Chapter 10

O

n waking the next day Jeanne groaned as she realised that instead of insight, the wine she’d drunk had just given her a hangover. A couple of cups of strong coffee and some paracetamol helped her to contemplate the day ahead with some degree of enthusiasm. With the sun pouring through the kitchen windows she thought it would do her good to drive up to L’Ancresse in the north of the island, home of some beautiful sandy beaches and bays and great for hangover-clearing walks.

She parked at Pembroke with L’Ancresse beach stretching out ahead of her. Assorted groups of walkers strode purposefully round the bay. A light, northerly breeze ruffled her hair but the air was mild and Jeanne set off towards the far side and the forts. Numerous on the island, they were erected when Britain was at war with Napoleon and afraid of invasion. Guernsey and the other Channel Islands were particularly vulnerable, being so close to the French coast, and the forts had been the first line of defence, as well as the then mighty British Navy. Jeanne strode along the headland, nodding and exchanging greetings with other walkers.

As she turned back later her stomach was rumbling so made for the kiosk to buy a sandwich and a hot drink, feeling glad to sit down for a few minutes and people watch. The beach was quite busy with what looked to be a mixture of holidaymakers and locals, either sitting determinedly on bright beach towels in spite of the breeze or playing beach games. As she surveyed the laughing faces it was becoming increasingly difficult for her to envisage returning to her old life in England. The sea was in her blood and she was now making friends in Guernsey, or more correctly, rekindling old connections. The thought of having dinner with Marcus was cheering, too. Although not ready for a new relationship, it would be nice to have some fun.

Lost in these thoughts she did not notice the mobile ringing. Only the glares from a nearby couple alerted her it was her own disrupting the peace.

‘Hi, it’s Rachel. Have I called at a bad time?’

‘No, not at all. I’m out for a walk and was completely lost in thought. How are you?’

‘Fine, thanks. Good day yesterday, wasn’t it? I’ve been talking to Sue and Colette and we’re planning to go to the cinema on Wednesday. It’s a chick-flick so the boys won’t want to go. We thought we’d have a meal afterwards in the brasserie. What do you think?’

‘Love to come, thanks. Is it still at Beau Sejour?’

‘No, it’s at the Mallard Cinema, near the airport. I can pick you up as it’s on my way. Say seven o’clock?’

‘Fine. Look forward to seeing you all then. Bye.’

Great, my social life’s positively blooming. She beamed as she stood up. It was time to make tracks as there was still the length of the bay between her and the car. The breeze was becoming stronger as Jeanne walked briskly along the firm sand, whipping her long hair around her face.

By the time she reached her car she felt as if she had run a marathon, not just had a walk. It was time to get fit, ready for all the gardening that would soon be beckoning, she decided, before pointing the car south towards home.

After a refreshing soak in a hot bath Jeanne dressed quickly and collected her bag of washing, a bottle of wine and the file of French/English recipes for Molly to check.

As Molly opened the door Jeanne thrust the wine at her saying, ‘In payment for my supper and the use of your washing machine.’

Molly laughed and gave her a quick hug before leading the way to the kitchen where Peter was in the midst of vegetable preparation.

‘Hello, Jeanne. Had a good weekend?’ he asked, waving a peeler in one hand and a carrot in the other.

‘Great, thanks. And you?’

‘Very pleasant. Nice and relaxing.’ He smiled.

After loading up the machine in the utility room Jeanne returned to the kitchen and showed Molly the recipes. She started flicking through them.

‘Looks to me as if you’ve done a pretty good job of translating them. I’ll read through properly in a day or two. I can see some very interesting dishes here: Escargots de Bourgogne, Cousinette, Calamares a là Provencale, Grenouilles au Riz, Clamart Purée, Topinambours au Daube for a start. I feel hungry just thinking about them! By the way, it’s le poulet rôti tonight, or roast chicken for the uneducated!’

Jeanne and Molly set the table in the dining room leaving Peter in charge in the kitchen. While they were on their own Molly asked Jeanne if she’d read any of the letters yet.

‘Yes, the first one, written in July 1943. It’s definitely a love letter as it starts ‘Mein Leibling Jeanne’ and ends with ‘Ich liebe Dich’. Pretty conclusive evidence, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Yes, it is. He certainly sounds smitten at least. When do the letters end?’

