The Book of Ebenezer le Page (48 page)

I decided I would go by Les Rouvets and make for the King's Mills; and then I could cut through St Saviour's and come out on Rocquaine not far from Liza's house. It would be shorter than going round the coast. I don't know how it was I lost my way in broad daylight on roads I had been along dozens of times with Jim. My legs was so weak they was like water, and my head was going round. The traffic terrified me. Great lorries full of Germans was tearing along the roads on the wrong side, if they was on any side at all; and there was one narrow road by St George's with a high wall one side and a thick hedge the other and no footpath, and Jerries on motorbikes coming hell-for-leather round the corner. I thought I was going to be killed.

It was already afternoon by the time I got to the King's Mills: I had to sit down so many times on the way. I went by way of the lanes to Sous L'Église, which wasn't so bad, and there I had to have another rest. There was nobody living in Jim's old house, and some of the windows was broken; but there was heath growing back and front. When I got on my feet again, I really thought I wouldn't be able to go any further; but it wasn't as far to go on as to go back. It wasn't any distance to speak of; but I got into a muddle once more, and lost my way several times. In the end I came out at Les Adams, when I had meant to come down the Coudré, and so I had to walk the whole round of Rocquaine Bay. It was evening when I knocked on Liza's door.

She opened it with a smile on her face. For a moment, I thought almost she was expecting me; but when she saw who it was, she looked as if she was seeing a ghost. She put her hands to her face and gave a scream; and backed into the room. I was left on the doorstep. I couldn't understand it. I had never known Liza frightened before, and why should she be frightened of me? I felt I was going to fall, and hung on to the doorpost. ‘Can I come in, please?' I said. ‘Yes, come in, come in!' she said. I don't remember quite, but I think I got to a chair. I know when I came round, I was sitting down and she had shut the door, and was standing by me with a glass of something. ‘Drink this,' she said, ‘you are not well.' I took a sip, and felt better. ‘I'll make you some tea,' she said. She lit the lamp and drew the black curtains. It was getting dark outside. I couldn't for the life of me think what I was doing there.

I was looking round the room; and it was much the same as I remembered from when I was in it before. The same brass ornaments was on the top of the cabinet; but then I noticed my Guernsey milk-can wasn't there, and found myself staring at a radio-set on the dresser. I couldn't believe my eyes. Anybody who had a radio-set those days kept it well hidden out of sight, or they might end up in prison, or even in a camp in France or Germany. Nellie Hamelin from Les Mielles kept theirs hidden in a clothes basket under a load of filthy washing. She said the Germans would never find it, because they didn't like to dirty their hands. Liza didn't seem to care if they saw it. She wasn't afraid of the Germans; or perhaps she had no reason to be.

She was wearing a very nice black and white frock. It was simple but good; and looked new. Tabitha was having to do up her old dresses to try and keep neat, until they was practically nothing but mends. I couldn't take my eyes off Liza. She was moving about the room, laying the table; but she wouldn't look at me. I noticed she was wearing good black suède shoes. Her hair was still the bright colour it had always been, but I didn't think the colour was quite natural. My hair had a lot of grey in it by then. Her face was made up, though not much; but she had never made up before, hadn't needed to: only put on a little powder now and then. She was getting ready a meal of cold sausages of some sort, and bread and butter; and the kettle was boiling on the terpid over a log fire. She made the tea and poured me out a cup; and sat down on the bench facing me, drinking hers. It was real tea, not blackberry leaves; and with real sugar in it. I was beginning to think awful things about Liza. I said, ‘That is a smart frock you got on. Where d'you get it from?' She said, ‘Fritz brought it to me from Paris.' ‘Who is Fritz?' I said. ‘My friend over the hill,' she said.

It was a jab, but I let it pass. The tea was making me feel better; and I knew now what I had come for. ‘Where is Raymond?' I said. She said, ‘Finish your tea; and then we'll talk.' I sat there and ate her food. I am ashamed to say it now. I ate very slowly, so as not to upset my tummy, for the least thing would upset my tummy, if I wasn't careful. The sausages was good, and I enjoyed them, though I knew damn well they was German; and I had a second cup of tea. When she had cleared the table, we pulled up chairs and sat one on each side of the fire. I couldn't help thinking how anybody coming in would have taken us for a married couple. ‘Now I want to know everything,' I said. ‘Why isn't Raymond here? Where is he?' ‘I don't know where Raymond is,' she said, ‘and don't look at me like that, Ebenezer Le Page! I wouldn't have let anyone hurt a hair of his head to save my own life! I am not the one who told that cousin of his where he was.' ‘Horace came, then?' I said. ‘Horace came,' she said. ‘God damn his soul to hell!'

