The Book of Ebenezer le Page (55 page)

Well, she lasted the winter. I thought then with the spring coming she might get better after all. I knew she was very weak. She would lie for hours not asleep: just weak. She died on May the first. She had had a little to eat that day; and there was sun on our windows in the evening. She was lying on her back with her eyes closed; when, suddenly, she opened her eyes and held out her arms and smiled. It was not to me. Then her arms fell limp by her side. That was how she left me. I went across for Olive Le Boutillier and everything was done properly. It was a private funeral, like for my mother: a hearse and one motor-car. I invited Alf Brouard, young Lihou and young Jean le Boutillier. She was mourned by two old men and two young ones. She was buried with my mother, in the grave I had bought in the Chapel part of the Vale cemetery. Tabitha was not one to bother where she was buried. All she wanted was to curl up with Jean for eternity.

Tabby was alive yet and going on the beach when the Tommies was around clearing up the mess the Germans had left behind. They was certainly a change from the slave-workers. They enjoyed themselves, the Tommies, putting us to rights, and they was nice cheery chaps; though I don't know why the English soldiers are called Tommies. As far as I could make out they was all called Bill. Of course I was asked the everlasting question ‘How was it under the Germans?' ‘Well, I'm still alive,' I would say; and start talking about the First World War. They looked at me as if I had come out of the Ark. They didn't seem to know there had been a First World War. It is the same with the young chaps nowadays. They don't know there was a Second World War; and the Occupation is a bit of fun they missed.

There is no Guernsey Militia now, and there are no regular soldiers stationed on the island, but that don't mean it is an island for peace. Raymond was for peace; but I doubt if he would get more of a look-in now than when he was alive. The Guernsey people don't want war here naturally, because it might stop them making money; but there are a lot who are for Rhodesia and South Africa, and get a kick out of what the Americans are up to. Lately I got the idea of going to the Pictures sometimes to pass away an evening. I went to the Gaumont, or I went to the Odeon and came home on the bus. I soon gave it up. I hardly ever went but it was shooting and killing. The T.V. is worse. It isn't often I see it, and never if I can help it; but one night I went to visit some Le Pages from the Ramée, who are cousins of a cousin of my mother. They was three families living in one house, and the youngest boy was only fifteen. I thought perhaps I might leave him something. It turned out he was one of those with long hair and tight trousers; but otherwise he seemed a nice lad, only shy. Goodness, he wasn't shy when the T.V. was lit up! It was Americans shooting and killing. A Yank don't think he is a man unless he got a gun in his hand. Young Ernie was watching it trembling with excitement and couldn't keep still, but was bouncing up and down on his seat. All he wanted was to be doing the same thing. I got up and said I wouldn't stop to the end.

I reckon fighting, fornicating and making money are the three easiest things to do in this world; and I have done a bit of all three myself, so I ought to know. I am still making money one way and the other. Once you start, you can't stop. It would be making itself for me if I had put it in the bank, and was having interest paid on it every year. ‘Unto him that hath shall be given and from him that hath not shall be taken, even that which he hath.' The trouble is I don't know what to do with what I got now I got it. I won't live for ever. I will have to leave it to somebody. I reckon I have walked a hundred if one mile these last years going to visit relations, or relations by marriage, on the look out for somebody worth leaving it to. I think everybody living on the island must by now be used to seeing old Ebenezer Le Page in his old-fashioned suit and his old-fashioned hat trotting on his bandy legs with his stick along the roads and the lanes; and trying to keep out of the way of being run over. ‘Ah, the poor old man!' the people say; but they don't know how much I got hidden in the house, and how much I got buried in the ground. Young Bill Torode, who live in one of the new houses along the Braye, called out after me only the other day, ‘Hi, gran'-père, why don't you get a tricycle?' I said, ‘What for do I want a tricycle, me? I can get along all right on three legs.'