‘February ’45. It’s likely he would have been rounded up with the other Germans by the British liberating forces a few months later. I haven’t found anything else from him at a later date and I went back into the attic to check. But I did find what I think is his picture!’ Jeanne announced triumphantly, handing over the photo.

‘My word. You’re really enjoying playing the detective, aren’t you? Let me have a good look.’ Molly studied the photo for a moment before handing it back. ‘He looks a kind man as well as handsome. Not at all like a vicious conqueror.’

‘Agreed. I’ll read some more of the letters to get a feel for what was happening between them. I think they must have met up quite often but, by the look of it, he only wrote about every three weeks. It must have been difficult to keep it a secret.’

‘From what I’ve read and heard about the Occupation, it wasn’t as bad as it was in France, where the female “horizontal collaborators” were viciously treated by their fellow countrymen. I’m sure it was very much disapproved of here but at least the women didn’t risk getting their hair shaved off and being tarred and feathered!’

‘But the islanders must have resented the Germans?’

‘Oh, they did, but the resistance was usually low key. If you disobeyed the rules you could be imprisoned or worse. The biggest concern was always the lack of food.’

Molly paused as she collected wine glasses from a cabinet.

‘Anyone who could grow their own food, like your grandmother’s family, was slightly better off. The men could still fish too, within limits.’

‘What did the Germans eat?’

‘Initially they got supplies from France but these dwindled once the Allies started winning. Towards the end it was the Germans who were starving while the islanders received Red Cross parcels.’ Molly looked up and added, with a grin, ‘Perhaps Wilhelm only pursued your Gran for the food she slipped him!’

Jeanne laughed. Was it really only cupboard love, after all? She didn’t really think so, but it was an amusing thought.

Peter came through the archway demanding to know what was so funny and Molly replied that she would tell him later.

As they ate their chicken Jeanne told them about the barbecue.

‘Are you seeing Marcus again?’ Molly asked, eyebrows raised.

‘Is a girl not allowed any secrets?’ Jeanne protested, laughing. She mentioned the date on Friday and also that she was meeting up with the girls on Wednesday.

‘It certainly hasn’t taken you long to get your foot in the door, has it?’ Peter remarked.

‘It’s the overpowering charm, works every time!’ she said, enjoying her new-found popularity.

Once the programme finished at ten o’clock, Jeanne drove home with her clean washing and was soon cosily tucked up in bed with Joanna Trollope.

At 8.30 the next morning Jim Le Prevost and his lad Carl were unloading their tools from a pickup in the drive. Jeanne went out to say good morning and confirm what was to be achieved that day.

After checking that her little team was happy, Jeanne knew that her only role from now on was to provide cups of tea at strategic intervals. Before the first cups were required she drove off to the cemetery, buying flowers from a hedge-stall en route.

As she approached her parents’ grave she saw that her earlier flowers were beginning to fade. Jeanne substituted the new for the old and as she tidied up had a quick chat with her parents, telling them of the progress she had made that week. She felt totally calm and enjoyed the peace of the setting, feeling that her parents were close by, watching and listening.

Minutes later she walked the few yards to her grandparents’ grave and talked to her gran about the recipes, saying what an exciting find it had been for her. Better not mention the love letters– must spare Granpa’s feelings! The time passed quickly and Jeanne collected up the old flowers and said goodbye to her family.

She smiled inwardly at the thought of the possible reaction of anyone watching and hearing her.

‘You know, there’s a mad woman goes up to them graves and talks to those dead souls as if ’em still alive. Should be locked up in the Castel Hospital, she should!’ She didn’t think she was mad but she did get a great deal of comfort from her commune with her parents and grandparents, even if it was a bit one-sided.

She had never given much thought to what happened after death but lately had been attracted to the belief that souls do live on, in another dimension perhaps, and that maybe they could see us even if we couldn’t see them. One of her favourite films was Ghost and she cried buckets every time she saw it. She so wanted the girl to see her dead lover, so desperate to talk to her and warn her of imminent danger.

By the time these thoughts had flowed through her mind Jeanne was back at her car. As she put the rubbish in the boot she noticed a man wearing a dog collar coming towards her from the direction of the church.

‘Good morning. How do you do? I’m John Ayres, the vicar of this parish, as you can probably tell from the way I dress.’ His eyes twinkled at her as he reached out and shook her hand.

