But he owed it to Geoffrey.
For how had this Barbara woman come across Dora Simon’s photograph, if she didn’t have something that might be of interest to the old man?
He heard a car slow, change gear, turn the corner, enter the end of the lane. He looked at his watch, a newfangled digital Casio which showed the date as well as the time. It was too early for Pierre. He cupped his ear towards the distant murmur. He used to know the make of every car from the sound the engine made. But this car. He listened hard. It was one of those cheap imported jobs, from Italy or Japan. Ran on wound-up rubber bands, sniggered. Pierre had a Land Rover, a sturdy diesel number that brayed like a deer in rut. Nor was it the inspector’s car. That was a Ford. He didn’t want the inspector out, not today. Besides, it was a Sunday. No inspector worked Sundays.
The cry of a curlew broke the quiet. Joe dropped the halter, lifted his binoculars, trained them to the cliff edge, left, right, up, down. Crou-eee, crou-eee, the bird was howling like a pup. Curlews were common enough round here, but he still thrilled to see them. There she was. Silhouetted, and the sky full of tubby clouds with blown-out cheeks. Fair weather. Some clouds were angels, high in the icy heavens, willowy and graceful, others puckered like wet skin. But cumulus, they were his friends, even when they blocked the sun and shrouded the blue. They were no threat.
He followed the bird as it glided across the sky. Up there were thermals that wings caught and floated on. Did they swim in the air for joy, for the pleasure of the wind blowing through the dappled feathers, stroking the skin? The curlew’s long, curved beak and its outstretched legs made a crescent in the sky, but on land its beak looked too long for its head. Like Pinocchio’s nose. Was a curlew a liar too?
Joe had watched the birds for as long as he could remember. Awake with the light, he’d gazed through the attic window from the bed he shared as a child with his brothers and sisters until the girls got too old. They’d shove him close to the glass so he caught the draughts, but it was worth it. He had a ringside seat of the Owenmore estuary as the gannets and the petrels dipped and circled, their cries like the calls of old friends. He knew who was out there and why. He cherished those dawns.
‘Just look at you,’ little Bridey, the sister nearest to him, said. ‘No bigger than a sparrow yourself. Would you want to fly away with them?’
Yes, he wanted to say. Yes. Their daidí was a hard man. Never gave a thought for Joe, unless there was a fist behind it.
The bird dived below the cliff as Joe trained the binoculars on the house. The car came into view, bumped across the pitted farmyard and stopped outside the front door. From where he stood on the slope, he couldn’t be seen. Handy, he could check the visitor before he need show himself.
It was a while before the door opened and a woman stepped out. Her back was towards him but he could see that she was dressed in a plaid coat and a purple beret. Not from round these parts. She went into the porch, knocked at the door. You’re wasting your time. He used to hope little Bridey would come knocking, but now, after all these years, if she did, he’d say the same to her. You’re wasting your time. The woman was bending low, peering through the letter box. Much good may it do her. The plywood he’d nailed over the opening stopped the busybodies as well as the draughts. She wouldn’t see a thing. Besides, local people knew that they never used the front door, hadn’t since the war. Knew also that the old man inside was as deaf as a post.
The woman turned back to the car. It had to be that Hummel woman. If it was him she was after, she’d have to come back another day. Now was not convenient.
She walked away from the car, through the farmyard. There was a path at the end that led down the cliffs onto the beach below. Strange to be dressed up with a hat and all, to go walking on the beach. He hoped she wouldn’t be long. Pierre would be here soon. They’d wake up the old man and get the business started.
Betsy was grazing, pulling at the grass so it screamed, flicking her tail over her dun, worn hide. She jumped as he came close, kicked up her hooves and skittered away.
‘Betsy girl,’ he said. ‘Don’t make it hard.’ He fished in his pocket for the lump of salt and held out his hand. She walked towards him, one slow hoof at a time, smelled him with wet nostrils, curled her tongue and rasped it over his hand. She bucked as he pulled the halter over her, tried to run away, but he held firm.
‘I may be small,’ he said. ‘But I’m still strong.’ For wasn’t he the bantamweight champion of Ireland, even if it was before the war? But what would Betsy know of that?