I don't know what it is about women: but, for some reason, they just cannot bear to see any man, it don't matter how old he is, or of what shape, or of what size, getting along on his own. I think after Tabitha died, all the women living in the parishes of the Vale and of St Sampson's, and a crowd of others, got together on one big committee and decided Ebenezer Le Page of Les Moulins must be married to a wife. The Marriage Marketing Board. It didn't matter when I went out, or where I went, I was stopped and spoken to and given advice by some woman or another. Old Mrs Renouf from L'Islet had her say, of course; and Mrs Duquemin from the Ville Baudu, whose husband drinks like a fish; and Mrs Ogier from the Bassières, whose husband beat her black and blue while he yet had the strength; and Mrs Tardiff from the Tertre who have buried so many husbands nobody knows if she was ever married at all.

It was always the same rigmarole. ‘Ah, now your poor sister is gone, it is high time you was looking round for a nice little wife, isn't it?' I would say, ‘Goodness, what nice little wife d'you think will want me with all the young chaps coming back?' ‘There are dozens who would jump at the chance,' they would say. Well, I didn't see none of those dozens jumping, me; and if there was any, I was quite sure it was for my house and my money they was jumping, not for me. Mind you, I had certain thoughts and feelings sometimes, and my eyes kept straying in the wrong direction when I saw girls about; but I noticed the shorter the skirts got, the thinner the legs. I made myself remember Clara Fallaize, who was a great grandmother now, and as big as a house. There is no fool like an old fool, and I wasn't going to make a fool of myself, if I could help it.

The summer after Tabitha died, Rita Nicolle from the Bailloterie came to help me with the packing. She was the daughter-in-law of old Nicolle who was such a staunch supporter of Oliver Cromwell, and was a widow with one son. Her husband, Bill Nicolle, was killed in the Commandos and Johnnie, the boy, was about seven. I liked Johnnie. He was a sturdy black-haired little Guernsey boy, and I wouldn't have minded him for a son myself. Rita was forty or so, and a good worker. At first she went home for her dinner, but I said she could have it at Les Moulins, if she would cook mine at the same time. Tea-times Johnnie came from school to fetch his mother; and I gave them both a good tea before they went home. I enjoyed having them in the house; and got quite friendly with Rita. She talked to me about her husband and she had nothing but good to say of him. I liked her for that. I talked to her about Tabitha and Jean, and we got on well together. I am not saying she was ready to jump. She didn't push herself, or play tricks like Mrs Crewe. The only thing she did say was Johnnie had taken a great fancy to me, and was always talking about me at home. All the same, I think if I had asked her to marry me, she would have; and I think she knew I was thinking about it.

It was a reasonable thing to do. Her father-in-law let her live in the wing of his house; but she didn't like the old man, and he was always interfering. She had nothing except her widow's pension and what she earnt. If she married me, she would have a home of her own, and a place to leave to Johnnie; and I would have a companion, and a decent sensible woman at that, as well as the pleasure of watching young Johnnie grow up. I lay on my back in bed many nights thinking it over. I hadn't started yet on my wild-goose chase for somebody to leave my money to; but I was already thinking I didn't want what I got to be wasted. I will say at once I decided against it; but I don't think I can give a good reason. It wouldn't have been a love match. It would have been a business arrangement; but an honest business arrangement. That was just what I was against. I thought of Jim and me: that wasn't business; and of Raymond and me: that wasn't business. I thought of Liza and Tabitha and me: that wasn't business. Raymond said the Kingdom of Heaven have nothing to do with the States. I don't know nothing about the Kingdom of Heaven, but I do know there is something have nothing to do with business. Anyway, I didn't ask her.

I don't know if she was disappointed. If so, she didn't show it. At the end of the season I told her I would be glad if she would come and work for me again the next year, but she said she was going to try and find a job as a housekeeper in a hotel, if they would let her keep the boy. She did find a job, and have been manageress of a big hotel in Town for years. I meet her sometimes and we have a chat. She is a well set up woman now; and Johnnie is grown up and married, and drives a bus for the Guernsey Railway Company. He always shouts out ‘Hullo!' when he sees me. Perhaps I was a fool.

It was that winter I started going to see my Cousin Mary Ann. I don't suppose any of the people she had been to help had ever thought of going to see her to her house. She was ‘la pauvre Mary Ann' and turned up on your doorstep when there was misery; and at the end of the day disappeared with her bags full, and you thought no more about her. I hadn't been pleased when she turned up at Les Moulins, but Tabitha had been glad to have her there; so I thought I might as well go along and thank her. I went one Thursday evening when the days was closing in, and arranged it so as not to arrive until after tea. I hadn't been along the Robergerie since the day I went to her wedding, and couldn't even remember which was her cottage. I had to ask a chap going home from work. If he hadn't pointed it out I wouldn't have recognised it; for it had been all painted and done up.

