Family Divided

by Allen, Anne

  to look outside at the garden, she does. Bless her, it’s all she can do these days. Hasn’t left her room these two

  years past,’ the woman said, shaking her head and leading the way up the oak staircase which looked as if it had

  been lifted from another house and shaped to fit in this one.

  The dark hall was cluttered with ornate antique furniture. Charlotte shuddered mentally. Her mother had her

  faults, but at least she had good taste. As Sal bustled along the landing Charlotte asked her what was wrong with

  Mrs Batiste.

  ‘Old age mainly, but she had a stroke two years ago which took the use of her legs and her left arm.’ She then

  added in a whisper, ‘Broken-hearted she is, too. Lost her beloved son Gregory, not that he was much of a son to

  her, and Harold’s not been what you could call a loving husband, either.’ Sal tapped her nose and winked, leaving

  Charlotte to draw her own conclusions.

  ‘Here we are, Maud, your visitor’s arrived. Shall I bring up a pot of tea for you both?’

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  Charlotte walked into the large, stuffy room which was as cluttered as the hall, taking a moment to realise the

  woman addressed was the tiny figure virtually lost against the cushions in the armchair by the window. She

  moved closer to see a frail woman, whose wispy white hair framed a gaunt face criss-crossed with wrinkles and

  bearing a prominent, hooked nose. Rheumy grey eyes stared back at her.

  ‘Would you like tea, Miss Townsend? Or do you prefer coffee?’ a voice stronger than she expected asked

  politely.

  ‘Tea would be lovely, thank you.’ Sal nodded to them both and left. Charlotte went to shake the old lady’s

  hand, but realised too late the good hand was twisted out of shape in her lap. ‘Oh, I’m sorry–’

  ‘No need. As you can see I can’t shake hands, but please sit down. You’ll have to pull the chair up close so I can

  see and hear you properly.’ Mrs Batiste nodded towards a chair nearby and Charlotte moved it as near as was

  feasible. She saw a little gleam of intelligence in the old eyes and felt sorry for her. Something told her this

  woman had led an unhappy life even before her son died.

  ‘It’s very good of you to see me, Mrs Batiste, giving me the opportunity to talk to people like yourself who

  lived here during the occupation. You must have so many stories to tell,’ she said, smiling.

  The old lady gave a mirthless chuckle. ‘True enough! I agreed to talk to you as I read the first book of Jeanne’s,

  Recipes for Love, I think it was called. Thought it was very good.’ She sighed. ‘My eyes were better then, but now I

  need Sal to read to me. It’s not the same but better than nothing. Anyway, I’m happy to help Jeanne with another

  book if I can.’

  ‘She’s very grateful, I can assure you.’ She crossed her fingers as she said this. Although this woman was the

  “enemy” she hated lying. Even a white lie. ‘What a…lovely house you have, Mrs Batiste. Have you lived here

  long?’

  ‘Thank you. I’ve lived here since I was married, back in ’47, not long before the old man died.’ Her face

  clouded, as if the memory was not a happy one. Whether of the wedding or Neville’s death, or both, Charlotte

  could not be sure. ‘Of course, it wasn’t like it is now. It was just an ordinary farmhouse with cow sheds and the

  dairy and not much else.’ She sniffed. ‘My husband, Harold that is, he wanted to have the biggest, smartest house

  in the area and he was happy to spend his money on it,’ she said, her lips pursed.

  Charlotte was saved from replying by the arrival of Sal with the tea tray. After putting it on a side table she

  said, ‘You can be mother, Miss Townsend, can’t you?’

  She nodded and after making sure Maud needed nothing else, Sal left. Charlotte poured the tea into a china

  cup for her and a child’s beaker for Mrs Batiste, who was able to hold it with her help.

  After allowing time for her to have a drink, Charlotte took out her notepad. She went through the list of

  general questions Jeanne had suggested, before moving on to ask about her own family. Mrs Batiste was happy

  to answer them all, and Charlotte guessed she appreciated someone taking an interest in her life. Only fifteen

  when the Germans arrived, Maud had just left school and helped her parents on their small farm, which adjoined

  that of the Batistes.

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  ‘It’s how Harold and I knew each other, you see. Not that I saw much of him except when there was a local get

  together. He went to the Boys Grammar and I went to the Girls so we only met in the holidays. We began

  courting when we were eighteen, in 1944.’

  ‘Gosh, you have been together a long time, haven’t you?’ Charlotte said, making notes. She cleared her throat.

  ‘Jeanne is particularly keen to learn anything about the local Resistance. Did you know anyone who was a

  member?’

  ‘Well, I knew two who were, for sure. Harold and his brother Edmund.’

  Charlotte’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Oh, that is interesting! Do you remember anything they used to do to

  hamper the Germans?’

  ‘Well, no-one ever told me much about what they did in case I was questioned by the Germans, but I do

  remember Edmund got into trouble once for giving some food to a Polish POW. The Germans wanted to arrest

  him but his father talked them round. Paid them off, more like,’ she said, with a nod.

  ‘That’s odd, I had heard Edmund was an informer and was beaten up and probably killed by a POW.’

