The Book of Ebenezer le Page (27 page)

She wanted to sit down and we sat on the furthest seat on the grass along Havelet by the tunnel. She said, ‘I thought of you when I heard Jim Mahy was gone. He was your friend to the end, then.' ‘He was,' I said. She put a hand on my knee, like a fellow. ‘You're a faithful soul,' she said. ‘There are some wouldn't say that,' I said. ‘Ah well, that's different,' she said; and she laughed. She took my hand in hers and examined it. ‘You have very good hands,' she said. I had never thought about my hands. They are square with strong fingers and long thumbs; and all I know is I am good at doing things with my hands. ‘I always look at a man's hands,' she said. ‘They give his real character.' ‘What's mine, then?' I said. She said, ‘I have never seen you do a clumsy thing, not even when you push your best girl in the water; and you threw the hat straight.' Yes, Liza had a forgiving nature.

There was very few people about, and none came as far as where we was sitting. The sun was setting on the other side of the island, and the sky over our heads was streaks of gold; and there was a purple mist low down. I remember how we sat and watched the lights come up along the Esplanade and round the harbour and on the ships in the Pool. ‘It's lovely here,' Liza said in a whisper. ‘Yes,' I said. I had to whisper too: everything was so still. The long island of Sark was only a shadow, and a shadow was creeping across the wide meadow on Herm, and Jethou was a dark hump I could only just make out, when the moon began to rise out of the mist. It was only the tip at first; but it grew and grew until it was big and round and copper-coloured, and the light from it upon the sea and upon the islands was a glory I cannot speak. There was no words passed between us, and we wasn't even touching; yet I felt she was near to me, nearer to me than any woman have ever been, before or since. At last she said, ‘You'll have to be very patient with me, my dear. I'm one of the ruins Cromwell knocked about a bit.'

She stood up and gave me her hand then, and pulled me to my feet; and we walked hand-in-hand along the front as far as the Salerie Corner. It was surprising how quickly the moon had risen high up in the sky; and by the time we reached the Salerie, it was small and white and looked cold, and the sea was silver. I don't think a word was said all the way. I was thinking she is hurt and she is wounded and she is twisted and in pain; and I am too. We turned up Paris Street and went up Les Côtils Lane to Castle Carey. She didn't go in by the side door, as she used to, for nobody even pretended she was a servant there now. ‘Well, good-night,' I said and took her in my arms and kissed her; but it was only her cheek, and her cheek was cold. ‘Thank you for a wonderful evening,' she said. ‘When again?' I said. She said, ‘I'll let Ada know.'

One day last week I went to visit young David Livingstone Le Page, who is a great-grand cousin of mine, to be exact. His grandfather was a cousin of my father's, who emigrated to Canada and married a French girl over there. A son, Charles Le Page, came over to Guernsey on a visit, as he thought, but found himself married to Ethel Lenfestey from Les Abreveurs and didn't go back to Canada. Ethel Lenfestey belonged to a lot like my mother's, but with a difference; and my mother would have nothing to do with them. They called themselves Pentecostalists, and held their meetings in a tin tabernacle at Vazon and spoke with tongues; but not one of them could understand what any of the others was saying. My mother said it was vanity. Ethel took it very serious and had to be put away in the Country Hospital for a time, because she got so as she would speak with tongues to anybody she met along the road or on the bus or in Town. However her behaviour was quite harmless among a lot of mad people, and she was let out. Charles Le Page, who was a hefty backwoodsman sort of bloke, married her in his innocence. He didn't know then she was given to speaking with tongues, though I have no doubt people let him know it when it was too late. As a matter of fact, she didn't speak with tongues once she was married, except in Guernsey French.

Her people was well-to-do, and he had every reason to expect she would be pretty well-off; but her brother didn't give her all he ought to have done, when the old people died. Charles managed to make a living here and there; and her brother let them live in the wing of the house. They managed to rub along somehow. They didn't have any children for twenty-five years and then, when she thought she was past having any, David came along. She heard a voice from Heaven when he was born and he was christened David Livingstone and dedicated from birth to ‘work in the vineyard'. He was a small boy at school when the Germans came and was one of those who didn't leave the island, because Ethel said it would show lack of trust in God. He got what education he could at a primary school, which wasn't much while the Germans was here; and after the Liberation, was sent to a Bible College in England to be trained as an evangelist. I had heard he was home and was waiting for guidance to enter on his ministry.

