by Gwyn GB
Margaret and Katherine’s talk is to fill the awkward silences which keep appearing amid the chink and clunk of the washing up. Margaret places the plates and cutlery into the dishwasher but she’s used several pans for Sophie’s dinner and in preparation for their own meal of beef stroganoff, which sits slowly cooking in the Rayburn.
‘You remember Simone Le Cain don’t you?’ Margaret cheerily asks her, ‘You know the one with the really long pigtails in your year at school.’ Katherine’s face is blank. ‘Wore those really thick glasses with red frames.’
‘No...no I don’t.’
Margaret looks a little annoyed.
‘But what about her anyway?’ Katherine asks trying to retrieve the situation.
‘I can’t believe you don’t remember her.’ Margaret shakes her head, ‘it doesn’t really matter now then, it was only that she’s one of Sophie’s teachers.’
‘Oh! How strange,’ exclaims Katherine trying to sound interested. There is another awkward silence. ‘What time is Robert coming back?’ she asks. He’s usually home a lot earlier than this.
‘About half six probably. He’s not a postie anymore. You know that don’t you?’ Margaret looks at Katherine sideways, but she’s staring at the pan in her hand, carefully wiping off every trace of water as though her life depends on it. They both know the answer to that question and Margaret continues with an air of rapprochement in her voice. ‘He was promoted to being a supervisor, and now he’s a senior supervisor so he does regular hours. More money, and means he’s not out in all weathers, but I think he misses the round in a funny kind of way.’
‘Less responsibility as a postie?’ Katherine suggests, but then immediately wonders if Margaret will take that the wrong way. ‘You know… the freedom of cycling around is a lot different to managing people and doing loads of paperwork. Staffing issues are the bane of any manager’s life!’ she tries to qualify.
‘Mmmmh.’ Is Margaret’s response, she can’t talk because she’s gritting her teeth so hard.
Katherine isn’t sure if she’s agreeing or not, but she errs against digging herself in deeper and shuts up. Margaret simply fumes into the washing up bowl, clattering and banging the dishes a little harder than she should and wishing she’d never mentioned Robert isn’t happy. She feels as though she’s betrayed her husband’s confidence, made it seem as though he isn’t up to the new job in front of the ‘successful’ Katherine.
Margaret steals a quick glance at her sister - she’s a stranger. She’s no idea what’s going on inside that head of hers: what her life has been like in the years she’s been in London, who her friends are, what motivates her and why she’s back? That last question dominates Margaret’s thinking. It has the potential to completely turn their lives upside down and she is powerless.
This person she grew up with, shared a family and this house with, is like a cuckoo among them now. Their nest is the issue - it’s half Katherine’s. Their home, the only home Margaret has ever known, might have to be sold.
‘It’s just a house darling.’ Robert had said last night, trying to calm her. ‘What’s important is our family, the children, our memories. If we had to sell, then there would be plenty to buy us something else.’
‘I don’t want something else.’ Margaret replied like a petulant child. ’This has always been my home, Mummy and Daddy’s, Grandpa and Grandma’s, and beyond. It will be bought by a developer and turned into a housing complex for finance workers.’ Robert just doesn’t understand how much these granite walls mean to her. She also doubts very much that Katherine understands either. She wanted to leave their home, their island and the life they all shared. It must be a millstone around her neck, a reminder of everything she doesn’t want in her life. The island must seem so small and parochial after cosmopolitan London.
Then again, there is another smaller voice inside her head which keeps trying to remind her Katherine has never once asked for a penny of her inheritance. She’s never questioned that Margaret’s family, and John, live rent free in the property that is theirs jointly. That little voice just doesn’t fit with the Katherine she sees, the Katherine who hasn’t taken an ounce of interest in her nephew and nieces, not even in her own husband for years. The selfish woman who turned her back on her family and her home without a second glance.
