When the Sky Fell Apart (16 page)

But all he said was, ‘Well, that's that then,' and carried on gutting the mackerel into her sink.

She looked up from the wild garlic she was crushing. It seeped into the blood, the smell of it. She would stink like a Frenchman for days.

‘You're not angry?' she asked.

‘Of course I'm angry! My wife might die or be taken from me at any time. My chance of escape has gone. Without someone to care for her while I row, I'm stuck. Not enough food, except what I bring in the nets. Can't walk ten yards without seeing the Bosche. And any one of the filthy swine could be the one that reports on Marthe. Let alone the rats scuttling about in search of information to give the Germans for scraps of food. But I'm not letting them take her. So that's me done for.'

He stabbed the knife into another fish.

Edith set down her pestle and mortar. ‘I'm sorry, Maurice. It's dreadful. If there were anything I—'

‘Thank you. You've been marvelous, all you've done for Marthe. The care you take of her, of both of us.' His voice quavered.

She couldn't stand to see a man cry. ‘Come now, dwelling on it won't change—'

‘I'm not. I mean to say, I'm simply…I'm thinking on what's to be done.'

She patted his shoulder. ‘We're safer staying and never mind the soldiers—we can protect Marthe, between us. Who knows what would have happened if we'd tried to escape? Nowhere to hide on the open sea, is there?'

Maurice's mouth was hard with trying not to weep; Edith felt a flash of guilt at the false hope she'd dangled in front of his nose when she'd mentioned escape, knowing she'd never believed it would come to that.

He sighed, pressed his finger against the tip of the knife.

‘But it's
them
breathing down our necks, day in, day out. Not knowing who to trust. Do you know, I was talking to Richecoeur yesterday. He told me that Mary Blampied was taken off to prison for a week for having two wireless sets. She has an extra upstairs for her poor mother, who can barely shift out of bed because of her arthritis. It was a tip-off—a note from one of the neighbours, probably.'

Edith nodded and picked up the pestle again, crushed another garlic stalk.

‘Petty jealousy. It's a poor turn of events when you're looking askance at the neighbours. I've heard all sorts about folk using the Germans to settle old scores.'

‘Yes. That's the worst of it. Wondering who would want to see me taken down a peg. Thinking who I might have riled in the past. I'd have the lot of them, I would. German, Jèrriais. Do them in.' His hand gripping the knife shook.

‘Hush, that's foolishness talking. You'll do no such thing. You'll carry on—we all will. Marthe will be well; you've me to look after her. Just keep your head down.'

She told him one of the better stories she'd heard: about Joanna Mourant, who had hidden a whole Christmas dinner from a patrol.

Maurice was still frowning. ‘How did she manage that?'

‘Pretended to be tucked up in bed and dying from smallpox. And the dinner tucked up with her.'

‘She
didn't!
' A grin started nudging at the corners of his mouth.

Edith hooted. ‘She did! A whole turkey and half a pound of potatoes in bed with her. More than an hour they searched that house—they were on a tip from Joan Hacquoil—and they didn't find so much as a single sprout.'

In the end, Maurice went off to his boat laughing and Edith could get back to minding Marthe without fretting over him.

Not that she resented tending to Marthe. A sweet thing, she was. Besides, how else could Maurice have found food? There were enough folk starving by then, without Edith letting it happen on her own doorstep—and to an innocent like that poor girl.

Edith still thought of Marthe as a girl, even though she was in her thirties. But at nearly twenty years her senior, Edith felt old enough to be Marthe's maman, and what with her wide eyes and her tiny little body—not an ounce of spare flesh on it—Marthe put her in mind of a sickly child. Sat propped up in Edith's own bed, hair spilling over onto the pillows, she had stopped her groans, for the most part. Instead, she made little crooning noises as Edith combed out that blonde hair and gave her sips of hot, sweet tea. Made from potato peelings and dandelion leaves, of course—sweetened with the juice from slow-cooked barley.

Marthe had put on a little flesh under Edith's care, for all that she didn't believe in mushing up her food and spoonfeeding the girl.

