Against the Tide

by John Hanley

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, put your brave face on and stop sulking.’

  We found the Dutchman stretched out in a rattan chair near the eastern end of the sun terrace. He seemed to be asleep and bore few marks of my attack. Caroline coughed. Kohler’s eyelids fluttered but there was no other reaction. She nudged me with her elbow.

  I grimaced at her and croaked, ‘Excuse me.’

  The Dutchman slowly opened his eyes and, for a fleeting second, I saw confusion, bordering on panic, in their grey depths, then he was awake. His lips spread wide in a friendly grin and he raised his arms above his head.

  ‘I surrender. Please, no more.’

  The voice was relaxed, only the slightest suggestion of an accent. He turned to Caroline and opened his eyes in a rather obvious gesture of appreciation. A cold wave of apprehension sucked at my insides.

  Caroline cued me. ‘We’ve come to apologise, Mr Kohler.’

  He looked surprised. ‘Rudi, call me Rudi. But there is no need.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It is only a game. There is little damage.’ He pointed at his left eye. ‘A slight swelling and a cut inside my lip,’ he rubbed his jaw, ‘a little soreness –’

  Caroline interrupted. ‘But you were unconscious. We were all worried.’

  Kohler leapt up. ‘Look, no damage. Fit, as you English say, as a fiddle. I was only briefly stunned. The team needed a replacement so I stayed “injured”.’

  I knew I had knocked him out and that he must still be in some pain. If he wanted to pretend otherwise to impress Caroline, what could I say?

  ‘Anyway, enough of this nonsense, I was more in danger from the cold water.’

  Caroline laughed. ‘That wasn’t cold. You should start training in May when its only fifty-five degrees – that would make your teeth chatter and your testicles tremble. Isn’t that what you told me, Jack?’

  I mimicked Kohler’s relaxed tone. ‘Fortunately, my dear, that’s one pleasure you will never have – trying to warm up your frozen balls.’

  He smiled through her silence. ‘Well this is all very jolly – perhaps it is time for you to join me in a drink and tell me all about yourselves. I must say, I am honoured by your company.’ He caught the eye of a waiter hovering in the distance and signalled him to approach.

  We found comfortable cane chairs by the side of the pool. Caroline and Kohler sipped overdressed cocktails. I nursed a Coke.

  ‘So you have just finished school, Jack. What do you do now?’

  ‘He’s got a place at Wadham College, Oxford, haven’t you, dear?’ Caroline patted my arm in imitation of my mother, though there was irony in her tone.

  Kohler looked puzzled.

  ‘Nothing has been decided yet,’ I snapped at her.

  ‘Ah, I see. You are, perhaps, reluctant to leave this lovely young lady, for the trials of university?’

  ‘Don’t be silly. He can hardly wait to get away. It can be hell, cooped up on this little island.’

  ‘Only for foreigners. Some of us…’ I trailed off, realising my gaffe.

  ‘I understand. After all, this “foreigner” is only here on holiday. It is a beautiful island but it could become, how you say, claus…’

  ‘…traphobic.’ Caroline finished the word for him. ‘Yes, very, but only if you are used to wide open spaces. Jack’s family have been here since before the last ice age.’

  ‘Ah, I see. What do they do?’

  ‘Farm. We have sixty vergees in St Martin.’

  ‘Don’t confuse him with your silly measurements, Jack. That’s about twenty-five acres in proper English.’

  Kohler laughed. ‘Vergees, acres, I know little of land. I am a city Dutchman. But is that a large farm?’

  ‘It’s big enough to be called a farm but there are at least fifty larger than us. About the size of this hotel site.’ I waved my arm over the gardens, which swept down to the bay. ‘Somewhat steeper in places though.’

  Caroline laughed at the understatement – only Jerseymen farmed cliffs.

  ‘We grow potatoes for the early season, some broccoli and we have twenty-two cows.’ I realised my enthusiasm must sound rather naïve to the “city” Dutchman.

  ‘Don’t forget the bull, Jack.’

  I groaned. ‘Yes, and a bull.’

