Forbidden Liaison: They lived and loved for the here and now (2 page)

Mrs Wilfred didn’t say a word as she opened her sitting room door to poke her head between the space of the door and its frame. Her grey hair, which had been bundled under a hair-net when she had first let in her new visitor earlier that day, was now combed back into a neat roll. The style suited her. It accentuated her cheek-bones and straight nose. A handsome woman in her day, Heinrich thought, praising himself on his objectivity.

‘I would like to speak with you,’ he said.

Margaret stood looking at him, unsuccessfully hiding her loathing.

‘May I come in?’ he asked.

‘I’m busy,’ she replied.

‘It will only take a moment,’ he insisted.

‘Can’t it wait?’ she asked, the irritability now showing on her face.

‘Nein,’ Heinrich stated firmly.

She opened the door a little more, but was still reluctant to let him in. Heinrich was a tall, lean man, but he had to enter sideways to gain access into the room. As she shut the door behind him, he looked around to notice how cosy and well-furnished the room was. It smelled of furniture polish and lavender. And Mrs Wilfred had a coal fire in the grate. He walked over to the fire and stood in front of it.

‘This is very cosy: homely,’ he said, smiling for the first time. ‘It reminds me of my mother’s home.’

‘What do you want?’ she asked again, viewing his smile with suspicion. Wasn’t it their custom to smile before inflicting further hardship on the inhabitants of the islands?

Heinrich got the feeling she didn’t want to know about his home life, it may lead her to think he was human after-all, and not some monster created by that madman, the leader of the Third Reich. And Heinrich didn’t want her to think he was a barbarian.

‘May I sit down?’ he asked. His backside was beginning to burn.

‘I have things to do,’ she replied.

‘I will not keep you longer than is necessary,’ he smiled again.

Margaret sat down in the armchair by the fire and resting her hands in her lap she began to fiddle with her fingers. Heinrich went to sit on the sofa opposite and as he sat back into the cushions he crossed one leg over the other, looking as though he was making himself comfortable for a lengthy stay. It began to worry Margaret. In her anxious state she sat bolt upright while Heinrich smiled, too inanely, he thought.

‘My room is excellent: very nice: very clean, but there is no ashtray.’

‘We don’t allow smoking in the bedrooms. It discolours the walls,’ Margaret replied.

On hearing the word,
allow,
Heinrich un-crossed his legs to sit forward dangling his hands between his knees. The,
we,
also seemed an odd word to use, but he ignored them both for the time being.

‘Do none of the men smoke in their rooms?’ he asked.

‘No: they smoke in the kitchen.’

‘I believe I am the only officer billeted here?’ he asked.

‘Yes, you are, and it is your job to make sure they behave themselves and obey the rules.’

Heinrich also hated the word,
obey
, and he’d lost count of the innumerable times he’d been forced to
obey
.

‘With all due respect, Mrs Wilfred, I really do not need you to tell me what my role is here,’ he remarked.

She looked him straight in the eye, but realised she had gone too far. The line had to be drawn. If the islanders and the intruders showed a little mutual respect for each other, then their lives would remain uncomplicated, if not trouble-free. Heinrich had been patient thus far, but he was on the verge of losing it.

‘If you insist on putting obstacles in my way I will have no alternative but to assert my authority in any manner I see fit,’ he said with menacing calmness.

‘Like the other one did.’ Margaret retorted, the words aimed at him like a short burst of machine gun fire.

‘Explain?’ Heinrich immediately fired back.

‘My husband…’ her sentence tailed off along with the volume of her voice.

‘What about your husband?’

‘He’s in a labour camp in France.’

‘Why?’

‘Care will kill the cat,’ she responded.

Heinrich frowned. ‘Bitte?’

‘We have no ashtrays,’ she said.

Heinrich persisted. ‘Why is your husband in prison?’ he asked.

‘He wouldn’t obey your rules.’

Heinrich sighed. ‘Sometimes we don’t like what we have to do. And, like everyone else, even I have to abide by the rules.’

‘There’s only one ashtray and that’s in the kitchen,’ she said.

