Islands: A page turning story of love, secrets and regrets

by Gwyn GB

  Islands

  Praise from Amazon.co.uk reviews

  “If you read only one book this year – make sure it’s this one! A beautifully crafted story with characters you will care about as they could so easily be you and I. Difficult subjects that touch us all are dealt with a rare level of honesty, integrity and understanding.”

  “Downloaded this today and have just read it in one go. Page turning, plot secrets revealed with unexpected twists. Brilliant capturing of the pain of invisible loss.”

  “Absolutely loved this book. Flew through it from start to finish.”

  “I wept at its honesty when I read its first draft because this is a book which does not shy away from handling big issues.”

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  Islands

  Gwyn GB

  Published in 2016 by Chalky Dog Publishing

  Copyright © Gwyn GB 2016

  Gwyn GB has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright holder.

  All characters and their storylines, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to persons living, or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book will be available from the British Library

  ISBN 978-0-9955165-0-2

  We are each of us islands, every one an individual, full of secrets and experiences no other can see or understand.

  1

  25th February 2008, London

  Sometimes no matter how hard you try to forget, or how far you run, the past catches up with you. It catches up with Katherine in the hallway of her London mews house, and it comes in the form of a letter from Jersey.

  Although it’s a shock, in many ways she’s also relieved. Thirty-two years of trying to forget she’d killed her best friend, Anne, has been very wearing on her conscience. The timing of the letter couldn’t be more coincidental. Two days earlier the world’s media had descended on her home island which is now the scene of a major child abuse and murder inquiry. Jersey is struggling to come to terms with its hidden past. Katherine knows it’s time to face up to hers.

  The process begins Saturday - the day starting just like the previous weekend and the ones before it. With no work commute Katherine indulges in a short lie in bed followed by a bit of window shopping; meandering along the high street, weaving in and out of the crowds. After her usual Saturday lunch, Covent Garden soup with ciabatta from the artisan bakers on the corner, she potters around her patio taking in the sounds of next door’s TV. The rugby is in full swing, and the smell of washing tumble-drying wafts from their kitchen vent; a thin mist of homely comfort.

  A few houses away comes the sharp rap and rasp of DIY action, and from the big white townhouse at the end of her garden the shouts of children playing table tennis escape from within. On her little patio Katherine allows herself to be carried on the tide of everyday human activity ebbing and flowing around her.

  She tidies up the remains of winter debris, putting the leaves back into the flower beds to rot and hiding the twigs in the bin where the refuse collectors won’t see them. When the February chill makes itself known she retreats inside, her thoughts turning to the night out she has planned and the prospect of a long, hot soak in the tub. Knowing she won’t be in later she turns on the BBC’s News24 channel to catch-up with the world,

  ‘A child’s partial remains found at a Jersey care home,’ is the headline running along the scrolling strip at the bottom of the screen. She freezes. Just the mention of Jersey is enough to make her forget about getting ready to go out and instead stay perched on the edge of her Laura Ashley sofa. Watching. Listening.

  What she hears over the next two minutes shocks her to the core. Physical and sexual abuse of children as young as five, the possibility of children having been killed, abuse that had gone on for decades without anyone noticing - or at least without anyone caring. To accompany the report, she sees images of the Haut de la Garenne care home itself. It’s somewhere she vaguely remembers passing on car and bike journeys when she was younger; or seeing in series of Bergerac when the children had gone and the film crew took over, turning it into the fictional Bureau des Etrangers. How ironic the police are back, but this time for real.

  Then the report shows views over Gorey Harbour to Mont Orgueil Castle, just a couple of minutes from the former children’s home, and her stomach twists with its familiarity. Every other time she’s seen this view, on film, in magazines, in real life, it’s always been picture postcard beautiful; the imposing granite castle rising up where sea meets land, trimmed by a quaint harbour of colourful buildings and bobbing boats. Now, whether it’s the accompanying words of the reporter, or the way it’s been filmed, it looks almost sinister.

  This isn’t the Jersey she recognises from her childhood. Moments from a lifetime flash into her consciousness, their contradictions stirring something in her. She’s shocked her home island could have hidden a different side to it, a nasty dark side - but something else gnaws at her.

  Over the next two days a chronic aching invades her bones making scars itch in her heart and dark thoughts prowl her mind. The aching culminates with the letter, until she knows there is only one thing to do; go home and face up to the death she caused - and to those she’s left behind.

  2

  June 1976, Jersey

  The flower is tiny, fragile, pink; or is it perhaps lilac? The petals thin, silky velvet. Tiny veins pattern their surface merging at its heart where the stamen rise, vulnerable, offering their treasure of golden red pollen to each passing bee. To Katherine its thin stem rising up from the ground makes it a survivor, most of the grass around it has already turned brown. She likes that about the flower, so tiny and yet indomitable in the face of nature’s harsh cruelty. She almost goes cross eyed staring at it, squinting with eyes screwed tight against the white light of the sun.