  She laughed. ‘This bull is so big, Rudi, that all the men are frightened of him. Isn’t that so, Jack?’

  ‘What she wants me to tell you is that Marcus Piavonius Victorinus, or Victor, to those who don’t read the Herdbook, weighs over one hundred stone and is probably the most vicious monster that’s ever been bred. And yes, only my mother, who is five feet two and weighs a mere seven stone, has the courage to go anywhere near him. Satisfied, Caroline?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Jack, don’t be so touchy. I think it’s quite funny, especially his silly name. Haven’t you read that book on bull fighting I gave you?’

  ‘Fiesta? Yes, of course I’ve read it. I like Hemingway’s style but I’m sure Victor would see off any of his toreros.’ We glared at each other – a little like matador and mad bull.

  ‘So, you don’t farm on Sundays?’ Kohler interjected as Caroline started to paw the ground.

  ‘No. I mean yes, but we have some Breton workers. Alan and I help out during the holidays but Father prefers us to study or take part in sport.’

  ‘Alan? This is a brother?’ Kohler seemed interested.

  ‘Yes, Jack. Where is the dear boy today?’

  Alan hated the sight of her and couldn’t understand my interest in the “stuck up bitch”. ‘He’s at Crabbé, practising.’

  Kohler looked mystified and Caroline, losing patience with my monosyllabic responses, intervened. ‘He’s sixteen, a pain in the arse and he shoots at pieces of paper. Apparently, it’s a sport.’

  ‘Ah, target shooting. I understand. He is good?’

  ‘Good enough. He’s representing the college at Bisley next week. It’s the annual public schools’ shooting competition in England. Our team stands a good chance this year. He normally swims on a Sunday but today –’

  ‘I understand now. I, too, shoot, during the winter. What weapon does he use?’

  ‘It’s not a weapon, it’s a rifle, an Enfield 303 adapted for target shooting.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I know this gun. It is very accurate.’

  Caroline yawned. ‘I’m sure it’s all very fascinating to those who like shooting holes in paper, but I don’t see the point.’

  We both looked at her in surprise. Didn’t she read the newspapers or listen to the radio?

  ‘There are many riflemen in Jersey, Jack?’ Kohler ignored her attempt to close the conversation.

  ‘It’s a big club. Then there’s our cadet force and, of course, the militia and…’ I stopped. ‘Why are you so interested? You’re not a spy, are you?’

  Caroline hooted. ‘Jack, you are really strange at times. I’m sure Rudi is just being polite.’

  ‘Of course. You must not think I am too much of a nosey foreigner.’

  ‘Not at all.’ I did though, and let the silence hang.

  Caroline leant towards Kohler. ‘And what about you, our friendly “foreigner”, what do you do?’

  ‘As little as possible.’

  Caroline laughed.

  ‘I too am a student, but I study life –’

  ‘No seriously, we’re interested.’

  I was far from interested. I was beginning to dislike the arrogant bastard even more but Caroline was clearly intrigued.

  I surveyed the terraced gardens, choked with colour, sloping to the meadows and the rich summer barrier of woodland, which seemed to dip into the bay. I closed my eyes, dimly aware of their conversation, which washed over me like the oscillation of a poorly-tuned wireless. Kohler came from Rotterdam and was doing postgraduate work on economics. I sensed that even Caroline found this talk of economics less than exciting and my hope that she would soon become bored rose. It was burning in the sun now and the sparkling water looked inviting.

&
nbsp; ‘Anyone fancy a swim?’ I interrupted Kohler’s discourse on fiscal discipline and the new Europe.

  Caroline brightened. ‘Yes, my stuff ’s in the car. Be a dear, Jack, and get it.’

  I scowled. With me out of the way, perhaps the talk might turn to more enticing matters than monetarism. Kohler couldn’t really be that much of a bore. Handsome young men who swam and played dirty water polo couldn’t be obsessed with such dry ideas, especially with expensive perfume from seductive blondes breezing over them.

  I hurried back but they had disappeared. Sod them. I dropped her bag onto a chair, got changed and threw myself into the fresh water to work off my anger in some quick, twenty-five yard lengths.