Katherine is concentrating on the jar marked ‘Sea Treasures’ on the windowsill in front of her. It’s a large clear glass Pyrex jar full of little pieces of broken pottery and pretty shells, beautifully coloured granite pebbles and blue and green glass. All of them have been caressed and carried by the sea until their edges wore smooth. Margaret’s always looked for the smallest of details, even on the beach. Whilst Katherine would be off searching for adventure and excitement climbing rocks, Margaret was the contented child wandering across the beach picking up interesting things. She could tell you what shells are found on which beaches, oyster shells in Grouville bay, winkles at St Aubin. Katherine has never understood her sister’s contentedness, her own life has always been a search for fulfilment and the next challenge. She’s never understood it - but there have been many times she’s longed for it.
16
August 1976, Jersey
Darren Le Brocq saunters along the road: t-shirt flung over his right shoulder, his chest puffed out. Back straight. He’s parading his muscles which undulate and throb beneath warm, smooth suntanned skin. Even his gait is perfectly tuned to allow each brawny thigh enough time to flex and bulge under his shorts. This is a young man strutting. Then he spots Katherine. She isn’t sure if it’s embarrassment for never having called, or for what his friend did to Anne, or perhaps it’s simply the expression on her face, but suddenly he looks awkward. His saunter becomes ragged. She’s not even opened her mouth and already she’s having an effect. It’s fodder to her anger, proof of his guilt. Her prey is two yards in front of her.
‘Your bloody friend has got a lot to answer for,’ she exclaims vehemently. ‘Did you know he attacked Anne at St Ouen’s, virtually raped her on the beach?’
Darren’s face is a picture. Incredulity is the only way to describe it. He was most definitely not expecting that. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ is his first reaction, ‘she was going along with things just fine and then flipped, and besides nothing much happened...’
‘Nothing much happened!’ Katherine’s voice comes out strangulated by the pent up anger, ‘So why did she run off crying if nothing much happened? He attacked her.’
‘Oh for God’s sake you prissy little virgins have no idea; you can’t go around saying things like that. You should be careful what you say.’
‘Are you threatening me?’ Her confidence turns into defensiveness.
Darren throws up his arms, exasperation on his face. ‘I’m just saying perhaps you need to talk to your friend and find out exactly what did happen because she’s lying.’
With that their altercation is over. He walks off, quicker than before, and leaves her to silence and the long walk home in the heat.
The burden of her argument with Darren is too heavy for Katherine to bear, she needs peace and quiet in which to contemplate their conversation. After she’s told her mother her exam results, and tried desperately to feel as elated as she had done earlier, she takes herself off to bed with some headache pills. In the still of her room, the accusations and questions are ticking time bombs in her head; a huge pulsing grenade of a dilemma throbbing along with the pain behind her eyes. What has she done? Is it true? What should she do now? Of course the right thing to do would be to tell Anne, to talk to her, have it out with her.
The doubts whirl around her mind. Is what Darren said right? Did Anne lie to her, let her think something far worse had gone on? Why would she do that? Jealousy perhaps? Is that why she finds it so difficult to be around Katherine, why she’s so moody - guilt?
A part of her wants him to be right, wants it all to be Anne’s fault because then Katherine will know why Darren never called her. It wasn’t
because he didn’t like her, it was because of Anne. Yet there’s another part of her which fears she’s betrayed her friend even more by mentioning it to Darren, and now she’s compounding that betrayal by doubting her. The emotional and moral dilemma is an unwanted cuckoo in her mind, and refuses to leave.
17
March 3rd 2008, Jersey
Margaret breaks the silence at the kitchen sink with a shared topic of conversation -the investigation at Haut de la Garenne. ‘Have you seen the JEP today?’ she asks her sister, always first to offer the olive branch.
‘No, what’s the latest?’
‘They’re saying the remains they originally found are only a skull fragment.’
‘Really? But the papers said it was a skeleton, a body.’ Katherine replies, interested in what her sister is saying.
‘I know. They’ve found some kind of bath in the cellar, they’ve got a photo of it. Looks like a cow trough to me, but it says some of the victims described being lowered into a deep dark pit, put in a large bath of cold water and abused.’ Margaret continues.