‘Well, in that case I will have to requisition one from somewhere,’ he said on the point of laughing out loud. If he didn’t see the funny side to the conversation, he was in fear of losing his temper with the woman, and he didn’t want to do that. So, as he got up from the sofa he pulled himself up to his full height. He never clicked his heels, but he did that day.

‘Good day Mrs Wilfred. You have been most helpful.’

Margaret let him out and immediately the door was shut, she locked herself in. Heinrich then took himself off into the communal kitchen.

The men who sat around the table ceased talking and stood to attention. ‘Heil Hitler,’ they shouted as soon as Heinrich walked in.

Heinrich didn’t echo their cry: a call he heard about a hundred times a day. He was an officer in the Wehrmacht, the German Army, where senior officers still maintained some of the old customs. He saluted their way – hand to head-gear – and he got away with it because of the medal that adorned his chest. As he looked around he could see the men’s eyes resting on his Iron Cross, causing a few raised eyebrows. The soldier who stood by the stove suddenly moved when a pan was about to boil over, and quickly turning off the gas under it he stood to attention again, but Heinrich’s eyes had become fixed on a small ashtray in the middle of the table. It was full of stubs, and the fug of stale cigarette smoke, sweaty bodies and cooking, choked him for a while as he imagined the smell of cordite filling his nostrils, but it was only his mind playing tricks on him again.

‘Open some windows in here,’ he ordered.

‘Sir,’ came a shout from the back door as a youth scrambled to let in some air.

‘At ease,’ Heinrich said before turning his attention to the man by the stove.

‘Who are you?’ he asked.

‘The cook, Sir.’

‘Do you have a name?’ Heinrich asked.

‘Feldwebel Busch, Sir.’

‘And who are you?’ Heinrich turned to ask the young boy by the back door.      

‘Steiner, Sir,’ came his thin, young voice. His eyes were still focussed on the Iron Cross, and although he held the officer’s uniform in awe, the cross commanded his total respect and he wanted to know who was wearing it. ‘Who are you, Sir?’ came his request.

Heinrich flashed him an angry glance then continued to concentrate his stare on the young boy’s face. But Heinrich liked a soldier with balls: grit. He knew the indoctrination these soldiers received diminished their power of being able to think for themselves, and being able to think for oneself was something Heinrich thought should be left intact. 

‘Heinrich Beckmann, but to you, Oberleutnant, or Sir,’ he replied.

‘Dinner will be in about an hour, Sir,’ Feldwebel Busch stated.

‘What is it?’ Heinrich asked.

‘Stew, Sir.’

‘What sort of stew?’

The cook didn’t answer. Heinrich waited for a reply.

‘Beef,’ the cook eventually said as he looked at the others in the room who knew it was black-market horse meat.

‘I thought for one moment Mrs Wilfred might be missing her pet cat,’ Heinrich remarked.

Busch grinned.

‘I trust someone is going to clean that filthy table before we sit down to eat?’ Heinrich asked.

‘Sir,’ came a shout.

‘There are two men asleep in one of the attic bedrooms. Their room’s unfit for human habitation. Who are they?’ Heinrich asked.

‘Müller and Braun, Sir. They’re on nights,’ Busch replied.

‘And who occupies the middle room up there?’

‘We do, Sir,’ three men said in unison as they stood to attention again.

‘Things are looking very slack around here. I think it’s about time we had an inspection. Two days’ time: Friday, seven hundred hours. Afterwards, with full combat pack, I want you in your allotted battle area. Amongst my many other duties I have the misfortune of trying to train you lot for battle. It is also my duty to inform you that live ammunition will be used, so it is up to you to strictly observe the rules on safety procedure when handling weapons. I want no accidents caused by indiscriminate discharges from weapons. Anyone who is unfamiliar with the set procedure, see me. Any questions?’

No one moved, only their eyes searched for contact with the others, but Heinrich could hear their silent groans. He knew they would probably be calling him the meanest bastard that walked the island as soon as his back was turned. It was always a soldier’s first response when confronted with a new commanding officer.

‘I came down here in search of an ashtray,’ Heinrich said.

‘We are not allowed to smoke in our rooms,’ the boy informed.