I am not as young as I was, and it is high time I made a will; so I am going the round of my relations, those I know of, to see if I can make up my mind who to leave my money to. I thought perhaps young David was being pushed and didn't really want to work in the vineyard. There might be something else he would rather do. When I went to see him, I didn't tell him what I had in mind, of course; but I soon discovered he was quite sincere about being an evangelist. He talked to me with his Bible in his hand. I will say for him he didn't think his church was the only one right. He belonged to the Elim Four-square Gospel Church; but his great friend was the Minister of Trinity Church in Town, which is Church of England. He said, ‘The business of every Christian of every denomination is to bring the world to Christ.' I could hardly say anything against that. I asked him where he was going to begin. He said in Darkest Africa. I thought myself he might have begun nearer home. I said it must be going to cost a lot of money surely, to go right out there. Was he going to have to pay, or was the Church? He said the Church was going to pay, but they didn't actually have the money yet. They was praying for it, and the Lord would provide. I thought, in that case, it would never do for me to interfere. David Livingstone Le Page is one of my relations I will not leave my money to.

I have said Raymond was religious, and I suppose he was; but, if so, he was religious in quite a different way to David Livingstone Le Page. David proved everything he said was true by chapter and verse from the Bible. Raymond didn't try to prove anything he said by chapter and verse. He made it up as he went along. He said to me once, ‘If you ever let yourself believe anything, you by that much cut yourself off from faith in God.' When I look back on his story now, I think he must have been mad to imagine any Church or Chapel of any denomination would put up with him for long. I remember him saying to me, when the Wesleyans had spewed him out of their mouth, and none of the good Chapel people at St Sampson's would be seen as much as talking to him, ‘D'you know, Ebenezer, I doubt every word has ever been written or spoken, I doubt my own mind, I doubt my own existence sometimes; but I do not doubt the existence of God.' I am half-way with him there. I doubt everything I hear, even if I say it myself; and, after the things I have been through and seen happen to other people on this island and known to have happened in the world, I sometimes wonder about the existence of God: but I know I am Ebenezer Le Page.

Raymond went through an experience when he was at the Fort meant a great deal to him. As an Instructor, the only other duty he had to do was now and then to go on guard. He didn't have to march up and down with fixed bayonet, but change the guard every two hours. There was a guard on the Barrier Gate day and night; and another by the wireless mast, overlooking the Lower Lines, from sunset to dawn. Those was cushy days for Raymond. There was a fire right up the chimney in the guardroom, and the best food was sent down from the cook-house. There was beds for the fellows to lie on between duties; and Raymond himself used to have a nap after dinner, and a chap would wake him up with a cup of tea. There was always a big, brown enamel teapot of tea on the boil. When they wasn't asleep, those who was off duty sat round and yarned. Raymond was glad just to listen, and be among the others. In his mind, they was all grand fellows. He said, ‘One minute they would be telling smutty stories about the Royal Family, and the next talking about their mothers and sisters with tears in their eyes. They were innocent.'

Private Harry Whitehouse was on guard with him that day. From what he said, I imagine Harry Whitehouse to have been the exact opposite of Raymond in every way; and it is plain to me he had taken a great fancy to Raymond. When his platoon went down to the gym, Raymond said Harry would dodge out of turn to get into his squad. He wasn't one of those Raymond took home for a meal of a Sunday. For Hetty's sake, he chose the better educated and well brought-up, who Hetty would think was nice boys. Harry was a big rough chap and uneducated compared to Raymond, and only a coal-miner in civvy-street. Raymond hadn't spoken to him off parade before; but that day Harry chummed up. They talked together when Harry was off duty the whole day; and, between whiles, Raymond found himself longing for Harry to come in from his post, so they could go on where they left off. Harry described the small house in the mining village of Altofts in Yorkshire where he was brought up with a number of brothers and sisters and a father who drank and a mother who worked her fingers to the bone. He went only to the Elementary School, and then down the mine at fourteen. He was the eldest, and whatever money he earnt was for the family. He didn't begrudge it. He liked the kids; though it meant he couldn't knock about with his mates who spent what they earnt boozing, and he hadn't bothered with girls. Raymond said, ‘He gave me all he had to give. He was as honest, as open as the day; and he spread his whole life before me. I lived it with him. He was a lovely chap.'