  There is nothing else in her head except for the image of that flower and the burning heat which seems to swell her brain and make futile all attempts at other, more useful thoughts, such as what might be in tomorrow’s history exam. When was the Munich Agreement signed, September 1938 or 1939? And most importantly, will she see Darren Le Brocq tomorrow at Sands Disco?

  ‘Every time I close my eyes all I can see is Mark Vibert in his black trousers,’ Katherine’s best friend Anne sighs. The two of them lie prostrate in a field near to Katherine’s farmhouse. They’ve been making the most of the sunshine. It’s the end of June and although they don’t realise it yet, they’re going to get sick of the heat. This is the summer of ’76 and it will be the longest and hottest since records began.

  Anne has been ‘in love’ with Mark Vibert for a good six weeks, which is a record for both of them and doubtless a result of the fact she hasn’t yet spoken a word to him. It hasn’t stopped her talking about him, or from writing out his name 100 times in some kind of teenage ritualistic hope it might attract him to her. Her patience was rewarded earlier
today when she saw him and he looked straight at her - an acknowledgment of her existence. A result. Since that moment the doubts have set in.

  ‘He obviously doesn’t fancy me otherwise he would have come over.’ She throws her thoughts out to Katherine, hoping she’ll return with something reassuring. This is well practiced group therapy, necessary teenage support.

  ‘He was showing off, being cool. He didn’t have the chance to come over and ask you out did he?’ Katherine replies, prompting Anne to murmur in reluctant agreement.

  Katherine can’t see her friend’s face because she’s lying on her stomach with her head buried into her almost olive brown forearm. She’s always been jealous of her natural colour, ever since they were little toddlers playing in the nursery garden in the summer sun: Anne in her pretty sleeveless summer dress, Katherine in long flappy sleeves and a large annoying sun hat. Katherine never turns more than a pale tan, blonde hairs shimmer across the surface of her skin. She can’t stay out in the sun as long as Anne with her black hair and skin that tans so easily, but it’s never stopped her thinking of Anne as if they are sisters. After all they’ve more in common than Katherine and her own sister, Margaret.

  ‘Yes, but that bitch Louise de la Haye was trying to get off with him,’ Anne whines. Katherine thinks for a moment searching for the right reassuring words. She’s momentarily distracted as some children run past up the lane giggling and laughing, probably coming back from the beach all salty and tired, buckets, nets and spades hanging from their little sandy arms.

  ‘If he snogs her then he’s not worth it, is he?’ Katherine triumphantly replies. Of course that isn’t really her talking, it’s her mother. Being a teenager she and Marie don’t always see eye to eye, but she can be relied on as a bank of ready solace when Katherine can’t think of anything else to say. It does the trick; Anne goes back to daydreaming about Mark Vibert. Katherine uses the ensuing silence to reach out and pick the tiny flower, planning on pressing it between some tissue later.

  The field where they lie is being rested by the farmer, Mr Binet, who rents the land from Katherine’s mother. At the start of the year it had been a brown, empty scar from her bedroom window, but nature has been quick to reclaim it as her own. Grass, dandelions, buttercups, hogweed and the tiny fragile pink flowers now adorn its surface; coloured jewels that have bobbed and floated on the waves of green since Spring. Now even nature has faltered in the face of the relentless scorching of the sun.

  ‘Katherine, tea time,’ Margaret’s voice shouts across the field from the yard, breaking into their thoughts.

  It’s Katherine’s turn to sigh, ‘I’d better go,’ she says to Anne.

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ Anne replies, ‘I’ll see you at school tomorrow.’

  ‘Yup, just one more exam and we’ll be free - no more school, no more Miss Batterford, no more uniform.’

  Anne smiles back at her, brightening. ‘We can talk about flat-hunting tomorrow night.’

  ‘Yeah, don’t forget 8 o'clock at Sands, if you want to see Mark,’ Katherine adds. ‘I just know him and Darren are going to be there. I’m sure of it. My horoscope said next week’s going to be the start of a new phase in my relationships.’

  ‘And they’re not going to be able to resist us,’ laughs Anne, ‘I’m wearing my pink skirt and new top dad bought me last week. Party time. See you tomorrow.’

  Katherine watches as Anne jumps on her bike and cycles across the bumpy field to the road. She’s so often wished she was Anne with her free spirit and sense of adventure. Nothing seems to faze her. Where Katherine hangs back shy and embarrassed, Anne will fling herself into the occasion, chattering and making friends. Her parents are just so much cooler about things than Katherine’s mum, Marie, who keeps a tight rein on her daughters.

  Katherine and Anne have been inseparable ever since Anne chose Katherine to help give out the free milk on their very first day at nursery school. Anne willingly volunteered for the role of distributing the drinks to all the new faces and she picked Katherine, who was quietly crying in the corner, as her comrade. It was the start of a permanent union - through nursery, primary and now secondary school. Where other friends had come and gone, their partnership remained unsullied.