‘I know you are not, and I, for one, think it’s a very sensible rule, so it will stay.’ Heinrich paused. ‘Who supplies things around here?’

They all shot glances at the cook.

‘Do you think you could supply me with some toothpowder?’ Heinrich asked, looking at him.

‘No problem, Sir.’

Heinrich said nothing more as he turned to walk out, but stopping, he looked back. ‘I’d like some coffee in my room; not that ersatz shit; and an ashtray immediately. Dismissed.’

Fifteen minutes later a small cut-glass bowl, along with a mug of coffee, appeared in his room whilst he was in the lavatory: it was not only indigestion, but also constipation, that was the bane of his life. When Heinrich saw the small glass bowl he wondered where it had come from, but it did look very much like the one he’d seen sitting on a side-table in Margaret Wilfred’s private quarters.

Izzy Rouchon awoke startled by the sound of her alarm clock. She groaned as she stretched out her hand to turn off the clang of the deafening bell. It was still dark outside. She hated this time of morning – three thirty – it was too early for her, but she had promised to do the early morning milking. On the count of five she flung herself out of bed and ran to the kitchen. As there was no hot water, soap or tooth cleaning powder, she splashed cold water over her face and brushed her teeth with just the toothbrush, then ran into the bedroom to dress. Her morning ritual, before she left her cottage, was to pick up a silver photo frame which stood on her dressing table, to gently touch the image of the smiling face in the photograph.

‘Where are you?’ she sighed. ‘Why don’t you write to me? Why don’t you let me know you’re safe?’ she whispered that morning, and she gave out another sigh as she put down the frame.

In the kitchen she pulled on her rubber boots and called her dog who was still curled up in front of the range fire which had gone out, then she whistled him to follow. From an empty coal-shed she retrieved her bike and pedalled the mile and a half to the farm where the barn housed her father’s cattle. It was seven-thirty when she entered her parent’s farmhouse after milking the cows. Sydney, her father, was already seated at the table and sat eating his breakfast.

‘Cow’s alright?’ he asked as he chewed on a mouthful of food. The cows were always uppermost in his mind.

‘I’ve put them in the bottom field to graze, liked you asked me to. Output’s slightly down,’ Izzy informed him.

Sydney began to look a little worried. If output remained down then the authorities would want to know why. They might begin to think he was selling the milk on the black-market which was an offence, resulting in a prison sentence.

‘It’s probably because they’re edgy; nervous,’ Sydney tried to convince himself. ‘It’s no wonder with that lot goose-stepping about,’ Izzy could hear him muttering to himself as she washed her hands at the sink. ‘Seen any Jerries about yet?’ he asked.

‘They’re still probably all tucked up in their nice warm beds,’ Izzy replied. ‘Like I should be. But one of these days they’re going to find out you’ve discovered a few loop-holes in their administration, then they’ll come looking for you.’

Sydney laughed. ‘They couldn’t organise a …’

‘Sydney!’ Hannah shouted.

‘Poor sods,’ Sydney said, still laughing. ‘My heart bleeds for them, it really does.’

‘Watch your language,’ Hannah’s voice rang out again from by the range fire she was stoking. ‘We may have fallen on hard and difficult times, but that doesn’t mean we have to lower our standards.’

‘Standards and gossip, that’s all you women think about,’ Sydney muttered.

Izzy smiled to herself as she sat down to tuck into her illicit boiled egg, but her mother’s rigid standards were beginning to stifle her.

Sydney got up noisily from the table. ‘If I were a younger man I’d be out there fighting those bastards,’ the words being forced through his teeth with a vehemence that was common.

‘Sydney, language,’ Hannah said again.

Sydney just grunted as he made to leave the kitchen. But before he got to the door he turned to Izzy. ‘You’re going to have to drive the milk into town. I’ve got a field to turn over. Watch out for pot-holes, the tyres are bald. I’ll hold you personally responsible if they burst,’ he said as he left.