‘It’s awful. I don’t want to believe it’s happened here.’ Katherine shakes her head.
‘The whole thing is awful. All of it. Any of it. How can abuse like that go on without somebody doing something… but it does and it’s everywhere.’ The emotion shows in Margaret’s voice.
‘Do you ever wonder if someone we know was involved, you know like friends of Mum and Dad’s, or someone else?’ Katherine asks, looking at her sister.
‘Yes of course. It makes you question lots of things, think again about situations.’ The pair of them shake their heads again and sigh, common ground at the sink at last. Margaret continues, ‘Mind you, lots of people say they were bound to find bones on the site, there’s a dolmen nearby, they used to burn and bury their dead there, but that was thousands of years ago.’
Katherine nods. ‘I remember that, and didn’t old Vi say the Germans took over the place in the War?’
‘Yes, she did, didn’t she,’ Margaret replies.
‘But the thing is,’ Katherine continues, ‘with today’s forensic technology they must surely be able to tell if it’s a bone from ages ago, or one from the 1980s.’
‘Of course and there wouldn’t be so many people coming forward claiming to be victims of abuse unless something bad went on.’
After this conversation the periods of silence return. Katherine stares out of the kitchen window again. She’s contemplating the yard which doesn’t appear to have changed much: the same solid granite walls enclosing it, the same barn door which has been mended, a panel replaced and repainted here and there. The soft scrunching of a car’s wheels arriving through the archway into the property catches her attention. She hears it slowly pulling up and peers around the right hand side of the window expecting to see Robert, but instead a police car comes into view. She tenses, a natural reaction, an inbuilt fear there might be bad news coming their way. The officer gets out. He’s got his back to them but is in a fluorescent yellow vest which simply reads ‘Police’, there’s no uniform.
‘Looks like an Honorary,’ she says to Margaret, who is also watching - not the policeman but Katherine’s face. ‘I’m sure everything’s ok.’ she quickly adds assuming Margaret’s expression is one of concern in need of reassurance.
‘You know that’s John don’t you?’ Margaret simply replies, and the second she says it Katherine can see it. He still hasn’t turned, shown his face, but she can see the run of his shoulders, the thick hair just beginning to grey, and his walk. How can she not have known it’s her husband?
‘I hadn’t realised he’d joined the Honoraries.’
‘I did tell you,’ came the curt reply, ‘about a year ago now, but you probably forgot with so much on your mind.’ Katherine feels exactly the way the remark is intended to make her feel, but she doesn’t show it. It’s starting to filter back now, yes, Margaret had told her, because she remembers she’d thought how typical of John to volunteer his time for his local community. She’d imagined him as a Centenier or Honorary police officer, carrying out his duties; directing crowds at events, responding to minor accidents and incidents, and all in that slow calm way in which he seems to deal with everything life throws at him.
It makes her remember the time in London, just before he’d left. She’d screamed at him, wailing at the top of her voice, calling him selfish, pulling at his clothes, pushing him, trying to get some reaction, make him fight back, make him fight to keep her. He hadn’t of course. He’d stayed calm throughout, talking to her in a soothing voice; attempting to put all sides of the argument on the table. Even as she’d been screaming at him she knew it was her not he who was being selfish, but she hadn’t been interested in calming down. She’d wanted something to happen, something to snap and break her link with the past, to sever her emotions from the excruciating pain she still felt. He was the closest person to her. He was completely involved in it and it was against him she directed all her anger. Only he wouldn’t break. He never has.
‘So, are you going to say hello?’ Margaret sounds annoyed at the fact her sister is still standing there. ‘Tell him you’re here.’
‘Yes, yes of course I am.’ Katherine replies, but not through choice. Facing up to John right now is the last thing she wants, especially as she knows Margaret will be watching their every move.
John is just letting himself into his cottage - their cottage - as she walks out. He turns and looks up before she can say anything and the shock of seeing her is obvious.