  Being friends with someone as outgoing as Anne definitely has its advantages, not least the fact they both got to meet some of the Radio 1 stars when they were over for the Summer roadshow because Anne blagged their way backstage. Plus, she’s not shy around boys. In fact, Anne has already ‘got off’ with one or two, something which at first made Katherine extremely jealous; but only until her friend willingly shared every minute detail of the experience with her, demonstrating “the kiss” with a cushion.

  Anne shares absolutely everything with Katherine. When her father brought back a bottle of Charlie perfume from one of his trips to America, she’d made sure she let Katherine have a squirt every morning at school. ‘We’re best friends,’ she’d said, ‘We have to smell the same so everyone knows we’re best mates.’

  Katherine walks back alone across the field to her home, the whirr and whistle of wind through feathers overhead making her flinch slightly as a pigeon soars past. A dog barks not far away, muffled by the distance, but she can still tell it’s the sound of a large dog announcing somebody’s arrival on its territory. It’s answered by the sharper yap of a terrier, slightly closer this time, and an accompanying shout from a human voice. In the distance is the clanging rumble of a tractor, its metal teeth digging into the earth, its chains and machinery banging metal on metal as it works. The sounds carry for miles despite the stillness of the afternoon - or perhaps because of it.

  ‘Hi,’ Katherine cheerfully announces her entrance into their kitchen causing her mother and sister to look up. Her mother is at the stove stirring a large pan, whilst Katherine’s younger sister, always the homebody, has on an apron and is kneading dough on the wooden board.

  ‘What have you been doing?’ her mother casually asks.

  ‘Oh just lying in the field, having a break from revision.’

  Her mother looks up at her, studying her face. ‘On your own?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Katherine comes back rather too quickly and her eyes dart away from her mother’s scrutiny. A sigh comes from the direction of the stove, and her mother returns to her stirring. Katherine is never sure if she gets away with her fibs or if her mother sees right through her and just decides not to take things further. It’s not as if Katherine likes lying to her, but her mum just goes off on one if she’s been hanging around with Anne.

  ‘You know it upsets her,’ Margaret whispers, as she sits at the table. Margaret is an involuntary accomplice in Katherine’s liaisons with Anne.

  ‘Shhhsh,’ she replies and throws a quick glance their mother’s way. There’s never been any good explanation as to why their mother doesn’t like her seeing Anne outside of school. All she says is, ‘Because I said so, that’s why!’ which isn’t really any kind of a reason at all.

  ‘I can’t believe it’s your final exam tomorrow,’ Margaret, ever the pacifier, diverts the conversation.

  ‘I know, I can’t wait,’ Katherine leans back on the chair, throwing her blonde hair off her neck and closing her eyes. She’s still hot from being in the field.

  ‘We’ll have a celebration supper tomorrow for you,’ her mother joins the conversation, Anne seemingly forgotten.

  ‘I can bake a cake,’ Margaret chips in.

  ‘Thanks,’ Katherine sits back upright and smiles at them both.

  ‘I’ll go to the shops on the way home from work then,’ her mother says. She’s proud of her daughter’s achievements and isn’t afraid to show it. It’s at moments like this Marie misses David the most. Her husband, David Gaudin, had been a doctor, though perhaps not a very good one because he failed to diagnose his own chronic blocked arteries and impending and very untimely death from a massive heart attack. He left Marie in somewhat of a pickle financially. The house and land had been left to her by her parents,
but finding the money to keep their two girls clothed and fed hasn’t always been easy. The land brings in a small rent, but when a hole developed in the roof during a bad storm a couple of years ago, Marie had to sell one of the fields to a neighbouring farmer. The rest of the time they make ends meet with her part time job in the post office.

  ‘Let’s hope I pass,’ Katherine’s voice brings Marie back to her kitchen.

  ‘Of course you will,’ she quickly replies, ‘you’ve got your father’s brains - thank goodness. I never did very well at school. Not like you.’ She turns to smile at her daughter. Where have the years gone? What she sees is a young woman not the little girl in her heart. She knows Katherine is itching to spread her wings. Marie’s been teetering on that tiny rocky ridge so many parents find themselves on, caught between wanting her to soar away and find success, to follow her dreams, and her own selfish yearning not to lose her. Then again, another part of her wishes Katherine would leave Jersey for a while - get away from Anne. The sooner that friendship ends the better as far as Marie is concerned.

  3

  Feb 2008, London

  Katherine stays glued to the news about Jersey on her TV screen. She has a strong urge to call Margaret and seek some reassurance from her sister that her memories aren’t false, the island being portrayed isn’t the one they’d grown up in. Instead, as is usual these days, she holds back afraid of the reception. Reluctant to chance her emotions. She calls her friend and cancels their date. The thought of socialising, talking small talk, whilst all the while her brain is elsewhere fills her with dread.