‘I do wish he would moderate his language,’ Hannah said as she sat down at the table opposite Izzy. She poured herself a cup of sugar-beet tea with one hand, while the other tucked away a strand of greying hair that had escaped the bun at the back of her head. ‘Self-restraint and moderation in all things. That’s my motto,’ she added rather righteously. ‘And do tie your hair back, Izzy. It’s a wonder you’re not eating it with your breakfast.’

Izzy flicked her hair back with a jerk of the head as she finished off her breakfast. She said not another word. She felt there was nothing she could say that would be understood. So when she’d finished eating she got up from the table.

‘Just looking in at the stables then going down to thorn-hedge field to fix the gate,’ Izzy informed.

‘Did you hear what your father said? You have to take the milk lorry into town.’

Oh, sh…’ Izzy caught sight of her mother glaring at her. ‘Sorry, for even thinking it,’ she apologised.

‘Just be careful; steer clear of any Germans. Don’t even look at them. You know Connie Burton’s pregnant?’

Izzy smiled at the thought of becoming pregnant simply by looking. But some soldiers did deserve a second glance as they were rather handsome, and tanned. But her mother was really beginning to irritate her to the point of her having to say something as she still treated her daughter like a small child. And her father, well, he treated her like another one of his farm hands. She had been married, for God’s sake. Had been for nine whole months: nine whole months she’d had a husband. Then nothing: no-one. He was gone, joined-up. He said he would send for her when he’d finished training. Then
they
arrived, isolating everyone. And now, she hadn’t heard from him for going on three years. The thought that at least he could get a message to her through the Red Cross, even though they were censored, left some doubt at the back of her mind that he might not still be alive.

Then she sighed, rolling her eyes. She’d heard the Connie Burton saga many times before. ‘I know, he’s a pilot in the Luftwaffe,’ Izzy recited, rote-fashion.

Her mother looked at her again from above her glasses which were perched on the end of her nose. ‘You’d better be careful, my girl. You know what happened before.’

‘Mother, why is it you always make a big song-and-dance over nothing?’

‘The man was drunk. He could have… could have…’ Hannah stopped herself. She actually couldn’t say the word.

‘He had no intention of raping me,’ Izzy replied, knowing what her mother was thinking. ‘He was too drunk.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Mother, he only spoke to me before he passed-out.’

‘Probably how Connie Burton became… Before you know it… I’ll wager she never looked at the uniform, she couldn’t have.’

Izzy closed her eyes and sighed heavily. ‘Mother, I don’t want this conversation all over again. I’m not interested in your gossip. I don’t want to know about the Connie Burtons of this world. I want to try and get on with my own life.’

‘There’s no talking to you these days, you always twist and turn everything I say.’

‘You can talk to me, but you keep repeating yourself. You say the same things over and over again. I’m twenty six for God’s sake, not a child to be told what to do. And I am not one of your aging afternoon tea acquaintances either who seem to thrive on the recent gossip. There’s more to life than knowing who’s sleeping with who.’

‘Whom,’ her mother corrected. But Izzy knew it was the phrase
sleeping with
that had made her mother bristle. ‘You’re spoilt, it’s your father’s fault. I kept telling him. Give in too much and you’re in for trouble.’

‘Is that what you really think?’ Izzy asked annoyed.

‘You can appear very selfish at times.’

‘You will insist on going on and on at me.’ Izzy’s anger began to rise. ‘And I hate this bloody work. I never wanted to do it in the first place. I should have evacuated with Alain: joined up.’ Izzy paused before she said something she might later regret. ‘And what do you mean, trouble? I’ve never given you any trouble.’

‘I didn’t mean trouble exactly.’

‘Well what did you mean, mother? This is my point. You’re doing it again. You don’t ever say what you mean. You go around in circles to get back to the same place and I’m fed-up with it.’

‘Oh, that’s grand, you’re fed-up. What about me?’

‘What about you?’ Izzy asked.

Hannah looked at her daughter. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘At least you have Dad. All I have is a life passing before my eyes while I stand back like a fly on the wall watching it disappear.’

‘We’re all frustrated,’ Hannah said.

Izzy looked closely at her mother. ‘Are you frustrated, mother?’