When Maurice told Edith to mash her food, she smiled and nodded and shunted him out the door to his boat. Then she did exactly as she pleased. Put some pieces of carrot and potato, big as her finger, on a little tray in front of Marthe. Edith could see her staring. Then those big eyes flicked back to Edith, to see if she would be pulping them up and forcing them down her.

But not a bit of it—Edith carried on dusting, brewing up acorn coffee and boiling limpets, just as if she didn't know Marthe was there. And sure enough, in a minute or so, Marthe was patting her hand on that tray, trying to grasp the little sticks of carrot and potato which Edith had smeared with just a touch of butter that she'd traded her good housecoat for.

Couldn't do it, of course. Poor girl's hands and arms wouldn't do her bidding, hadn't done in these past two years. She gave a little yowl, and the tray and food toppled on to the floor.

Edith smiled.
There, there, never you mind.

Then Edith held the sticks of potato and carrot up to the girl's lips; she chewed them as best she could. Sometimes she choked and gagged a little, but at least she knew what to expect and at least she
wanted
to be eating. It was a start.

Edith always tried to eat with her, and had similar things on her plate too, so she wouldn't feel babied. It's how she would have done things with her own child—the small, silent scrap of white flesh she'd buried as soon as it was born. Never took a breath but was perfect as if it had been lovingly moulded from clay. Little upturned nose, eyelashes fine as the wisps of dandelion seeds and so few, on those tiny eyes, squeezed shut against the bright glare and clamour of the world.

Would have been about Marthe's age by now, give or take a year or two. It seemed like a lifetime ago, back when Frank was still alive. They had hoped for a houseful. Edith wept as she buried the little thing. Not enough tears in the world for that grief. Still, she'd have wept longer and harder if she'd known Frank planned on having himself shot in a ditch in France before they had a chance to try for another.

She still ached for it, that babe buried at the back of the churchyard. No marker in the earth but her heart knew the exact spot. Lodestone. She sensed it, even after the yawning gape of the years—that remnant of her body under sand and soil. Never looked to see if it was a boy or girl. Simply wrapped it tight, laid it in the tiny hole she had dug with her own hands—ripping shreds of skin from her fingers as she burrowed. Pushed the earth back over that unmarked blue face, patted it down so it would be nice and warm. Sometimes, she wished she'd looked—boy or girl? She wished she'd given it a name.

Edith knew she had to move Marthe out into the fresh air. Like plants, folk needed sunlight on their skin. Marthe had been too long cooped up, when what she needed was to feel the wind buffeting her face and see the trees and the grass stretching skywards.

Marthe shouted the first time Edith took her out in the wind. Scared stupid, she was, heaven knows why. Edith didn't press her. Instead, she propped her on the doorstep with plenty of soft cushions around her. Then Edith sat. Knitted a little. Shelled some peas. Ground up some more acorns for coffee. All the while Edith kept chatting away, talking over what she was doing, speaking about the plants, the land, the colour of the light—yellow like beeswax.

Oh, but Marthe's grumbles made Edith anxious: what if a soldier marched past and wondered who she was, and why she was slumped and dribbling like an infant? Next thing they knew, Marthe would be carted off to one of those experiment camps and Maurice would have Edith's skin for a waistcoat.

They saw not a soul that first time outside. Soon enough, Marthe stopped her moaning and her eyelids dropped. Edith kept up her talking, soft and constant as the breeze. Then the girl was faintly snoring. Watery winter sunlight barely touching her neck, the wind scarcely moving that wispy hair of hers.

Before long, they were out there every day, weather permitting. Edith soon moved her from the doorstep to the garden. Marthe didn't complain or grumble a bit as Edith laid her out on her tiny square of grass so that the girl didn't have to slump on the potato patch and grow dirty, or be uncomfortable sitting on the thyme bushes. Edith chattered about whatever she was doing—knitting or making up poultices for poor Clement—or mixing some new salve which she thought might take the tightness from those burn scars. After a while, Marthe would fall into a doze and Edith would tuck the blanket around her or prop a cushion under her cheek or stroke that lovely golden hair from her forehead.