  I was gasping on the side when Caroline placed her foot on my head and tried to push me under.

  ‘Where have you been, then?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, Rudi has been showing me his room and some photographs of his home. He has a lovely view, with his own bathroom. This really is a super hotel.’

  My stomach somersaulted again. She had slipped into her crimson costume with the plunging back and the clinging low cut front. Kohler stood beside her. He was taller, had a better body, was probably fitter and was certainly more attractive than me – even after my attempt to rearrange his face. They made a striking pair.

  She winked at me, executed a perfect dive and swam a length underwater.

  He plunged in and surfaced behind her.

  She spun towards him, giggling.

  I heard his laugh, not the mocking tone he had used to needle me in the match, but the genuine hoot of pleasure.

  No. Bugger you, it’s not going to be that easy. I sprinted towards them. Head up for the final few yards, I splashed between them and wrapped my arms around her, daring him to fight for possession.

  She didn’t resist, in fact she seemed to enjoy it, and even leant forward to kiss me lightly on my lips.

  I tensed, waiting for Kohler to grab me from behind. I felt his breath on my neck then heard a splash as he swam away.

  I turned Caroline in my arms to watch as he spun against the wall and started sprinting hard for the other end. It was his turn to burn off some anger.

  She peered into my eyes. ‘I think you’ve made your point.’

  ‘Yes, I hope I have. Let’s get out of here. We need to talk.’

  She laughed and ran her hand down my chest. ‘Talking can come later, there’s something more important we need to do first.’

  The blood rushed to my face. Her power to reverse my emotions with a look, a touch, was beyond my comprehension.

  She squeezed my arm as I helped her out. ‘Manners, though. We have to say goodbye, thank him for his hospitality.’

  I wondered if another blow on his nose would be sufficient.

  We walked over and she reached down to stop him as he sprinted in for a turn. He looked relaxed, though he was breathing heavily.

  I offered a terse thank you for his hospitality and told him that we had to go. He insisted on shaking hands with both of us, though he clung on to Caroline’s rather too long for my liking and complimented her on her choice of Coco Chanel as her perfumer. Bastard.

  She brought my towel to me and started to rub me dry. ‘Come on, get changed. We can go to my house. Father is away until next week.’

  The hollowness inside me had changed to a tingling anticipation.

  ‘Shit. The bastard is back.’ She spun off the driveway to Les Routeurs, their converted farmhouse, and pulled up, out of sight, around the corner.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Didn’t you see his silver Jag? He must have flown in lunchtime. Fuck.’ She looked around. ‘Open the gate to the field, Jack. I’ll drive in.’

  The large field was full of high grass, densely planted. It sloped gently down to Grands Vaux Valley. It was good land and I knew that her father let it out to a local farmer who used it for winter hay.

  She parked, grabbed a blanket from the boot and ploughed through the crop, leaving a trail of destruction in her wake. Satisfied that she was far enough in, she dropped the blanket, kicked off her sandals, shrugged out of her dress and stood there, hands on hips, naked as the day she was born. She couldn’t be bothered with underwear. Her face was as flushed as mine.

  ‘Now, Jack, let’s forget about fighting, Dutchmen and other distractions.’ She tugged my shirt out of my trousers and ran her fingers up my belly to my chest.

  I tried to speak but she pressed her cool, soft lips onto mine and dragged me down. My mind, still seeking resolution of our earlier conflict, fought my body for control and lost.

  The sun pressed us into the grass. I struggled to match her urgent rhythm, far more intense than I had felt before. She had taught me well though, and I decoupled my mind to divorce my thoughts from the pulsing ache. I thought of the questions I wanted answered. Why was the wave I caught when surfing always smaller than the one behind? Why did Caroline never let me use a French letter? Who was that woman my father and Phillips were fighting over all those years before? How could I hate her and love her at the same time? I stopped.

  ‘What? What’s wrong, Jack. My God, you haven’t –’

  ‘No. It’s okay. I haven’t but I can’t go on.’

  She pushed her hands into my chest and stared at me. Her eyes were frightened. ‘Why? What am I doing wrong?’