He led her down the field and through the gate. He’d get her bedded down before Pierre came, calm and quiet so fear didn’t taint her meat. Pierre wasn’t due for an hour or so, and the woman would be gone by then. And even if she wasn’t, Pierre liked his drop of Jameson before he did his business, as well as after, and the old man always had a nip with him, so she had time to walk to St Brélade’s and back for all he knew.
It was inconvenient of the woman to leave her vehicle here, as if it was a public car park. He led Betsy past her car, into the barn. He’d prepared her stall, the single chute at the end with the head gate that he used to keep a cow steady for impregnating. Nothing was done nature’s way anymore and though it was a messy job, sticking your arm up the animal’s backside and feeling around inside, he had to admit it had more chances of success than running a randy bull with an unwilling cow. He’d secure Betsy later, when Pierre was here. For now, she had the freedom of her stall, with fresh hay to eat and water to drink, clean straw to bed on and the familiar smells and sounds of home.
She’d be content there. Betsy had served him well, and hadn’t he been kind to her? He owed her this. He’d learned how to slaughter from his father, and butcher the beasts. He put up a new salt block. She walked towards it and curled her tongue around its edge, licks rough as a file, a line of drool falling from her mouth.
‘Enjoy it, Betsy,’ he said. ‘Enjoy.’
He walked back out and over to the car. A Toyota. It was hired, he could tell by the number plate. He tried the driver’s door. It opened. Inside was empty and clean, freshly valeted. If she had a bag, she’d taken it with her. He leaned over and opened the glove compartment. A duster. A log. He pulled it out. Avis, service history. If she didn’t come back soon, he’d give them a ring, tell them it was causing an obstruction.
He slammed the door shut and set off towards the cliff. There was still some time before Pierre was due. She was most likely on the beach. He’d ask her to move her car somewhere else.
Most of the path had eroded into scree, slippery unless you knew how to walk it. Joe took firm, even steps, flat onto the sole of his boot, like he had done as an altar boy on the Saints’ Road, up the Brandon Mountain, Holy Mary Mother of God. The voyagers’ saint was Brendan, a Kerry man.
His binoculars hung round his neck. Zeiss lens, picked up at the end of the war, victors’ spoils. He’d had them now for over forty years, and they weren’t new then. Best glasses he’d ever had, even better than the Dollands. They’d see him out now, the adjuster as sensitive as ever and the lenses pristine, without a scratch.
He jumped the last two feet or so onto the rock – how that woman got down was anyone’s guess – and strode out across the sand. Strange that he couldn’t see the woman anywhere. She must have walked fast, and far.
Joe clambered back up the cliff and walked behind the barn to where his caravan was parked. He’d never felt right about living in the house, not since the war, even though he kept it draught-free and in good repair. He’d even put in a bathroom for the old man, with an indoor lavatory, bought the toilet paper once a month from the cash and carry. He checked on him three times a day, got him his meals and sat with him of an evening, used the house to take a bath twice a week. But the old man couldn’t hear a thing, so talk was hard, and what could they say to each other now, after all these years? Better he stayed in his caravan with his sunken memories and shattered dreams and the old man lived i
n the house with his.
He kicked off his wellington boots and stepped with stockinged feet into his van. He doubted it was roadworthy now, but then he wouldn’t want to go anywhere. It was too large for the lanes of Jersey and had caused enough difficulty when he’d brought it down the road and manoeuvred it in place. He’d broken up the old Streamlite that he’d bought after the war with a sad heart, for it had stood him well. But thirty years was a good life for a caravan, and the Knowsley Juno that he had now was better for all-year living with its styrofoam insulation and double-glazed windows. He eased himself into the corner seat and picked up a copy of yesterday’s Evening Post.
He turned back to the letter. There was a PTO at the bottom and an arrow. He flicked the paper over.
PS My mother had some connection with Jersey and has various mementos from that time, including some newspaper reports. Were you also known as the ‘pugilist priest’, Father Joe O’Cleary, boxing champion in 1943? It would be too much of a coincidence to have a Joseph and a Joe O’Cleary on that tiny island!
Well. He might have something to say about that.
