Against the Tide (50 page)

‘Shut up, Saul. This has nothing to do with you.'

‘Oh, really? What the fuck am I doing here then?'

‘You had no choice. You're a witness like the rest of us.' Rachel sounded exasperated with him.

I pointed at the constable's officer. ‘I'm sure he's been making notes, haven't you, Officer? Your bosses will be interested in everything that's been said. Make sure you get it right.'

Saul nudged me. ‘Don't worry, Jack, they haven't been indiscreet. No references to Shylock and his daughter's theft.'

That was something. They'd had the sense not to mention diamonds in front of the poor man, who was looking quite bemused enough.

‘Okay, I'm all ears – even if they are rather red. Tell me. Make
me
feel sorry for the German bastard.'

‘Jack, that's enough.' Rachel sounded angry with me.

What
had
been going on in here?

‘It's okay, Rachel.' Caroline patted her arm. ‘It's just that we've all had rather a lot of secrets dragged out of us in the last few days –'

‘Just tell me one thing, Caroline. You're not my sister as well – are you?'

It was a vicious slap – perhaps undeserved – but I was still very angry. Her face dissolved and she started to sob. The other two stared aghast at me. Even the haberdasher leant forward in his chair. Had her reaction confirmed it?

She balled her hands into fists. ‘How could you? How could you? Do you think I would have let – you fucking cruel bastard!'

Saul couldn't handle silence. ‘Well – just for the record, Jack. In case Caroline never speaks to you again. Her mother moved to Berlin in 1913 with her parents. Colonel Hayden was a military attaché. She met Tobias Kempler, had a fling, produced Rudi then buggered off to England with her parents when war broke out. Had to leave the little bastard behind because the Kemplers wouldn't let him go. In normal times it might have caused a diplomatic incident but the Germans had launched one of their own by then and there was nothing she could do. This was probably a relief to her father as having an illegitimate grandson fathered by the enemy wasn't a great career move. Tobias was killed by a British sniper in 1917.'

He paused waiting for a reaction.

Caroline's voice was flat, unemotional. ‘My mother met Wilbur in Jersey before the war. It's a complicated story. I've seen photographs of Tobias. He was very handsome, came from a well-placed family. After Tobias was killed, Rudi was adopted by his uncle Ferdinand.' She tried to smile and turned to Rachel.

‘It seems I'm not the only one to have family secrets kept from them.'

So they'd been sharing more than their opinion of me. Rachel's face was blank.

I waited.

Caroline looked into the distance. ‘After the war, my mother met Wilbur again in Jersey, though it would seem that Jack's father got there first.'

I couldn't protest, not now my mother had broadcast the affair, so I kept silent.

‘The Renouf men appear to be equally bewildered about relationships.' She sounded more sad than bitter.

I waited, again not knowing how to react.

‘But he chose his wife. Love? Loyalty? Who knows. Perhaps Jack will ask his father one day.'

‘He's outside. Do you want me to bring him in? You could ask him, Caroline. If you think it would –'

‘That's not the best idea you've ever had, Jack.'

‘Saul's right. He probably doesn't know the answer anyway.' Caroline looked towards the door. ‘He's suffered enough this evening. Anyway, it's not about your parents. The question was about mine and I don't have any more answers – apart from guesswork and I'm not thinking very clearly at the moment.'

No one spoke.

Again the silence defeated Saul. ‘Caroline didn't know she had a brother until she met him in Berlin. She didn't know about your father's relationship with her mother until this evening. She's got lots of questions for her mother –'

‘That's enough, Saul. I think we've heard enough secrets for one day.' Caroline slumped in her chair.

Saul stopped and looked at Rachel.

She looked at me.

I looked at Caroline.

She looked at the floor.

She looked up and we all swapped the direction of our gaze.

When our eyes had settled, I was looking at Rachel. She seemed to have grown in strength as Caroline collapsed.