He had come and knocked as I had knocked, but earlier in the afternoon. He had had to walk it as I had; but he hadn't taken all day to get there. He was fit and strong, was Horace. Liza hadn't been expecting Fritz, as when I arrived; so didn't go to the door. Raymond opened it. ‘Look, who is here!' he called out. ‘Horace! Horace, my cousin!' He pulled him into the room. ‘Who let you know where I was?' he asked. ‘I asked Ebenezer,' said Horace. ‘I thought I'd walk over and see how you are.' ‘He asked, he asked!' said Raymond. ‘Listen to that, Liza! He asked of his own accord! He has walked all the way from the Effards to see how I am! I was right about God! I was always right about God!' He was mad with joy. ‘The big one was as bad,' said Liza. He wouldn't let go of Raymond. They sat close together on the bench against the wall, like two children. ‘I was nowhere,' she said. They nudged each other and laughed and made noises. ‘They seemed to understand what they meant,' she said. ‘I didn't.'

Raymond said, ‘Come on now, Liza: get Horace some grub!' He had never spoken to her like that before. He had never given her an order in her own house the whole time he was living there. She got ready a meal for the two of them. It was fried bacon, of all things; and the one precious egg. Raymond made her give it to Horace. Horace put half on Raymond's plate. She was too angry to have anything herself. After they had gorged all the bread and butter, and drunk cups and cups of tea, they let her clear away and didn't even offer to help. ‘They sat there like two stuffed pigs!' she said. She was wondering if Horace was ever going to think of going home. At last he got up and said, ‘How about a stroll to the end, eh Raymond?' ‘Are you mad?' she said. That entire corner of the island was cut off from Guernsey people. It was heavily mined. Besides, it was getting dark, and the patrols was on the go, she said. ‘Easy to dodge those boys,' said Horace. ‘They go by clockwork.' ‘For God's sake, go home at once!' she said, ‘or stop the night, if you must; but keep indoors! I can hide you upstairs, if anybody comes.' Horace didn't bother to answer. She mightn't have spoken. ‘Let's go as far as the two big rocks,' he said to Raymond, ‘I want to see the Hanois light.' ‘It isn't lit!' she screamed at them. ‘Isn't that just like two fools of men: to go and look for a light that isn't there!' Horace flung the door open, and stood with his fist up, the big fool. ‘It will be lit again!' he said. ‘Guernsey is our island, not theirs; and we will go where we like on it! Coming, Raymond?' ‘Anywhere you say,' said Raymond. They was out and across the road and down the slipway. That was the last she saw of them.

‘I was hoping against hope they got back safe to the Effards,' she said, ‘until I saw you at the door.' ‘Well, what was the end, Liza?' I said. ‘I tell you I don't know!' she said. They couldn't have got away in a boat, because there were no fishing boats left at Portelet: they all went out from the Town Harbour. The two hadn't been out of the house five minutes when Fritz came. He liked to listen to Tommy Handley. The first thing he asked was where Raymond was. She said he was up in his room asleep: he was tired. Fritz said he hoped the wireless wouldn't wake him, and turned it on low. They sat and listened to it. There had already been several explosions on the mined parts of the cliffs, and people was getting used to hearing them. Usually it was rabbits who had set the mines off. That night there was an explosion shook the house. Fritz laughed. ‘Another rabbit gone to meet his Maker!' he said. Liza hoped Fritz would go early, as he did if he was on duty; but he stayed the night. She had to endure it. She dare not tell him what she was afraid of. When two days later he came again and in the day-time, she could bear the uncertainty no longer. She broke down and told him how she had lied to him about Raymond being upstairs; and what had really happened. He wasn't angry with her, but sympathetic; for he was fond of Raymond. He said he would make enquiries without giving anybody away. The day before I came, he had been in again to see Liza, and said a mine had gone off between the two big rocks. There was no saying what had caused it. If Raymond and Horace had happened to have touched the fuse by standing on it, they would have been blown to pieces in the sea. There was blood on the stones below.

