Against the Tide (16 page)

‘I'm fine. It's all this training. I think my stomach has shrunk. Is he coming in for lunch?'

‘You know your father, busy, busy, busy.' Her tone was ironic. ‘He took his rifle. I think he's gone to the top field. Trying to relive his youth – imagine he's with Alan at Bisley.'

That was a frightening thought. According to Fred, my father had been a sniper in the trenches and hadn't wasted any bullets. He'd been the JRA champion many times since and was still fascinated enough with paper targets to compete most weekends. I sometimes wondered if Alan had chosen shooting over swimming so that he could be closer to our father. It was clear to everyone that he worshipped him. I often felt left out but then Alan would argue that I couldn't do anything wrong in Mum's eyes. Apart from not eat, that is.

I debated whether I should tell her about Fred and Malita's disappearance but she was such a worrier and I didn't want to see her upset. Alan was right – we were very close. I watched her fussing around in the kitchen. She might be forty-eight but she was still very attractive, beautiful in certain lights. I wondered what she must have looked like at eighteen. There were some posed photographs but I couldn't visualise her. I'd never seen her in a bathing costume and I tried to imagine the scene where Father and Phillips were fighting over her.

Sometimes I found it difficult to understand why she put up with my father, even more difficult to accept that they had a close relationship. He ranted about everything but she never rose to his bait. If he wanted an argument, he turned on me, knowing how easy it was to get a response.

She stopped, aware of my scrutiny, and smiled at me the way only a mother can. A smile which asked if there was something I needed to tell her.

There was, but I couldn't. Instead, I felt guilty because I had so many secrets I couldn't share with her. If I started talking about Rachel and Caroline, I knew she'd pry everything out of me and I couldn't face that.

I tried harder with the beef stew and made a little progress, by dropping a few scraps for Alan's cat, Tonto, while she wasn't looking – sufficient to clear space on my plate so that she let me scoot off to find my father.

I heard the sharp crack of the Lee-Enfield as I approached the field. We'd set up a 200 yard range in the top field and built some earthen butts to protect our neighbours from flying bullets. I practised occasionally and it was useful to have such an exposed field with varying wind conditions.

Given his volatile nature, I was surprised that Alan had mastered the art of quiet calculation, controlled breathing and the iron patience that was necessary to hit targets consistently at long range.

I approached him and picked up the spotting scope. His grouping was immaculate. I imagined a soldier's helmet and what would happen to it, and the head it contained, when struck by a bullet travelling faster than the speed of sound. I shuddered.

He rose from the prone position, removed his ear protectors then noticed me. He looked startled. ‘What the hell are you doing, sneaking up on me like that, you blithering idiot?'

A good start. ‘Sorry, Mum told me you were here –'

‘She didn't tell you to go out and get yourself shot, did she?'

I hadn't taken any risks, but he was angry because he hadn't spotted me. I didn't tell him any of this. I needed him calm. ‘Sorry.' I suppressed the rest just in case it might be construed as sarcastic.

‘What do you want? Why aren't you in school, drooling over Shakespeare?'

In his anger, he'd given me a clue. I knew he didn't have much time for acting, had come to watch me play Shylock under sufferance and dire threats from my mother, but he'd never been this blunt before. I wondered if he thought I was turning into some sort of “nancy boy”. That would be the end. Perhaps he'd been teased by some of his friends about his “actor” son. He was a man almost throttled by pride. With a Communist for a brother-in-law and now an “artiste” for an elder son, he would make a cheap target for his Masonic brethren.

I was tempted to walk away to avoid another argument but I realised that the police would call soon about Fred and it would be a lot better if I told him before that happened.

‘No. It's more serious. Uncle Fred has disappeared and his house has been broken into.'

He stared at me then started to laugh. ‘That's not serious. It's no more than the commie bugger deserves. I hope they burned his bloody books.'

‘That's bloody unfair. Malita is missing as well. You haven't seen what they've done. His house is wrecked.'