  Mrs Batiste seemed to shrink into herself. ‘He was no informer, not Edmund. But…’ She stopped, looking

  nervously around the room. ‘Edmund was a good man, no matter what was said about him.’ She lifted her

  twisted hand as if in emphasis.

  ‘Which is good to hear, Mrs Batiste. It couldn’t have been very pleasant for your husband to have his brother

  accused. And then killed,’ she said, gently.

  The old lady looked down at her lap, as if mesmerised by her twitching fingers.

  ‘No, I suppose not.’ She raised her head and Charlotte noticed tears in her eyes.

  ‘Are you all right? I’m sorry if I’ve brought back bad memories.’

  ‘It’s not your fault, dear. But I am tired and need to rest now. Could you go downstairs and ask Sal to come up,

  please? It’s – it’s been nice to meet you.’

  Charlotte saw pain as well as grief in her face and felt a frisson of shame for pushing her so hard.

  She patted her good arm, saying, ‘Thank you again for talking to me, Mrs Batiste. I’ve really enjoyed meeting

  you. Do take care.’

  Charlotte found Sal in the vast, elaborate kitchen and passed on the message before heading for the front

  door. Once outside she came face to face with the man who could only be Harold.

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  chapter twenty-four

  Charlotte, in spite of her shock, drew herself up and, with a cool “Good Afternoon”, walked past Harold and

  slipped into Louisa’s car before he could say anything. As she turned the car around she saw him standing with

  his mouth open and his hand raised as if to say, “And who are you?” A tall, heavy man, his beady brown eyes

  were like currants amongst his jowls and the thin white hair combed back from his forehead reminded her of

  the Mafia boss from The Godfather. The expensive suit and the big Merc parked beside the garage spoke of a man

  who enjoyed the m
ore expensive things of life. Suppressing a shudder, she drove as fast as she dared down the

  narrow lane and onto the main road. That was not supposed to happen, she told herself. Harold was not due

  back for another hour and she could only be grateful she left when she did. And what would Maud say to him

  when he asked who the visitor was? Trying not to think about it, Charlotte concentrated on driving safely back

  to Louisa’s.

  Once home Charlotte put the kettle on for coffee, the image of Maud’s anguished face alternating with the

  surprised face of Harold in her mind. From what she had heard and seen they seemed to be the antithesis of

  each other, a most unlikely coupling, she thought. Once her coffee was ready she sat down and phoned Andy.

  ‘Hi, it’s me, I’ve just been to see Maud and managed to bump into Harold. Could have been tricky!’ She

  described the interview and her impression of his aunt. ‘Something odd happened when I asked about Harold

  losing his brother, she became quite upset and asked me to leave so she could rest. I definitely touched on a

  nerve and she also said Edmund was no traitor and a kind man. So, what do think?’

  ‘You’re right about it being odd. It might just mean she liked Edmund even though she was Harold’s

  girlfriend. Perfectly normal. Or, she knows something about what happened but won’t say.’ Andy paused, and

  she heard his fingers drumming on something. ‘Either way, it’s interesting stuff and I’m very grateful to you for

  doing this, Charlotte. What’s your take on it?’

  ‘I think she knows something. And if it’s to do with Harold then I can see why she’d be reluctant to say more.

  He looks like a bully and she’s so frail and totally dependent on others and couldn’t risk angering him.’ She

  sighed. ‘Problem is I can’t in all conscience suggest we meet again as she answered all my questions pretty

  thoroughly. We’ll have to hope someone else knows something. The rector did say he’s still asking around so…’

  she said, feeling both excited and deflated at the realisation of how close she may have come to the truth.

  ‘Hmm. So you’ll stay on for the moment?’ His voice was hesitant.

  ‘Of course. I can’t leave while Mother’s here. She’s booked in till the end of the week and I’m not sure if there’s

  a room for her after then. Something to do with a possible cancellation.’

  ‘Does that mean if she leaves at the weekend you’ll go back with her?’

  Charlotte was torn. Her mother did not actually need her at home, having staff around, but it would depend

  how she was feeling.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll think about it once we know what’s happening. Would…would you like me to stay?’

  ‘Of course I would!’ he cried, ‘but you made it clear your life’s in London–’

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  ‘That’s not what I said! I pointed out it was a big decision and something I couldn’t rush. And with my mother

  so ill I can’t plan for the short-term, let alone the long-term. We need to spend more time together to see if we

  have a future as a couple, but with Mother…’ She bit her lip, trying hard to sound more composed than she felt.

  His voice softened. ‘I’m sorry, Charlotte, I’m being unreasonable. But I’m scared if you go back to England

  you’ll forget me and that will be that.’

  ‘It’s not likely to happen, Andy. But you’re not the one contemplating turning their life upside down.’ She felt

  drained, not sure what she wanted any more. Much as she wanted to be with Andy, his insecurity seemed to

  equal her own.

  ‘You’re right. Look, I’ll be busy the next few evenings catching up on work, but if you’d like to go out on

  Thursday I’d love to see you.’