When a soldier finally walked past one day, he didn't take a second glance. Edith felt the blood drain from her cheeks but she kept her voice steady and said, ‘My daughter.' He nodded. Then she added, ‘Jennifer,' without even thinking. She'd no idea why. Marthe was a nice enough name, to be sure, and goodness knows where Jennifer came from. Just a name she had always liked. Pretty.

Moving to and from the hospital to help Clement was more of a battle and needed a little more thought. Marthe couldn't be left; she'd do herself an injury. Anyway, who would be there to give her food and water and soothe her to sleep? Edith couldn't carry her; she'd draw too much notice. Besides, her arms weren't up to it, for all the girl felt like she had the hollow bones of a bird.

So, in the end, she piled soft cushions and blankets in her old wheelbarrow and pushed her along, back and forth to the hospital, panting and sweating, but it was worth it to see the whisper of a smile on Marthe's slack mouth.

Edith got some odd glances, to be sure, but she hoped the Jèrriais folk knew to stay mum—even if some of them couldn't stand her and even though, between themselves, they were saying that Marthe had some sort of curse on her that was rotting her brain, they wouldn't see harm come to either of them, surely? That was what Edith liked to believe. They were all neighbours, after all, huddling in against the ravening cold and with bloody-mouthed wolves in their midst.

Happily, the soldiers didn't ask too many questions. If ever one came near, Edith shouted, ‘Watch out, sir! She has a terrible sickness. Vomiting all night. Just taking her to hospital. Can't even walk, poor soul. Ooh, I wouldn't come too close if I were you—she's already caught my boots twice today.'

Perhaps the soldiers didn't understand a word of it, but Marthe would often oblige her by shouting or flapping her arms. Most of them hurried past, tried to look the other way. As if by looking at Marthe, really
looking
, they might catch whatever ailed her.

The performance wouldn't keep the soldiers at bay forever, but it did the trick for the moment. It helped that there were thousands of the blighters on the island—they didn't often see the same one twice.

Edith had been overjoyed when Clement took a turn for the better. Of course, it had folks gossiping about witchcraft. Maurice started calling her Edith Emmanuel and bringing dead fish for her to revive. Once, he kept a cod alive and sneaked it into her kitchen sink—heaven knows how—and then pretended to faint when it swam.

‘It's a miracle!'

He clutched his head, as if overwhelmed, and then turned to Edith and prostrated himself at her feet.

‘All hail the Queen of Cod!'

‘Hush you! Up off my floor, you great lump! You'll have Sophie Renouf and the prayer group on our backs with that talk. And take that bloody fish out of my good sink!'

Later, when they were eating that miraculous cod, Maurice said, ‘But you know they're saying you raised Hacquoil from the dead, not once but twice. People have started going on pilgrimages to the hospital with their sickly children.'

She grinned. It was a warm feeling.

‘I'll bet the Germans are thrilled.'

‘The nurses and doctors aren't best pleased, either. They found one woman rooting through the hospital laundry, digging out Clement's sheets to sleep on. I tell you, Edith, next thing you know you'll have a troupe of apostles and a book named after you.'

A gust of laughter. ‘Quiet, you rogue!'

Maurice was right in one respect: it did wonders for Edith's business, Clement's recovery. She took payment in extra meat and eggs and butter, rather than the worthless paper scrip the Germans forced the islanders to use for money. And the more Clement improved, the more people came to Edith for remedies.

But even she was surprised by how sprightly he looked after some months with the teas and the poultices. She'd taken him off most of the injections and the tablets. It had been five weeks before he reopened his eyes. Then, layer upon layer, his skin had started to knit together. Like the very flesh was being woven over his bones, for all it was thick and shiny-looking and had the smooth, uncanny feel of an oilskin coat.

After Christmas, he had started moving again. Edith danced a few steps of a jig around his bed while he tried to shape that distorted face of his into a smile and rasped,
Thank you.
Then Edith made him stretch out that scarred tissue so it couldn't knit too tightly and paralyse him inside his own skin.

She'd had him up and walking by the new year, leaning on her arm. His breath was still ragged, though: every exhalation was ripped from him. He couldn't speak in more than a harsh whisper and, lipless and frozen-faced as he was, it was a trick to untangle his words. But, piece by piece, she shaped him back into something that would pass for a man.