‘Don't you bloody swear at me, young man! Why are you sticking your nose into that bugger's affairs, anyway? It's got nothing to do with you. And why aren't you in school? I'm not paying bloody fees for you to swan around the bloody island.'

‘You don't pay bl… fees for me. I got the scholarship – remember? It's Alan you pay the fees for.'

‘Don't you raise your voice to me. You're not too old for a thrashing, you know.'

He meant that. He was right, I wasn't too old and he certainly could give me a thrashing. Perhaps he needed to slap me around a bit. Get rid of some of his anger. But could I take it without fighting back?

‘Why do you hate me so much?' I'd said what I'd been thinking for months. Now for the consequences.

He snorted. ‘Grow up. You sound like a bloody girl.' He pressed closer to me. ‘Here, this came for you this morning. I opened it.' He shoved a folded envelope towards me.

I could see it was a telegram. I unfolded it and extracted the single sheet. It was addressed to me. “IN FRANCE STOP RETURN WED EVE STOP FM ENDS”. I exhaled with relief.

‘Not serious at all, was it?'

Grumpy had explained that the word sarcasm had its roots in Greek and meant to “tear the flesh”. Mine felt suitably shredded but I didn't mind. Fred and Malita were safe and I needed to tell Rachel. I didn't need to fight with my father, didn't care anymore if he hated me or not. I turned away and started to walk back.

‘Where do you think you're going? I haven't finished with you yet.' He reached out and grabbed my arm.

His fingers were like a vice. He wanted to hurt me. I felt the control slipping from me. I couldn't let him do this. I had to fight back. I would have the chance for one punch before he flattened me. I would have to make it count. I clenched my fist and prepared to swing.

‘Monsieur Renouf, Monsieur,
aidez nous
.' It was Loïc, one of our Breton workers. He was running towards us as though his shirt tails were on fire.

The vice was unclamped from my arm as Father turned to Louis. ‘What is it?'

The Breton skidded to a halt and screeched at us in rapid French that Victor had escaped and was loose in the yard looking for some cows to hump.

‘That's it. I've had enough of that bloody animal.' Father shoved me aside, grabbed his rifle and strode off towards the farmhouse.

I followed. Loïc traipsed along behind, happy to keep us between him and the rampaging bull.

According to Loïc, Victor had charged the gate and burst through it. I don't think Father believed that any more than I did. Victor might be vicious but he wasn't stupid and had worked out from previous experience that his nose was soft and the metal bars were hard. Someone must have forgotten to secure it. The only one who went into that field was Mum. I didn't want her shot as well, so I thought I had better keep close to Father.

If Victor hadn't been so dangerous, I would have found the scene in the yard quite amusing. Corentin and Katell were on the roof of the cowshed hurling Breton insults at Victor, who was testing the door with his snout.

There were two pregnant cows in the shed. The rest were in the lower field, which was fenced off. Victor would soon realise he couldn't get to any of them and start on anything soft he could find to batter. That included Fred's bike, which I had left outside the house.

Father stopped, ejected the magazine and started loading .303 cartridges. One of those would go straight through the bull at this range. I wasn't surprised he wanted to shoot him. We'd barely recovered the cost of his purchase in servicing fees before he revealed a truculence as dark as his chocolate coat.

Word had spread that he'd broken the back of an expensive young cow during a violent mating and now no farmer would risk his services, however much Father offered to cut the price. Just standing still, he was costing a fortune in feed. It was Mum's misplaced affection that kept him from the abattoir. Father couldn't stand disobedience and Victor had crossed him once too often.

He clicked the magazine into place. For once, I didn't disagree with him. I just hoped it would be a clean shot. I didn't think Father would miss but he might want him to suffer a bit first. I chided myself for the uncharitable thought but I believed him capable of it. He raised the rifle and took aim just as the kitchen door opened and Mum walked out holding something in her hand. She hadn't seen us.

‘Stop. Don't shoot!' I grabbed for his arm.

She heard that and so did Victor. He raised his great head and searched for the source of the shout.

Mum looked up and spotted us. ‘Put your gun down, Aubin. I'll deal with this. Don't you dare shoot Victor.'