It struck me that Rachel's discovery about her parentage had been more devastating to her than the revelation of my father's and Isobelle's past misdemeanours to Caroline and myself. Now, I sensed that she was distancing herself from us – retreating to examine the reality of who she was.

There was nothing more to be said. I got up and walked to the door, leaving them with their silence. Father was waiting. He took me home.

Epilogue

Sunday 17th September – Evening

The wreckage of the
Mauritania
's raft is all around me. The only recognisable parts are the copper drums; the wooden planks are scattered, like matchwood, across the beach, victims to last night's unexpected storm.

I crunch through the smooth pebbles and pick up a two-foot spar, careful to avoid its jagged edges. I hurl it towards the sand, but it pitches short into the stones, bounces twice before planting itself in the seaweed deposited by this morning's tide.

I am midway between the pool and the Dicq Rock; the tide is reaching in again and will be high in a couple of hours. I sit on one of the copper drums, dented but still in one piece, and contemplate the wreckage at my feet. If there is a symbol of my summer, then I am in the middle of it.

It is a fortnight since we listened to the BBC news and discovered that we were at war with Germany once again. What none of us had wanted to believe is now the reality.

I feel particularly sorry for Uncle Fred. He had been confused and upset by Russia's pact with Germany in August and devastated today when we heard from the lunchtime broadcast of their stab in Poland's back.

His belief in the salvation that Communism offered the working man has been as badly dented as the copper drums scattered around me. But it hasn't shattered like the wood at my feet. He tried to convince us, though I feel he was trying harder to convince himself, that Stalin is just playing with Hitler and will turn on him as soon as he is ready and stamp out fascism forever. Two months ago my father would have thrown him out of the house for mouthing such sentiments but he seems more tolerant now. He even smiled sympathetically at Malita as he served the beef.

Alan turned up late. He'd been practising again at Crabbé with my rifle now that his own was in so many different parts buried around the farm.

He hadn't needed much encouragement to tell me about his part in the sinking. Fred had slipped away from the hotel, found one of his comrades who worked on the Palace Farm next door and persuaded him to drive to our house in their delivery van.

He'd roused Alan and they hurried to the field overlooking the breakwater. He'd spotted while Alan shot. My brother was disappointed he hadn't hit anyone on Alf's boat but Fred told us that he'd been spotting away from human targets. Instead the bullets had frightened the helmsman so much that he'd driven the boat onto the rocks.

They'd observed another white-hulled boat approach then spotted me waving. Fred had insisted on no more shooting so they'd watched the Afrikaners and their crew clamber aboard and drag Sleeman with them, leaving Fairfield and the Germans to their fate. As the police bells clanged past below, Fred had made Alan strip the rifle, wrap the components in oiled rags and distribute them around the farm.

When the police finally interviewed him, he confessed to firing on our range with Father's rifle. When they refloated and examined the boat, they found one bullet. It didn't match.

All of Hayden-Brown's guests, including Rudi Kohler, whose surname was actually Kempler, had flown out of the island the following morning.

After helping the police with their enquiries,
Boadicea
was returned in pieces on the back of a trailer. Fred hoped the rude note he'd left in her frame had been found.

The remainder of July and all of August have been miserable for me. I've taken part in competitions and won a few. Alan and I won the annual-life saving cup, which we privately rechristened the Kohler Trophy.

We beat Guernsey at everything, as usual, but I found no joy in any of it – even the water polo match. The “donkey” marking me gave me more than enough reason to introduce him to my elbow but I resisted the urge and spent most of the game underwater, examining the harbour floor.

I've no interest in food and, despite my mother's best efforts, have lost weight. Miko and I travelled together on the
St Julian
to Southampton so that I could take part in the SCASA one hundred yard championships. These were due to be held at the outdoor pool at St Leonards-on-sea in Sussex. We didn't get further than the customs shed as he was taken aside and refused entry to the UK.

Fred would have been proud of my action to demonstrate my solidarity when I accused the immigration official of racism and told him to shove his bloody country up his arse. We were held overnight in the police station and escorted to the boat the following morning. Miko is still working at the hotel, patiently waiting for a permit to enter England.