  Charlotte agreed, but thought he could surely have put her before work if she was to return soon to England.

  Did this show he wasn’t as keen about her as he said? Before she had time to dwell on it further, Louisa arrived

  home wanting to know the outcome of the meeting with Maud Batiste.

  On Tuesday morning the rector rang to ask how she had got on with Maud. Charlotte mentioned how Maud had

  become upset at one point and she hoped it was not as a result of her questions. Martin said he would be calling

  round to see her and would ask, but he doubted it. ‘Mrs Batiste is, as you saw, extremely frail and I’ve found her

  quite an emotional lady. I will say you asked after her though. Oh, and the other reason I rang is to pass on the

  names and numbers of two more parishioners who would be happy to talk about the occupation. Do you have a

  pen and paper?’

  Charlotte wrote down the details, perking up at the chance to continue her research. After saying goodbye to

  Martin she made the calls, arranging to see a Mrs Falla that afternoon and a Mr Sebire on Wednesday. Then she

  phoned her mother, and after listening to moans of how bored she was, wished she had not bothered.

  ‘I know there’s not an awful lot to do except swim and walk, but the idea is, Mother, for you to rest. Giving

  your body a chance to heal. How are you feeling, physically?’

  ‘A little better, I suppose. Everyone seems pleased with my progress and I admit I’m well looked after and the

  food is excellent. Did you know the chef’s published a book?’

  Charlotte sighed. ‘Yes, I’m the publisher. And another book will be out soon.’

  ‘Oh! You didn’t tell me. Well, he’s very good. Mrs Combe could learn a thing or two from him…’ Her mother

  continued in this vein for a few moments until Charlotte interrupted to ask if a room was free for the following

  week.

  ‘Not as far as I know. Even if there was I might still go home at the end of the week. Gillian and Paul have

  already said when I leave they will continue supplying me with their remedies.’

  Charlotte’s heart sank. It looked as if she would have to make the difficult decision of whether or not to play

  the dutiful daughter. ‘In which case, Mother, while you are here, would you like me to take you out for a drive?

  See a bit more of Guernsey?’

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  ‘Thank you for the offer, Charlotte, but I’m not one to play the tourist.’

  ‘Fine. But I think you would like St Peter Port, it has a great selection of shops to explore and I’d be happy to

  show you around. We could have lunch or something,’ Charlotte persisted dutifully.

  ‘It might be diverting, although I’m sure it can’t compete with Bond Street. Shall we say Thursday? I have a

  clear morning I believe.’

  They agreed on Thursday morning and Charlotte clicked off the phone with a sigh of exasperation.

  Wondering why she had let herself in for a morning of trailing round shops – and lunch! – with her mother, she

  paced around the garden, her arms flailing. Added to which she did not want to return to England yet, it was too

  soon and she knew her mother would drive her bonkers if they were under the same roof for more than a few

  hours. And she still needed to make time, when her mind was quiet, for her writing. Would it ever happen?

  Aargh! What should she do?

  Mrs Falla lived in a cottage on the road down to Saints Bay and proved to be a chatty, but not particularly

  informative, old lady – unless you wanted to hear tales of Mrs Falla’s problems with her husband and children,

  which Charlotte did not. When she went through the list of questions, Mrs Falla managed to digress to other

  irrelevant subjects and by the time Charlotte le
ft she felt in need of a stiff drink. The thought she might have to

  repeat the whole experience again the next day was depressing.

  That evening Paul joined them for dinner and Charlotte was glad of the chance to talk to him about her

  mother.

  ‘I spoke to Mother today and it seems she will probably leave this weekend. Will she be all right to go home?’

  He gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Your mother’s in no immediate danger, Charlotte, and is definitely stronger

  than when she arrived. But even if she were to leave, we can continue with the supplements, herbs and dietary

  advice, and she could see Gillian in London. Being here does make it easier to keep an eye on her and the

  physical therapies are a great aid to healing. However, I’m not totally convinced Annette wants to put up a fight,

  to be honest…’ Charlotte felt sick. Why wouldn’t her mother want to put up a fight, to live? Surely she hadn’t

  given up? The thought was too awful…

  ‘She’s going through the motions but…’ he shrugged, ‘I’m not sure her heart’s in it. I’ve tried, as has everyone

  else, but she seems to have closed down and, as you know, your mother is a strong-minded lady and not easily

  persuaded. I’m sorry,’ he said, gripping her hand.

  Charlotte, stricken at what his words implied, whispered, ‘I wonder why she bothered to come here and –

  and agree to receive help.’

  ‘For you, Charlotte. She did it for you. Annette comes across as a hard, uncaring lady, and to some extent she

  is, but I believe she does care about you, although she won’t admit it. And I suspect you have mixed feelings

  about her, don’t you?’

  She felt his eyes bore into hers and looked down. ‘Yes, we’ve always had a difficult relationship, and I feel

  guilty for not…loving her enough. I do love her, but I don’t like her very much. Such an awful thing to say.’

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  Charlotte felt tears threaten and grabbed a tissue. Louisa, who had been sitting quietly at the table, threw her