‘Kathy!’ he exclaims, his hands falling to his sides as though all the energy in his body is being used to deal with her arrival. She takes him in, the soft eyes, still sparkly even if they’re slightly less bright than they used to be and more sunken in his weathered skin, which carries the creases of age and sunshine. His wide strong body, the big hands and titan nose, still handsome. Still able to make her stomach lurch. She carries on walking towards him although she isn’t quite sure what makes her legs work. The awkwardness would have been obvious to a blind man. They opt for a double kiss on the cheek in greeting.
‘I didn’t realise you were already here,’ John continues after her brief hello.
‘No… I’m sorry I should have let you know when my flight was in.’ Katherine looks down at the ground.
‘Why? You don’t have to get my permission!’ There is an awkward silence in the wake of his defensiveness and she looks back up to his face seeking the emotions behind the words, ‘…Are you here just for the weekend?’ he continues impassively.
‘No I’m staying for a while.’
‘Staying?’
‘Yes, well I’m not sure how long, we’ll see.’
John swallows hard. ‘I see. That’s good news Kathy. Will you be wanting the cottage then?’
‘Oh God no, no, I’m not … I’m not sure what I’m doing yet, I’m just going to stay with Margaret for a bit, get my bearings, you know.’
‘OK. well it’ll be nice to have you around again for however long it is.’ Katherine isn’t sure what’s behind that statement. Does he mean it, or is he just saying it because it’s the thing he should say?
‘We should catch up sometime soon…’ she ventures, not exactly sure what it is she wants or if it’s a good move.
‘We should. You know where I am,’ John rattles his keys again, unlocking his front door, ‘Just let me know when you’re free.’ This time she clearly detects years of waiting and disappointment in his voice, and a definite sense he doesn’t believe she will; that it’s her who is simply saying the things she thinks she should.
As she turns away she catches a tiny glimpse of the hallway that was once theirs. The carpet is the same, but there’s a different picture on the wall. She wonders how the cottage has changed, if it’s changed much. What happened to all the things she decided weren’t important enough to come with her when she left years ago? Did John get rid of them? When? When did he decide the time was right to throw
them away? She longs to push the door open and go inside, but that’s not an option. It’s his house, his home, and so instead she turns and starts to walk away. As she goes she catches sight of the old Jersey cow cream jug on the kitchen windowsill. It sends a shock-wave of memories through her body so with each step she’s walking through the treacle of their shared experiences. So ends her first encounter with John, her husband, the man she has loved, and lost.
Katherine walks back slowly, her emotions too ragged to be able to face Margaret and her hostility straight away. Why has she come back? Why didn’t she just leave things alone, stay safe in her London hideaway far from the emotions which now pummel her body with each re-awakened memory?
She lingers in the yard smelling the air, fresh but thick with the sticky salt of the sea. All around her are familiar things. She’s glad not much has changed since her childhood, the yard, the house - they all bring comfort but there’s also pain. Pain she has tried so hard to forget. Unfinished business, incomplete conversations and relationships left hanging. Like flies in a spider web.
18
1981, Jersey
Theirs is a courtship practiced for generations, a gentle maturing of the senses, an awakening of emotional and physical awareness. Not like the quick fumble she’d mistaken for love on St Ouen’s beach five years before. John Le Marquand had come to work for Mr Binet the farmer who rented land from her mother. Mr Binet is in his late sixties, and although not emotionally ready to let go of his farming business, physically his body is telling him things can’t go on like they are much longer. His two children, a daughter called Sarah, and a son, Adrian, aren’t interested in farming. Sarah has married a bank manager and gone to live with him in Kent, whilst Adrian trained to be a lawyer and now has a very nice house up in the parish of St Mary with his new wife. Mr Binet senior is sad that after generations his family will no longer be in farming, but he’s realistic. The world is changing. So, whilst his heart catches up with his head, he’s employed young John Le Marquand as Manager. Mr Binet tells Marie that John has come highly recommended by a friend of his in St Brelade, and he doesn’t disappoint. John is twenty-five, Katherine nearly twenty-one.
