When the Sky Fell Apart (20 page)

Edith had seen the way he'd smiled at the mirror once he had that uniform on. He had looked himself in the eyes and grinned like a doe-eyed, lovesick fool.
That's war
, Edith thought. Men trying to find themselves, searching out some misplaced strength, and they only found it in the mirror once they were dressed in their uniform with a gun.

Edith hoped Frank had found that splinter of himself he had been on the lookout for. She hoped he saw his reflection in some blood-black trench puddle and it made him smile. She hoped he was happy with himself and what he was worth before that bomb came and blew him all to bits.

The nights after they handed her the letter were the worst: she would lie awake for hours, burning up with the wanting of him, skin aflame with the need for
something
. The heat of a body. The chance for a life to blossom within her belly again. In those first years, she'd thought that if he walked in the door smiling and said that they'd made a mistake, it hadn't been him that was killed at all… Well, she thought she'd kill him there and then herself for all that he'd put her through.

Time ticked on and she grew to think that if he walked through her door, after all those aching, empty years and everything that had happened, she wouldn't dream of murder. She'd sit him down and make him a nice cup of tea, and press a kiss into his stubbled cheek. Then she'd sit and tell him how he'd scooped the life from her when he disappeared. Left her hollow and full of echoes. And then she might tread on his toes by accident. Or tip scalding tea into his lap by mistake.

But no more talk of killing. There was too much death and hatred already, Edith thought sadly, without her hurling more fuel on to the blaze.

BY the time the Germans had been on the island a year, Claudine's home was quiet and dark and cold and hungry. Maman stayed in her nightgown much of the time, often growling at Claudine for being bad—talking too loudly, or burning the potatoes, or accidentally letting the door slam and rousing Maman from her grey fog.

‘You
selfish
child,' she snarled. ‘You can see I'm sleeping.'

Claudine smothered her sobs and tried to be good but sometimes it was hard to know what
good
was. Good was quiet, she knew that, so she thought of rabbits—how they made themselves small and still and silent.

When she could, Claudine spent time with Maurice. He showed her how to braid broken fishing rope and debone a fish, even before it was cooked. Sometimes, when she sat next to him, watching the shimmering fish scales peel away like scattered sunlight under his knife, she could imagine he was Papa.

When Maurice first started going to Edith's house, Claudine thought she should stop seeing him, because Edith was a horrid old woman and Maman would be angry if she knew Claudine was there. But then she started to wonder if perhaps Maman's black moods made monsters from thin air.

Last year, Claudine had watched Maman scream at Edith and bundle her from the house and slam the door. Maman had called Edith ‘that interfering old witch' and Claudine had nodded because grown-ups knew best. But then Claudine remembered more and more the way Maman had shouted at Francis and drawn her hand back to strike him, simply for crying. And Claudine recalled how soft and warm Edith had always been, the gentle lull of her voice, the rumble of laughter in her chest when Claudine squeezed her in a tight embrace, the smile that tugged her mouth upwards whenever she looked at the children. Once the black cloud in Maman's head lifted, Claudine hoped she might understand why she was seeing Edith again. Until then, she crept from the house and didn't mention Edith's name.

Claudine liked helping to care for Marthe. She wasn't frightening, not really. She reminded Claudine of a newborn calf, with her big liquid eyes and the way she trembled and moaned, as if life itself was a terror. Claudine kissed her cheeks and brushed her hair and told her stories. They liked
Little Red Riding Hood
best. Maurice and Edith listened too. Claudine was a good girl, they said to each other, smiling.

Maurice was late back from fishing one day. Edith was humming under her breath, but worry scrabbled in Claudine's gut just the same—she could see the fear in the deep creases around Edith's eyes and her mouth.

When Maurice finally returned, it was nearly dark.

‘Where on earth have you been?' Edith snapped. ‘We were worried sick. Imagining all sorts.'

He was soaking, his hair plastered to his head. His skin was the greyish-blue of a drowned man.

He collapsed in a chair and covered his face with his hands. ‘Two soldiers stranded today,' he mumbled. ‘Went out looking for limpets—fools were cut off by the tide.'

Edith gaped. ‘What happened?'

‘They were seen, of course. Germans took a boat out to pick them up. I had to hide in a cove until the boat was gone. Sorry to have worried you.'

‘No bother, you're safe. That's what matters.'

His eyes were weary. ‘I watched them for almost an hour, sitting on that rock. The water was creeping higher—they were panicking. Couldn't swim a stroke, I shouldn't wonder.' He gave a thin smile. ‘I was hoping they'd drown.'

Claudine frowned. ‘Didn't you want to rescue them?' It was confusing to her, the sort of anger that would let a good man like Maurice watch two terrified men drown.

His thin smile grew. ‘Not a bit of it. If every single one of the soldiers on this island drowned, all twelve thousand of them, I'd be happy.'

‘What about the good ones?'

‘There aren't any good ones.'

‘But you don't
know
any of them.'

‘No, I don't. And I've no wish to. And you'd be best to keep away from them too. Wouldn't trust them an inch.'

Claudine flushed. He must know she was still spending time with Gregor. She felt a flash of alarm—what if Edith knew too? What if she thought Claudine was bad and foolish?

But then she felt a miserable sort of rage: everybody was angry with her for being friends with a soldier; they all thought her dim-witted and a silly little girl, but none of them
knew
Gregor. Why couldn't they understand, or at least try? Frustration made her voice shrill.

‘But they're
kind
, some of them. They're real people. Just like us.'

Maurice laughed. Cold, hard sound, like a stone thudding against a brick wall.