‘My life hasn’t changed much. No matter who governs the island my life is still the same. I’m a farmer’s wife doing the same job year-in, year-out. And I do know what it’s like being without a husband. Your father was is the Great War, remember?’

Izzy did remember. She was born a year before the Great War ended. ‘How did you cope, mother?’ she asked.

‘I just did. Women have to. But we should consider ourselves lucky. Just think of Aunt Margaret.’

Her mother’s comments suddenly made Izzy feel guilty, and selfish. ‘It shouldn’t be too long now before Uncle Harry’s home again,’ she said.

‘No,’ Hannah replied thoughtfully.

Izzy looked down, lost and very lonely. 

‘You never talk to us, these days. You’re stuck at the cottage when you’re not working, playing those gramophone records over and over again,’ Hannah frowned.

‘There’s nothing much else to do.’ Izzy replied, shrugging.

‘Why don’t you lock-up the cottage and come back here to live while Alain’s away?’

‘No,’ Izzy remarked emphatically: living at her cottage was the only space she had to herself.

‘You could practice on the piano,’ Hannah suggested as if talking to a bored child.

But the room the piano lived in had been shut-off for two years, and the furniture covered in dust sheets. It was the room where they always entertained family and friends, and it was where Izzy had had her first piano lesson. Miss Osborne, Izzy’s piano teacher, would visit twice a week to try and instil her own passion for music into the young Izzy, and when Izzy was about fourteen she had said to her one afternoon, ‘Music is not just notes written down on a page for us to play. It’s something that’s alive, passionate. Can’t you feel the passion? At your age you must have felt some passion. You must have felt what your fingers can do.’ Izzy had blushed when she realised what Miss Osborne might be saying to her, but it was not until she had said, ‘Who needs a man when one can have Chopin every day,’ that Izzy truly began to appreciate her music teacher. Miss Osborne had died around the time Alain had left the island, and Izzy hadn’t played much since. She felt everything she held close had been lost, perhaps forever. But she did love that room. Even as an adult, before playing, she liked to peer through the French windows at the meadow beyond the once neatly trimmed garden bordered with flower-beds: the view had always brought Vivaldi to mind.   

‘I have no feeling for music anymore,’ Izzy suddenly said to her mother as she looked down at her hands. ‘Anyway, I thought I heard scratching noises coming from inside there the other day. I think mice have moved in.’

‘Vermin will always manage to get into an upright if it’s not used,’ Hannah commented. ‘I’ll get your father to put some poison down. Don’t want them gnawing away at the wood. It’s an expensive piano.’

Izzy stood emotionless, her life seemed so pointless.

Hannah smiled noticing how down-hearted her daughter appeared and tried to cheer her up. ‘Start knitting yourself a jumper, I’ll unpick something for you to knit up again,’ she said.

Izzy looked at her mother amazed, had she not understood or taken-in anything? ‘I hate knitting, you know that,’ Izzy said.

‘Well, sew something then.’

‘I haven’t any material; no-one can get hold of any.’

‘Read those books of yours.’

‘I’ve read them all, five times over. The only new books I can get are in German.’ Then pausing, Izzy added. ‘I could offer my services at the hospital, they want volunteers.’

‘No,’ came her mother’s quick response.

‘Why?’

‘Because you’ll have to be out after curfew.’

‘They’ll give me a pass.’

‘No,’ Hannah snapped. It would mean her daughter being out after dark. She wanted peace of mind. She wanted to know she was safe at home when she finished at the farm.

‘It’s not a very good idea anyway,’ Izzy began to realise. ‘I’d be on my feet all day and probably most evenings. Besides, I’m not that keen on the sight of blood and gore.’ Then rallying herself around, she said, ‘I’m off. Do you want me to call on Aunt Margaret?’

‘Yes, give her these vegetables,’ Hannah replied as she bent down to rummage under the kitchen sink to pull out some carrots, potatoes and parsnips. ‘These should keep her going for a while,’ she said putting them into a basket.

Izzy picked up the basket. ‘Bye,’ she said and she turned towards the door.

‘Izzy: hair,’ Hannah reminded.

‘I know, Mum. Loose hair: loose morals,’ and she left.