In the middle of August, Mr Grumbridge arrived, unexpectedly, at the house with my examination results. He spoke in private with my father. After he left, my father sat me down and asked me if I really wanted to study at university.

I didn't really want to do anything but, against all my expectations, he persuaded me to give it a try. His unspoken concern was that, with war looming, I might emulate his folly of twenty-five years before and join the army. For him, anything was preferable to that – even Shakespeare.

Almost indifferently, I agreed and Grumpy made the arrangements, including a generous bursary. Next month I will follow my uncle and Ned Lawrence and begin as an undergraduate at Oxford, Hitler permitting.

The summer is limping away now, the world has lost its colour and I'm sitting on a beach surrounded by the flotsam of my life, feeling far too sorry for myself.

I spend much of my sleepless nights thinking about Caroline and then worrying about Rachel. They have somehow transferred their insecurities to me and I feel rejected by both. In three weeks, I'll be nineteen years old but feel more ancient than these rocks.

I haven't seen either of them since that miserable evening in the town hall. Caroline returned to Switzerland with her mother the following day. Her father is probably still keeping Christine busy.

Rather naively, Saul had hoped his father wouldn't hear about our role in the affair. However, on his return from South Africa, he was interviewed about his son's behaviour at the Palace Hotel, in particular his rant about diamonds.

Following a robust exchange of views, it was decided that Saul should start work immediately in London, where he could focus his skills on the legitimate diamond trade. He and his father took
Jacob's Star
to a mooring on the Thames. Before they left, Saul had told me that rumours were circulating in the diamond community that a large quantity of industrials had disappeared from the Congo, along with a Belgian merchant called Sleeman.

Since he left, I've had several cards from him. I've only received one from Rachel but nothing from Caroline.

I've just been to see Mr and Mrs Vibert. I felt I should after Rachel's postcard. It had been as terse as a telegram. “I'm okay. Will write. Take care. Love Rachel.”

It had been posted in St Lo the day after war was declared, five weeks after she had left for France to find her real parents. Mrs Vibert was surprised to see me but didn't invite me in. Her husband wasn't home.

I've come here for a swim instead. I'll try again later. I don't know why but I feel I must.

I look at the pool again. It is deserted now, closed up for the winter, perhaps forever. Brewster has resigned and rejoined the navy and will probably be commanding a desk somewhere in Portsmouth.

Nelson and several of the other lads have joined up and are scattered over England. Alan wants to join the army but he is too young. He'll have to wait a while before he can fire a rifle in anger again.

I feel as though someone has stolen my future and I don't know where to begin to look. I'm now a stranger in my own land. I look towards the Dicq Rock where Victor Hugo spent months of his life staring towards France, waiting for his own exile to end.

The tide is well over the pool. There is only a gentle swell. The air is cool but the water is at its warmest. I reach into my canvas bag and extract my costume and towel. I change slowly, feeling my skin pimple over in the evening air. I pick my way over the pebbles and shuffle down the beach.

This will be my last swim. The waves are muddy and seaweed swirls around me as I wade in until I reach my waist.

I look to my left – the pink granite of the Dicq Rock glows in the setting sun. I hold my breath and plunge in, let the water envelope me in its cool caress. I feel refreshed, cleansed.

I kick my feet, my body rises and I'm striking out for the Dicq. There's sufficient movement in the water to force my shoulders to roll. I can feel the whole weight of the Atlantic through those waves. I rise and fall with the motion until I can stretch and touch the warm granite. I tread water and think of Rachel.

A seagull looks despairingly at me then dives for a fish. I turn and look towards the pool, the Blue Terrace. I can hear the band, see the swirling dancers, but all is in shadow now. I push off from the rock and pull steadily towards the empty terraces. A mere 250 yards.

I increase my pace until I am rushing towards Caroline. My hand touches the concrete wall and I push back, floating while I recover my breath and my energy. The wall is cool, cold even. The warmth of the day long since gone – like Caroline.