‘Bless you, but you're a simpleton, Claudine. They are
nothing
like us. I'm sure of it. How many countries have we invaded, eh? How many people have you killed today, child?'

He wasn't being fair but she couldn't find the words to explain it, not when he didn't want to understand.

‘Not all of them are like that! Some of them are kind.'

‘I suppose this is about that soldier of yours, eh?' he said, angrily. ‘The one you've made friends with?'

Claudine glanced at Edith's shocked face, hoping to see a glimmer of sympathy, but Edith was silent.

‘You're a hare-brained child,' Maurice said, ‘and you'll end up hurt. If I were your papa, I wouldn't be letting you out of the house.'

‘But you're
not
,' she snapped. ‘My papa is fighting and you're
not
. So you
can't
tell me what to do!'

Edith gasped. ‘
Enough
, both of you! What's all this about a soldier, Claudine?'

Claudine hesitated. Edith would understand, surely?

‘His name is Gregor and he is good,
truly
, he is.'

‘But…a German soldier? Maurice is right, my love, it's foolishness to mix with them.'

‘He's not just a soldier. He's my
friend
.' She knew her voice sounded wheedling but she couldn't help it.

Edith sat next to her and took her hand. The older woman's fingers were rough but her tone was gentle.

‘I think you should stay with your own kind, child. It's safer. Who knows how far you can trust a soldier? I don't want you to get yourself into trouble.'

Claudine felt an ache of frustration:
none
of the grown-ups understood about the Germans. They'd made up their minds about every soldier, without knowing a single thing about them.

She said, very softly. ‘You've never met him.'

‘I don't need to meet him,' Maurice growled. ‘He's German, isn't he? They're all monsters—'

‘No need for that.' Edith held up her hand. ‘The child is upset as it is.' She turned back to Claudine, pulled her in close and kissed her hair. ‘You, my love, are a sweet, kind, trusting girl. And I'm afraid that a soldier might want to…hurt you somehow—'

‘He hasn't ever hurt me. He wouldn't—'

‘All the same, it's a risk, isn't it, my love? For all of us. And you know we want to keep Marthe hidden. What if this soldier follows you here?'

Claudine wanted to say that it wouldn't matter if he did; he would never harm them. But they wouldn't understand and so she bit her lip and nodded, miserably.

Edith kissed her again.

‘Good girl. Almost time to listen to the wireless. Let's treat ourselves to some coffee. I'm trying acorns and sugar beet today.'

The coffee was hot and bitter. As Claudine sipped, she tried to forget what Maurice had said.

Gregor. A monster.

It didn't stop her spending time with him.

The only time Gregor wasn't jolly was when he had been working at night, guarding the
Häftlinge
from Russia and Spain and Poland in the prisoner-of-war camp. On those days he was quiet, his face pouchy and grey. Sometimes his ruined hand was redder than usual, or swollen—as if the shiny skin had been poked or twisted.

There were lots of prisoners for Gregor to care for, more of them all the time; they were part of Hitler's grand plan. When he felt like talking, Gregor told Claudine that there was work to do in Jersey, like building big walls in case the English soldiers tried to invade. Hitler wanted to construct an enormous wall that went all the way along all the parts of Europe he owned, and since the Channel Islands were going to be the most important part of that, they had to be well fortified. That was why the Germans needed so many prisoners of war, and why guarding them was such an important job.

Other times, when he was in a better mood, he told her silly stories. ‘Sit here.' He would pat the sand next to him. ‘A long time ago…'

Gregor's voice changed when he was telling stories: it was deeper but softer, and it made her think of warm, orange firelight, in spite of the cold, silver light that rebounded off the grey sea.

Her favourite story was called
The Golden Key,
and Gregor told it in an exciting and mysterious voice which always made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

‘A long time ago, in winter, there is snow. Much snow, very cold. There is a boy, very poor. His Mama send him into the forest. He must find wood for make the fire. He has find the wood, but he is very cold, this poor boy. So he stop and make the fire in the forest. First, he must make the ground clean of snow and leaves. He cleans the ground, this poor boy. He scratch with his cold fingers and you cannot guess what he finds…'

Claudine was always breathless as a small child, even though she had heard the story many times.

‘What did he find?'

Gregor grinned. ‘A key! Golden and very small. And this poor boy, he think,
There must be a box for this key!
So he dig and find a metal box. He think,
There must be much treasure in this box. I hope this key fit!
And it does!'

‘And was there treasure?' Claudine giggled.

Gregor always turned to her with a mischievous chuckle. ‘We cannot tell. We must wait for this boy to open the box so we can know what is inside.'

Claudine laughed. She loved the story; it had no answer and no real ending. She loved it even more when, one day, Gregor buried a little key and a box in the sand for her to find. The key didn't fit the box—in fact, the box had no keyhole at all.

Gregor shrugged apologetically. ‘It is the only box I can find. It is for bullets.'

Claudine went to open it. ‘But it doesn't have bullets in it now?'

He shrugged; his eyes twinkled. ‘We do not know until we open. What should be in this box?'

She set it down on the sand and they stared at it while Claudine tried to think of the things she wanted most in the world. None of them would have fitted into the box.

When they were hungry, Claudine went to find cockles or to collect crabs from the rock pools. They tasted muddy and sour, not like
Chancre
crabs or
Araignye de mer
. But there was no chance of catching
Chancres
because they had all crawled into fishermen's pots or been gobbled by soldiers.

Cockles were Claudine's favourites but most of them had been eaten. So they pried limpets from the rocks with Gregor's knife. They were very chewy; sometimes she had to swallow them without chewing at all because the limpet bouncing off her teeth made her stomach twist. It was slimy when it slid down her throat, like a snail.