  ‘It’s not you. The sun’s burning my bum. I have to roll over.’

  I eased out of her and lay on my back, grateful for the cool grass underneath. In truth, I could have suffered a bit longer but it didn’t seem right. Her flirtation with the Dutchman; her domineering behaviour had turned my anger to acid. It felt like indigestion – this jealousy. It had a vicious grip and now it seized my tongue. I rolled onto my elbow and studied her flushed face. Her eyes held mine, a challenge.

  I dared. ‘Who were you with just now? It wasn’t me, was it?’

  She blinked and her eyes moistened.

  Bile surged from my stomach and my temples pounded as she slowly sat up and pulled her dress towards her. She twisted away from me, bent over and stepped into the creased garment. Without a backward glance, or a single word, she walked away, through the grass, towards her house.

  It was so still, so quiet, I could hear my heart thudding through my chest. What I’d just said could not be unsaid. It would be a long, lonely walk home.

  5

  Monday 10th July 1939

  God she looked beautiful. I was entranced by her presence, the power she exuded.

  ‘Wake up, stop dreaming,’ Alan hissed from the corner of his mouth and I blinked in surprise.

  ‘Fix – ’

  I fumbled with my scabbard, tilting it forward to get a grip on the hilt before the end of the command.

  Knowles ran his eye along our line then barked. ‘Bayonets!’

  We froze in position as the Royal Militia line opposite completed their preparation. I focused on the warship as she swung through her final arc in the narrow harbour. HMS Jersey had crept through the pier heads minutes before at high tide. Dressed overall with only a smidgen of smoke from her single stack, her 4.7-inch guns trained fore and aft, she looked magnificent. This was her first voyage and our own destroyer, largely paid for by public subscription, had come to offer her thanks. I’d read everything about her and longed to explore once this ceremony was over. Unlike the new 10,000 ton cruiser HMS Sheffield, which had anchored a mile offshore two weeks previously, our destroyer was actually in the harbour.

  Her crew was now making its final assembly before her captain was piped ashore to meet with the official party waiting restlessly off to my left. I re-gripped the stock above the sling, trying to ensure that, when the next series of orders were delivered, I wouldn’t let the island down by dropping my rifle as I had in training. Alan was alongside me. As the squad sergeant, I was the right-hand marker and could sense the whole line of twelve tensing for the order.

  Captain Knowles, the OC of our Officer Training Corps, turned
to face his opposite number and the militia soldiers, in their dress blues and peaked caps. We were clad in scratchy khaki, and, in the blistering heat from the midday sun, sweat trickled down my neck. I wanted to adjust my black beret to stop the itch and could feel a line of moisture beginning to slip from my brow, but I held steady. I had no choice, thousands of islanders were watching. So was Fletcher, who was standing directly opposite in the militia’s ranks. His rifle’s eighteen-inch bayonet glinted menacingly at me.

  Knowles stiffened as the gangway was finally secured and I spotted the militia officer nod at him. They had agreed before that, even though Knowles was now only a classics teacher, he would give the final orders. His chest of decorations, and the MC with bar on its purple and white ribbon that was pinned to his chest ensured there was no argument.

  The lieutenant governor, representing King George, and the bailiff took a step forward together.

  Knowles’ shoulders tensed then he screamed the order. ‘Honour Guards – Royal Salute – Present – Arms!’

  All twenty-four of us, in both guards, crashed our boots in unison. There was a slight pause before the drums rolled and the band struck up “God Save The King”.

  Tears of pride pricked my eyes as I held position. I thought of the sleek warship, gently breathing against the granite wall, her thin sides protected by bundles of old tyres. We’d been too busy preparing to watch her sweep across the bay but I pictured her ploughing through the waves as she hunted down submarines or raced in to fire her ten torpedoes at enemy capital ships. I knew there was only room for 200 men on her cramped decks, and she must be hell in a heavy sea, but I would love to be part of that fighting machine.

  The anthem had finished and the crowds were cheering above the sirens every boat and ship was sounding.

  ‘Honour Guards – Slope – Arms! – Order – Arms!’