CHAPTER THREE
DORA
Jersey: February 1942 – January 1943
The phone call came through late that afternoon and there was no one but Dora to take it. Duty midwife. She’d have to brave it and venture out. It had been nearly two years since the Germans had occupied the place, but she’d never got used to them. It got worse, if anything. Borrowed time. She should have listened to Uncle Otto. ‘Don’t go. You’re safe in London.’ He had been right on that. ‘Why don’t you settle down? Charles has a soft spot for you.’ He’d winked. ‘He’ll go far.’
‘I’m young, Uncle Otto,’ she’d said. ‘I want to enjoy myself.’
He’d huffed and puffed, but he’d never married, so why force her? Jersey was far more inviting. Dancing and singing, sun and sea while London hunkered down with its ARP wardens and Anderson shelters. Where was the danger in Jersey?
What if the Germans were here to stay, like they said? The ‘Thousand-year Reich’.
The wind was dancing like a dervish, thrashing the sea up against the promenade. Dora headed out across the island with her medical bag, head down low over the handlebars, against the storm. It was a farmhouse, she was told, La Ferme de l’Anse. This was not a part of the island she knew well, but the caller had insisted this was an emergency. The phone went dead before she could find out more.
Clouds banked grey and heavy behind the hills. A fork of lightning cleaved them apart and thunder thumped the ground. The clouds rolled closer and rain began to fall in large, thick gobs. Dora could barely see. Some of the road signs were now in German but the caller had used local names and Dora wasn’t always sure. She had no idea what the emergency was about. Hoped it was just the usual panic of the father, ‘come quick, my wife’s in labour’, as if his wife was the first woman to have a child.
Dora wished she had a torch. The rain was thick, the dusk inky. Hedges were gashed apart, trees bent double. And over. A sycamore with a broken back and jagged roots filled the road in front of her and she came to a stop. She would have to turn, approach the farm from another direction, but it was too murky and wet to read the map and it would be easy to make a mistake in the labyrinth of lanes. An emergency. Behind her she heard the scream of a branch, its slow agony as it ripped from its trunk, its roar as it plummeted and fell with a thud onto the road.
She left her bike by the side of the road, grabbed her bag, pushed her way through the tree ahead, twigs and branches snagging at her legs and cape. The wind lifted and propelled her forward, faster than she could run, so she stumbled, caught herself before the gale laid her flat. She had memorised this last part, straight on and right, left and right again. The evening was made darker by thick ebony clouds. There’d be no light in the farmhouse, not with the blackout, and Dora wasn’t sure she’d find it on a night like this.
Her cape and skirt hung in sodden swags, stuck to her body, wrapped round her legs, making walking hard. Head down deep and shoulder to the wind, she saw the bobbing light of a torch and then there was a woman’s hand on her elbow.
‘Thank God, nurse, thank God.’
She followed the woman into the farmhouse, through the kitchen, up the stairs. The house was cold and unlit, save for an oil lamp in the bedroom.
A man sat on the edge of the bed, rocking a woman in his arms. He was lowing, like a wounded beast. Dora went over, lifted the woman’s swollen hand. There was no pulse.
She freed the body from his embrace, laid it on the bed, fished the torch from her pocket, lifted a puffy eyelid and stared into the glassy vacuum. Delved into her bag for her Pinard horn, even though she already knew the baby would be dead.
‘She was having fits.’ His voice quivered, his face haggard in the glow from the lamp. ‘Stomach pains.’
‘We rang as soon as we could,’ the other woman said. ‘But the lines were down. We had to go into St Martin.’
‘Put the kettle on,’ Dora said. ‘Bring me some warm water and make some tea.’ She turned to the man. ‘Do you have more lights?’
‘The electricity’s gone,’ he said. ‘The storm–’
‘Do you have more lights?’
‘In the shed,’ he said. ‘With the cows.’
‘Fetch them.’
Dora took the lamp and placed it closer to the woman, touched the chalky skin and felt the chill of death. Rigor mortis had not yet set in. Her limbs and face were bloated, stomach bulbous with her unborn child, her hip bones sharp and angular against her flesh. Fits. Pains. Oedema. Pre-eclampsia. There was little she could have done even if she had arrived earlier, and the baby, that little frog of a child, dead within her. She was, Dora noted, young.
