Authors: Wallis Peel
‘Something like that,’ she replied carefully.
‘Let’s start again, shall we?’ Louise offered in a softer tone. It was one of the quirky mood changes for which she had long been famous.
‘If you like,’ Mary agreed warily. She knew this tough old woman could be a wonderful friend or an implacable enemy. She grinned impishly and nodded.
‘Fine! Now let’s get home and you can try your first Guernsey gauche.’
Mary settled back in the trap as Louise shortened the reins and clucked at the cob.
‘What’s a gauche?’
‘It’s our famous bread, fattening but delicious,’ Louise explained. ‘We’ve a way to go yet now that I live at Cobo. Actually, my parents owned the house for years,
then they moved into town. I hated the move when I was a young girl but I had no say in the matter. It’s a good Guernsey home with the typical five windows.’
The cob turned down a narrow lane with high hedges making visibility impossible.
‘Who lived there after your parents?’ Mary asked curiously. She sensed it was important to learn all she could about the family background.
‘My brother as an adult. He inherited under the right of préciput as the firstborn but he died last year. His only children were girls who all married and moved away, so I seized
the chance. My father died at sea in 1880. He was an Englishman from around the Bristol area. He was the family rebel and brought my mother, also English, to live on the island but she always hated
it. He fell out with his family except for his favourite sister Joan. He always had a soft spot for Joan and she doted on him. He died hunting ormers—we think, though no one will ever know
for sure. He was dead when they found him—’ The old woman’s voice tailed off as she looked mistily ahead.
Mary felt as if a barrier had descended sharply and she wondered at the depths of this tragedy then something struck her.
‘What’s an ormer?’ she wanted to know.
The old woman came back to the present. ‘It’s our highly prized sea food though some people call them sea ears. They cling to the rocks between the tide marks and are only supposed
to be collected during the winter. They are a great delicacy, I can tell you.’
‘And your mother?’ Mary asked, highly interested. Now the old woman was talking so freely she did not seem so formidable.
‘She died in ’85, five years after my father. Perhaps she never got over his death. Death from the sea is common here. My husband Jack was drowned when his fishing smack turned over
in an unexpected storm. My son Philip—’
Louise’s voice stilled.
‘What happened to him?’ Mary asked in a whisper.
‘He died in ’99. Again it was a storm at sea. There were a number of men out fishing. A squall blew up and, the next day, their bodies were washed ashore.’
Mary bit her lip, remembering tiny snippets Duret had related. All this tragedy for just one person.
‘Duret did mention a brother?’ she asked delicately.
Louise nodded. ‘Charles! He was killed on the Somme two years ago. My other children died young. One from diphtheria, the other from a lung sickness. Duret is all the family
left.’
‘I see!’ Mary said thoughtfully, then she took the plunge and came out with it. ‘That is why you would rather have handpicked a Guernsey wife for him than have someone unknown
like me turn up?’
The old woman kept her surprise hidden. The girl’s perspicacity astounded her.
Surely this Mary was not Duret’s type? So why exactly
was
she here?
‘Not far now,’ she said, changing the subject adroitly.
Mary took the hint. Staring ahead, she fancied she saw the flash of the sea and the island’s strangeness charged her blood. Come what may, she would survive, she told herself firmly.
‘The house is down there on the right,’ Louise pointed with her light whip.
Mary was astonished. What type of home Duret came from had never entered her head. He was a private soldier so she had presumed he came from a simple, fisherman’s cottage. Now she shot a
peep at the old woman’s clothing. It was cut with the simplicity which only comes from money. Then she turned to study the approaching house. It was large, detached and would have fitted
easily into the wealthy part of her home area. Her eyes shot back to Louise’s hand. She wore no jewellery, only a simple, very wide wedding band now thin from age. There were no pearls around
her neck nor brooch on her coat. There was nothing to indicate financial status but Mary could sense wealth with the instinct of one who has always been poor.
‘We have ten vergees and keep some cows,’ Louise stated, breaking into her thoughts.
Mary made herself concentrate to learn. ‘What’s a vergee?’