‘Morning, Vicar. Nice to meet you. I’ve just been putting flowers on some graves.’ Her heart raced – had he been watching her talking? How embarrassing!

He nodded. ‘Yes, I saw you. Am I right in thinking that you’re Jeanne and that it’s your parents and grandparents who are buried there?’ He indicated the graves she had just left.

‘Yes, but how do you know my name?’

‘You won’t remember, but I conducted the service for your parents and I had the honour to do the same for your grandmother recently. I’m so glad to see you here. How have you been?’ The vicar’s face was kindly, like that of a benevolent old uncle and Jeanne could imagine many a grieving soul being comforted by him. He must be pushing seventy, she thought, and witnessed so much sorrow over the years.

‘Not too bad, Vicar. I’ve only been back just over a week and I’m at Gran’s cottage. She left it to me and I came back to see what needed doing.’

John Ayres smiled and replied, ‘It’s wonderful to see you back here, after all these years and you’ve put some really lovely flowers on the graves. They’ve always looked so neglected, though your grandmother came up as much as she could, you know.’

He hesitated before continuing, ‘I’m a great believer in being able to talk through one’s problems with someone and if at any time you felt the need to unburden yourself, I’d be happy to listen.’ Jeanne saw the compassion in his face and again wondered if he had seen her pouring out her soul a few minutes ago.

‘Thank you, Vicar. I’ll remember that. Maybe I’ll take you up on that offer one day. That’s if I do stay on the island.’

‘Oh, I think there’s very little doubt that you will stay here now, don’t you?’ His brown eyes looked into hers and she felt almost mesmerised by him. Oddly enough she wanted to believe him.

‘Perhaps. I’ll keep you posted on that. Now, I’d better get back as I’ve two thirsty gardeners waiting for their next dose of tea.’

They shook hands again and Jeanne went off feeling that she’d made another friend, albeit a much older one. But a friend is a friend, she thought, as she drove home.

Jim and Carl were just setting aside their spades and picking up their lunch boxes when Jeanne arrived in a flurry of gravel and put the kettle on. They had made good progress that first morning and the beds looked a lot tidier without all the dead remnants of previous seasons. Jeanne made appropriate noises of satisfaction at their efforts as she handed them their tea and went back inside to make herself some lunch.

After she had cleared away and checked that all was well with her men, she made a phone call.

‘Hi, Freya. It’s me, Jeanne. How are you?’

‘Jeanne! What a surprise. I’m fine, thanks. But where are you? Last time we spoke you said you might be going over to Guernsey. So tell me, girl, what are you up to?’

Freya, a friend from university, used to be a junior editor for one of the magazines Jeanne wrote for but had since made it up the ladder to become an editor for a publishing company. One of the few people she had kept in touch with, partly because of their business connections, but mainly because they’d always been such good mates. They would meet up occasionally in London where Freya was based. Jeanne brought her up to speed with her life as concisely as possible, before coming to the crunch.

‘I’ve got a proposal for a book which I’d like to bounce off you, if that’s okay. Non-fiction, a sort of cookery book cum wartime romance, with French undertones.’

‘Sounds intriguing. Tell me more.’

Jeanne then explained about the collection of old recipes and the love letters and her idea for writing a book which incorporated the former with a kind of family history, but focussing on the love story of two young protagonists, her gran and Wilhelm. ‘A sort of Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady, but different,’ as Jeanne put it.

Freya seemed taken with the idea, firing a few questions at Jeanne before she said, ‘Okay. Go ahead and prepare a thorough outline with lists of the illustrations that you could provide. Then ask your agent to send it to me and I’ll happily submit it to my senior editor. At least I know you can write!’

They chatted for a few more minutes before saying their goodbyes. After she’d put down the phone it hit Jeanne that she had possibly committed herself to something she had never previously contemplated – writing a complete book. It would involve a lot of work if the publishers gave her the go-ahead, meaning extensive research before she even started writing. For a moment the whole idea seemed too daunting and she was tempted to ring Freya back and say that she’d changed her mind. But the thought of looking like a prat and walking away from a potential breakthrough into mainstream publishing that most writers only dream of, stopped her. The underlying reason for making the proposal was to provide a way to finance the work on the cottage, she reminded herself.

Taking a deep breath she did what she usually did in times of crisis – put the kettle on and made everyone a cup of tea.