I knocked on the front door and I heard her heavy feet coming along the passage. When she opened the door she couldn't see who it was. ‘Who is it?' she said. ‘Ebenezer,' I said, ‘the brother of Tabitha.' ‘Oh come in, come in!' she said. ‘I am so glad you have come to see me. Nobody ever come to see me.' I felt quite ashamed she was so pleased, for I had gone as much as for any other reason because I had nothing else to do. The cottage inside, as I remembered it, was dark and shabby and crammed full of old furniture; but now everything was new, and looked as if it had come straight out of Fuzzey's window. In what had been the kitchen there was linoleum on the floor and a good rug by the fire; and the walls was papered instead of being varnished boards, and the woodwork of the door and windows painted blue and yellow. It was a modern grate, instead of an open fire and a terpid; and there was cupboards instead of a dresser. The ceiling was done in wreaths of roses. All in all, I didn't think it very homely, myself: but I said, ‘It's a nice room you got here.' She said, ‘It's my son Eugene who have done it: he is clever at decorating. I'll show you the rest when you're warm.'

She got the electric, the gas, a radio; and I noticed a telephone in the passage. It wasn't a bad little house, come to that; but, when she showed me the front room, I thought there was too many knick-knacks in it. I like having those things I got to have to use; but I don't go in much for ornaments. Eugene liked every sort of useless ornament from a ship in a bottle to a peacock's feather, which I had always thought was unlucky in a house anyway; and there was china birds with long necks flying up the walls. The famous horse-hair sofa where big Clara and me curled up was gone and, in its place was a modern affair on tubes. My Cousin Mary Ann showed me the children's rooms and hers with the double bed. The two for the children, one for the boy and one for the two girls, was small; but done up new and the beds was of light wood. Her own room she had kept as it was with the old-fashioned iron bedstead with brass knobs and a high chest-of-drawers with a bulging front and a mahogany press with a full-length mirror. I expect it was the only room she felt at home in. Over the bed was an enlarged photo of Eugene Le Canu. She said, ‘Eugene, my husband.' He looked smart in his coachman's uniform, and quite the lad. It was all she had of him.

She said I must have something to eat before I went home, and gave me a good supper of cold ham. It was from a shop, for her son Eugene had got rid of the rack in his craze for decorating. While she was laying the table she was telling me about her children. I couldn't make out at first which was which of the two girls, for one was called Dora and the other was called Nora; but I worked it out D came before N and therefore Dora was the first and Nora was the second. I realised Dora must be getting on for fifty. She was married to a Domaille from Gran'-Rock, who was a relation of the Domailles who had lived next house to my grandmother of Les Sablons. During the Occupation she had worked in the kitchen of the Royal Hotel, cooking for the German officers; and now she had a guest-house of her own for visitors from England. My Cousin Mary Ann said it was Nora, the second, who had been the pretty one; but on the flighty side. Anyhow, she was at last engaged, it was hoped, but to a chap much younger than her, who had only come to Guernsey since the Liberation. I couldn't make out who, or what he was. He had a funny name: Van-something. Eugene was out courting; but he was always out courting, only not always the same girl. I wondered if perhaps he had turned out to be like his father: but no, it was always the girl who found somebody else she liked better. My Cousin Mary Ann said Eugene was a good boy. I felt sorry for him.

Before I left, she asked me if I would come again, and I said I would. She said next time I must come to tea, and on a Thursday again would be best, because that was the afternoon she was on her own. I got the feeling she didn't want me to meet her children; and I noticed that evening she was anxious to get me out of the house before Nora and Eugene came home. I went often of a Thursday afternoon and got to know my Cousin Mary Ann very well. I don't think she had much love for anybody: not even for her children. She was wise, perhaps. She got no grand ideas about herself either. She didn't think of herself as a good woman going round helping people. She said she only went to help people for what she could get; and they only put up with her for what they could get out of her. ‘They give me something to take home because they are too proud to owe to anybody,' she said.