The man returned with two storm lanterns, and the woman came in with a pot of tea.
‘Give it to him,’ Dora said. ‘Sweeten it, if you can.’ She took one of the lamps, laid it by the bed. ‘What was your wife’s name?’
‘She–’ he broke off, swallowed. ‘Margaret,’ he said. ‘Margaret.’
‘And yours?’
‘Geoffrey.’ His voice was flat. ‘Geoffrey Laurent.’
‘I am so sorry, Mr Laurent,’ Dora said.
‘A doctor came this morning,’ Geoffrey went on. ‘Said the baby wasn’t due for a couple of months and there was nothing to worry about.’ He stood, a lantern in one hand, and began to sob, clasping his free hand across his eyes. ‘She had a headache. He told her to take an aspirin.’
He was a big man, farmer’s muscles, labourer’s hands. Dora walked round the bed and took the lantern from him. Shudders of grief convulsed his body. She wanted to put her arms round him and pull him close and let him weep it free against her shoulder.
There was nothing to do except clean and wash the body and lay it out ready for the undertaker. She’d start the formalities tomorrow. The man was not in a condition to understand any of that now. He slumped in the chair by the bed, elbows on knees, fists balled tight, staring with glassy eyes at the young woman.
‘Nurse,’ the woman said. ‘I have to go. Get back to my husband. He’s not well, you know.’
‘That’s fine,’ Dora said. ‘I’ll stay with him awhile.’
The woman tiptoed out of the room, as if Margaret was sleeping.
‘Mr Laurent.’ Dora kept her voice low. ‘You’d be more comfortable downstairs. I’ll light the fire.’
He shook his head again. ‘The cows,’ he said. ‘Milking.’
He pushed back in the chair, stood up and left the room. Dora heard his steps on the wooden stairs, the thrash of the outside door as the storm slammed it shut.
Dora washed the woman, changed her into a clean nightdress, combed the hair and laid her arms across her stomach. She drew the sheet up and over.
It was nine o’clock by the time she went downstairs, lighting her way with the lantern. The man was sitting on a chair by the kitchen range, his hands on the armrests, still as death. The
gale was screeling round the chimney, blasting draughts through the gaps in the windows and under the door. She wouldn’t make it back by curfew. She’d have to stay the night, push the chairs together for a bed. At least the kitchen was warm, the stove giving off a deep, steady heat.
‘Mr Laurent,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you should go to bed. Get some sleep.’
His breathing was slow and ponderous, as if the gale had blown away the oxygen in the house. His eyes were heavy and his cheeks lined with pain.
‘She was going to christen the baby William, if it was a boy,’ he said. ‘Billy, for short.’
‘That’s a nice name,’ Dora said. There was a grandfather clock in the hall filling the silence of the house, tock, tock.
‘And if it was a girl,’ she said. ‘What were you going to call her?’
‘Dorothy,’ he said. ‘Dotty, for short.’
‘My name is Dorothy.’ Dorothea, but she didn’t say that. ‘My father always called me Dora.’
‘Dora,’ he said. ‘I like that.’
Tock, tock.
There were some logs in a basket. She fed the Aga. The hospital had heavy iron radiators that pumped heat and warmth throughout, like the old apartment in Charlottenburg. This stove just warmed one room.
‘Can I make you some more tea?’ she said. He nodded. There was a large brown pot on the dresser nearby and the tea jar was on the shelf. She opened the lid, smelled it. Real tea. She scooped some into the pot, poured on the water, turned the teapot three times. They stirred it in England, but she preferred this gentler German method.
‘Milk’s in the larder,’ Geoffrey said. ‘And some cake.’
She was glad of that. She’d missed tea, and supper, and her stomach felt hollow and empty. She wondered if Geoffrey had eaten. She poured the tea, added the milk, handed a cup to Geoffrey. Dollops of cream floated on the top. She wondered if she’d ever get used to drinking tea with milk, but people thought it odd to drink it black and she didn’t want to draw attention to herself more than was necessary.
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