for a real feast. I might even invite Peter and Molly, she decided.

By about ten o’clock she was yawning and decided to go up with her book and the very first letter that Wilhelm had written. She found that they had all been dated, starting in July 1943 and ending in February 1945, just a few months before the British liberated the islands. Diving under the duvet she settled down for a glimpse into her grandmother’s past and an intriguing sixty year old mystery.