‘It’s our land measurement,’ Louise explained quietly. The girl had been lost in a brown study as soon as she had pointed out her home. Why? What had that stupid boy Duret told
her? She made herself reply to the question. She had a lot of thinking to do later. ‘A vergee makes two and a half English acres and two and a quarter on Jersey,’ she added with a sniff
of disparagement. ‘They always have to be different, of course.’
Mary did not miss the sarcasm and wondered again but decided to probe this another day. She was sharply conscious of her abysmal ignorance of this island.
‘I know little about the islands except they belong to England,’ she admitted.
Louise bridled in a flash. ‘You know nothing at all then!’ she said acidly. ‘These islands do
not
belong to England. They never have! If anything, England belongs to
us. The Duke of Normandy, the one you call the Conqueror, came here first and
then
went to capture England so England is ours. Not the other way about. That’s why the British
monarch, whether King or Queen, comes here as the Duke of Normandy first and the English monarch very much second.’
Mary was flabbergasted. ‘Oh!’ was all she could manage. There was such a ring of pride in Louise’s voice that she quickly realised it would pay her to tread gently.
The cob turned up a sweeping gravel drive kept free from weeds, then the trap halted gracefully at the front door. Mary let Louise alight first before she followed more slowly, looking around
curiously, highly impressed and trying not to show it.
The house had been built from cream, stone blocks. The upper floor had five separate windows all of which faced west. The paintwork was in excellent condition and overall lay a discreet air of
affluence. The house also exuded an aura of being a loved and cherished building. The front garden on the right and left of the drive held a variety of bulbs. To one side Mary noted stables and
more outbuildings, all in a good state of repair. In the other direction were small fields that held cows, now curious spectators of their arrival.
She took a deep breath. It was a lovely, attractive house; it welcomed. This family equalled the gentry back in England. It was nearly dark and Mary’s nostrils flared as they took in the
tang of salt; the sea must be very near and she fancied she could hear waves ripple delicately. A cow lowed but, apart from that sound, it was quiet and tranquil. Mary felt her heart expand with
fresh warmth as she fell instantly under the house’s spell.
‘Come and welcome,’ said Louise.
They entered through a fastened-back, solid, oak door and Mary followed down a long corridor that was thickly carpeted. The old woman opened a door on the left so Mary could follow.
Mary stepped into the room and halted as her eyes swivelled around. It was an enormous kitchen and pride of place was taken by a large, dark-coloured dresser which leaned against one wall. On
this reposed the china which Mary’s experienced eye told her was of top quality. On the far side were a climbing range of wooded shelves, the same dark colour, which held pewter plates and
mugs. The third wall was where the fire nestled and overhead hung two sides of pork, smoking gently from the daily fire. Mary nodded sagely to herself. The Oliver kitchen could not better this.
‘That’s a funny jug, mum,’ she said and nodded.
Louise smiled. ‘It’s a typical Guernsey milk can. You’ll not find the like in England.’
Mary nodded as her eyes roamed around again. ‘It
is
a nice kitchen,’ she remarked slowly with feeling. ‘One of the best I’ve been in.’
She could not have pleased the old woman more as Louise pulled out a chair, one of six, tucked around a large, central table whose white deal top shone from daily scrubbing.
‘I think so too,’ Louise agreed. ‘It has always been Duret’s favourite room. I always say this is the woman’s workroom so it should be comfortable and welcoming.
Too many of the island women have to put up with earth floors sprinkled with sand. I don’t hold with that. These flag stones were put down by my father after my mother made a fuss. I’m
glad she did. I have straw scatter mats to keep the feet warm in the cold weather. That’s a terpi.’
Mary eyed the black arm and equally black iron kettle which nestled nearby. ‘We’d call that a trivet, mum,’ she explained, then something occurred to her. ‘What work will
I do here?’
For a second Louise was nonplussed, then understood. This girl would never have known idleness.
‘We’ll discuss that another day. You’ve only just arrived. You’ll want to explore and I’m not having Duret say I used you as a drudge. Anyhow, there is little
enough to do because this is a well organised home. There is an outside male worker who has been with the family since I was a little girl and a woman comes in daily. I don’t expect
you’ve ever had a holiday in your life, so take a week now as my guest,’ Louise told her with an unexpected grin. ‘There’s a cycle in the outhouse. Use it to explore the
island. When you get fed up and bored come and tell me and we’ll sort something out. When you go out, watch you don’t trip over the iron boot scraper,’ she said with a nod at the
back door. ‘I keep meaning to have it moved and never do. We’re all used to it being there so don’t fall and break your neck on it.’