It wasn't Liza to blame, God knows; but I had to blame somebody. I called her by every foul name I could lay my tongue to. I said things can never, never be forgiven. ‘I suppose your Nazi friend is ten foot tall!' I said. ‘He is no taller than you are,' she said, ‘but he is less of a Nazi than you are! He is better-natured, he is kinder than you are, you strutting little bantam cock! Get out of my house, get out! Go back to where you come from, cock of the north!' The last I saw of her face, and the last I will ever see, was with her mouth twisted in such hate I thought she was going to spit at me. I got out. It was pitch-black outside. There wasn't a star in the sky; there wasn't a light from any house. At first I couldn't see my hand in front of my face, or tell where the road was; but then I made out the galley wall, and could hear the sea on the other side. I walked home. I don't know where I got the strength from. I wasn't tired any more. I turned up the Coudré and could just see the footpath and the hedge, and the shapes of the houses. I kept to the main roads and didn't lose my way. I walked right across the island that dark night: hour after hour, and I didn't meet a soul; yet the place was thick with people.

I don't suppose at any time before, or since, have there been so many people living on this island. There was thousands of German soldiers and workers, and thousands of slaves of all nations; and there was the thousands of us, who was supposed to be shut up for the night in our cold houses, like animals in holes. I passed houses where I knew there was Germans living; for I could hear them shouting and singing, and sometimes saw a torn curtain and a glimmer of light. I passed houses I didn't know if there was anybody living in or not, and some I could see was empty wrecks. I didn't creep and crawl, as if I was on the prowl, but stamped my feet hard on the road. There was not a Guernseyman hearing me would have thought another Guernseyman was passing. I walked as if I owned the island. I wanted to meet a German. I wanted to be met and stopped. There was murder in my heart. I didn't mean to answer any questions. I didn't mean to give any reasons or excuses for why I was out. It would be him, or me; and I didn't care if it was me. Why did they keep out of my way? Why was the way left open? I didn't even meet a thief. I got right to Pleinheaume before my rage cooled down; and then I thought of Tabitha.

I hadn't thought of Tabitha once all day. It was hours after midnight, and she would be by herself in that lonely house. I suddenly felt very tired. I began to wonder if I could possibly make my legs go any further; or if I would drop down on the road where I was. I would have fallen asleep. I mustn't. I felt then as if I was made of air and floating; but I hung on to my wits somehow. I had the sense to remember I mustn't get back to Les Moulins by the front way, in case I met my old friend, the patrol, peddling his bike. When I got to the Chouey, I made my way up round behind the quarry. I knew to an inch without really being able to see it where the edge was. Les Moulins was in darkness. I got over Percy's wall and round the greenhouse and reached the back door. I expected Tabitha to be in bed and the door locked. I had a key, but I tried the handle in case. It was not locked. I went in the wash-house and locked it behind me. I saw a light through the key-hole of the kitchen door. I opened the door quietly, expecting to find Tabitha asleep in her chair. She was sitting by one candle, sewing a patch on the seat of a pair of my old pants from some of the rags Raymond had left behind. ‘I thought I would wait up for you,' she said. I saw how grey her hair was, and how thin her face and her body; and she had been a well-made little woman. I was overcome by a feeling of homage for my sister. I knelt in front of her: and she is the only woman I have ever knelt to; and I bowed my head in her lap. She didn't know why I did it; for Tabitha, of all people, would have been the last to imagine anybody could ever pay her homage. She stroked my neck, as once my mother had done. ‘Are you hurt?' she said. I said, ‘Raymond and Horace are killed, and my lovely Liza is a jerry-bag.'

The visitors who come over to Guernsey nowadays know more about the German Occupation than I do. They have read the books. They know exactly what happened and what didn't, and the whys and the wherefores, and who was wrong and who was right. I don't. There are those who say, ‘Oh, you poor things! It must have been an awful time,' and I say, ‘Well, it was, and it wasn't.' There are those who say, ‘After all, you didn't have such a bad time hob-nobbing with the Germans,' and I say, ‘Well, some did, and some didn't.' I didn't hob-nob with the Germans. I made one German friend; and I am not ashamed of it. For the rest, I tried to toe the line. I didn't go out of my way to make it easy for the Germans, but I didn't do anything likely to get myself into trouble: except once or twice. Mind you, I didn't like having the creatures here, but that wasn't so much because they was Germans, as because they was the bosses. I don't take to bosses, as a rule, be they German, or English. Or Guernsey.