‘Stand back, Mary. He's dangerous. Get back in the house.'

She ignored him and called to Victor. He recognised her voice and lowered his head as though ready to charge. Father kept the rifle aimed as Mum approached the bull. She reached out her hand. He snorted and pawed the ground.

I could see his flanks heaving and realised that he was confused. We'd trained him to hump cows. Why were we stopping him? Perhaps he was in as much emotional turmoil as me. I felt sympathy for him. Poor, dumb animal. Mum got closer, blocking a shot to Victor's head. She patted his neck with her left hand and pressed her right to his mouth. He nuzzled it while she slipped her left along his head to the nose ring. She pulled his head up until we could see that she was feeding him sugar cubes. Docile now, he allowed her to lead him back to his field. As she passed us, she winked.

Later, having polished off the equivalent of two lunches to my half of one, Father cleared the table and started stripping his rifle. Mum flicked at his head with her apron but didn't make any other comment as she placed mugs of tea in front of us. I didn't know what the female equivalent of
cojones
was but she had them.

‘Are you going to tell him, Aubin?' She prodded him with her finger.

‘No.'

‘Why not?'

‘I was going to wait until Alan got back, tell them together.'

She looked at me but spoke to him. ‘That's silly. I'll tell him then.'

‘As you wish.' From his tone he certainly didn't. He continued to clatter the rifle bits around the table to make his point.

‘What is it I am to be or not to be told?'

‘Huh, more bloody Shakespeare.'

‘Aubin, please no swearing in the house. You promised, remember.' Her voice was soft and he muttered something as he pulled the cleaning cloth through the barrel of the disassembled rifle.

‘Ignore him, love. We've got some good news. We got the cheque from the merchant this morning for the spuds. It's much larger than we thought so Dad is going to install a telephone.'

I looked up in disbelief. He had railed about the expense so often even though it must have been very inconvenient for his business and for running the Masonic Lodge.

‘And that's not all. We're going to have a bathroom.'

Now I was surprised. How often had he declared that toilets were for namby-pambies? Real men pissed in the cow shed, shivered in the thunder box and washed under the pump in the yard. Only women were allowed to use the honey bucket.

At least we had showers at school and Saul's apartment had everything the modern family needed, including central heating. So he'd given into Mum at last. Good for her. Two little bits of civilisation were about to invade the wilds of St Martin.

‘He's taking me into Romerils to choose the suite, aren't you, dear?'

I'd like to be a fly on the wall when they were choosing. I pitied the salesman who would have to deal with them.

‘That's enough. Don't get too excited. We're just getting the basics. No fancy colours and you're not going to be prettying yourself up in there every day. The soakaway won't cope with it.' He sounded gruff enough but I suspected he was pleased to be able to afford to provide her dream at last. He'd die rather than show that though. One day I would understand him, perhaps.

I looked at my watch and lied. ‘I have to get back to school for the match.' I wanted to get the news about Fred and Malita to Rachel. I couldn't wait until seven-thirty to see her again.

‘Take it easy, love, on that big bike.'

Father slotted the bolt back into the rifle with a loud slap. His tone was harsh. ‘I don't want to see that thing here again. Take it back to your uncle and leave it there. Use your own. You were quick enough to ask for the money to buy it.'

Another example of his selective memory. I'd worked for every penny, but there was no point in arguing. I wanted to get away from him before we started fighting again.

‘I'll get the bus home. See you later.' I pecked Mum on the cheek, grabbed my cricket kit, to maintain the charade, and eased out of the door before he could complete the rifle's assembly and start practising on me.

17

I checked the padlock on the back door. As far as I could see, no one had tampered with it. I didn't want Malita to see the devastation in her home but felt that it would be unwise to clear it up. Fred might find some clues. I'd have to make sure I met him before he got home.

I rode to the harbour to check the boat schedule. Because of the low tides, the
Brittany
was due in much earlier than I expected, at six-thirty. I'd have to meet Rachel from work at five, or she'd miss them. I couldn't imagine he would come back from France by any other means.