‘I think I’m glad I came after all,’ Mary admitted slowly with her natural honesty. ‘I do want to make a new life for myself but when I met you on the quay—’
she halted tactfully and uncertainly— ‘I felt your hostility and it made me cross.’
‘Do you always speak your mind so frankly, Mary?’
She shrugged. ‘I didn’t dare to when younger but yes, I do now and why shouldn’t I? I’m a person in my own right, not a chattel!’
Louise’s eyebrows rose and her lips twitched. ‘Come! I’ll show you to your room so you can unpack and freshen up. I can’t have you calling me mum all the time. It’s
too antiquated. I think you’d better call me Tante, if you like. That means Aunt. We do speak our own patois here as well as English. It has a French base but not the French as spoken in
France today. There’s a heavy French influence here though. All around the island you’ll discover old Martello towers which were built in case Napoleon decided to invade,’ she
explained as they mounted to the top of some wide, carpeted stairs. ‘Now here is your room. You’ve a nice view of the sea from the front and countryside from the rear window. The
bathroom is down the corridor on the right, so I think you’ll be comfortable. When you are ready, come down to the kitchen and we will eat in about half an hour.’
‘My own room!’ Mary marvelled in a whisper. ‘I’ve never had a room of my own before,’ she said, letting her eyes slide around with awe and delight.
It seemed enormous to her with a large, double bed, chairs, a dresser complete with a huge wardrobe of deep, red wood. The carpet was thick underfoot and inviting to bare toes. It was the kind
of room she had always dreamed of having but never thought she really would.
Mary woke slowly and lay cuddled in blissful warmth for a few seconds, puzzled as to where she was, then realisation dawned gradually and she bit her lip with wonder. After a
delicious tea-cum-supper, she had retired early for the night to this dream of a room. Tante had been pleasant enough while they ate, chatting gently without engaging in too many probing questions
for which Mary had been grateful. She had felt bone weary from the long sea crossing and sheer nervous tension.
She turned her head and was stunned to see it was eight o’clock. It was the first time in her life she had ever stayed in bed until such a horribly late hour. This was what the gentry did.
Her gaze roamed around the room with its quiet simplicity. It still seemed incredible and awesome to discover this was how Duret lived. How naïve she had been to think of him as a
fisherman’s son, then her face became very serious. If she wanted, all this could be hers. The eldest son was dead which made Duret the heir. It was odd though that no island girl had staked
a claim on Duret Noyen before he left for England. Was he disliked and, if so, for what? Was he such a gentle dreamer that girls became impatient with him? Or was there something else she did not
yet know?
She rose and went to the window which she had left open two holes. She suddenly froze as she heard Tante’s voice from below. Her instinct was to back away then she paused, positioning
herself so she could hear but remain unseen.
‘Morning, Mistress!’ a man said gruffly.
By standing on her tiptoes and stretching her neck, Mary could just make out the man below who stood facing Tante.
‘Good morning to you, Sam!’
‘Well, did she come then?’
‘She did!’ Louise said slowly and paused as if sorting out complicated thoughts.
Mary could see the man’s hair was thick, grey and with a faint wave and guessed he must be the old family retainer.
‘Well, what’s she like then?’ he demanded impatiently.
Tante shook her head as if exasperated. ‘Not at all what I expected I can tell you, Sam. She is independent, speaks her mind, has a very square jaw and I guess she is tough.’
‘Is that so?’ Sam drawled slowly, ‘She might just be the right one to shake young Duret alive then.’
‘Or cause a packet of trouble!’ Tante replied coldly.
‘Is she pregnant? Is that it?’
‘Not as far as I can tell, though it could be early days. Somehow though, I don’t think she is. I get the impression her head is screwed on the right way and far too firmly for any
young man to play footloose with her. It just might be fastened on too tightly for her own good.’