It happened Harry was on the last duty at the wireless mast from four to six in the morning. During the day Raymond had to change the guard regimental fashion and march the fellow out and put him through his paces; but at night he didn't bother. The Orderly Officer might pop his head in the guardroom, but more often than not he stopped in bed. At four o'clock in the morning Raymond walked up with Harry, letting him carry his rifle at the trail; and at six o'clock he went up again to bring him back. Harry was pacing up and down by the wireless mast like a good soldier, and doing a smart right-about turn, but it was only to keep himself warm. ‘Time's up!' said Raymond. ‘It's cold, be-cripes!' said Harry, and put an arm around Raymond. ‘Jesus, I've always wanted to get a feel of you, Corp!' he said. Raymond laughed and pushed him away. ‘Go and get a cup of tea inside of you!' he said, ‘that'll warm you up.' He let Harry go down to the guardroom on his own. ‘I saw the sun rise,' he said to me. He wouldn't say any more. I said, ‘It must have been a lovely view of the islands from up there.' He turned on me quite angry. ‘It was NOT a view of the islands!' he said. ‘Then what?' I said. ‘It was the Light upon Gennesaret,' he said, ‘and I was in it and it was in me. It was a glimpse of the world as God made it on the first morning of the first day.' I don't know what he meant. Perhaps he was already going funny in the head.

The last time I had a talk with Raymond made any sense, and it didn't make much, he spoke again about that night. When he got back to the guardroom, Harry was sitting by the fire with his tunic off drinking tea. ‘Christ, I thought you'd buggered off home!' he said. He said it real nasty. ‘It was like a hit in the wind,' Raymond said. On the way down from the wireless mast he had been feeling how he could never hate anybody again, or anybody hate him. He made a bed up for Harry, hoping by doing so to put things right between them. ‘Have a couple of hours shut-eye before breakfast, Harry,' he said. ‘Might as well,' said Harry, but sulky; and he took off his puttees and boots and lay on the bed. ‘Well, you're in the warm now,' said Raymond. Harry lay on his back looking up at Raymond; but he had a hurt look in his eyes. ‘You'll never let a chap get near you, will you, kid?' he said. Raymond didn't know what to say, and went and sat by the fire. Harry didn't wangle to be drilled by him again: he wangled not to. It wasn't for long. He went on draft in a fortnight and was killed his first week out. ‘I did a great wrong that night,' said Raymond, when he was telling me. ‘I don't see how,' I said. ‘When I pushed Harry off,' he said. ‘I think you did the right thing then,' I said. ‘Oh yes,' he said bitterly, for he was being very bitter about himself then: ‘I did the right thing! I did the right thing! He asked me for bread and I gave him a stone. I'm no good.'

I have always blamed Christine for what she did to Raymond, and will never forgive her as long as I live; yet perhaps it is Raymond I ought to blame. He did the right thing when he married Christine; and yet perhaps he did her a great wrong. If so, she got her revenge a hundredfold and ought to be satisfied. Myself, I think he was a hero in his way, and Liza thought so too; yet she admired Christine. ‘I envy that woman,' she said. ‘She goes for what she wants without a thought for anyone else; or what the consequences to herself may be. She has the courage.' Well, I don't know that Liza was lacking in courage herself; but she was human as well as being a woman, and able to appreciate Raymond. ‘He was the sweetest-natured, the most understanding person I have ever known,' she said to me, when we had our last big quarrel. ‘He was kinder to me, he understood me better than you ever have, or ever could, God rest his soul!' It was funny she should say that; for she didn't have a spark of religion in her.

I didn't hear a word of Liza for weeks after our wonderful evening. I was hoping every day Ada would bring a message; and I knew she would have, if there was one to bring. At last one Saturday afternoon she turned up to ask if my mother wanted anything done, or groceries or meat fetched. She had heard my mother wasn't very well. I said I had done the shopping for her already. She was complaining of feeling tired and always having to sit down, but, as she had been as strong as a horse until then, I didn't think it was anything serious. Ada stopped to tea and, when she was going, said perhaps I would like to walk with her part of the way. I knew then something bad was coming. She said, ‘Liza has asked me to let you know she has gone to Scotland.' I hadn't asked Liza who was the father of her children, or where they had gone to. I had thought of it the night I was with her, but hadn't wanted to spoil things. ‘For how long?' I managed to say. ‘She says perhaps for good,' said Ada.