Emile, I want the wrongs righted but you won’t read my story in the Press, and I don’t want it printed there, neither. They say I am the guilty one, only out for revenge, but they have been lying since the War began and don’t think it’s over yet. Only today I was on them cliffs by Clarence Batterie, knee-deep in pink campion and squinting at the sun, but every view was framed by German concrete. It is an abomination what has happened to this island! And as I stood there I imagined Ray was aside of me, watching the black clouds of death rise up from the horizon. It was just like in that summer of 1940, a hot summer that chilled me to the bone. I looked down into the crystal, twinkling sea and near surrendered to it. I felt my knees buckle and the ground slip away, but you know what stopped me? It was old Ray pulling me back like he did that once before. Emile, it is a curse on me! I am ever in his clutches.
Why is it we find this little rock so hard to leave? If only I were again on the streets of St Peter Port, the kid that I once was, holding tight to our mother’s hand. I remember how we pushed our way through the chaos of weeping and shouting. It felt like the whole island was on the move and if ever there was a right time to go, it was then. The Germans were too close for comfort. Everyone knew what they was doing to France – we heard the guns loud and clear – so I was to be packed off to England with my classmates. But as I stood with my teachers on the quay I didn’t feel scared. Words like war and death didn’t mean too much to me, and England meant the ends of the earth, a million miles away.
Reckon there must’ve been something evil in me even then, since that day was the first time I’d ever felt special. Before, I was just p’tit Charlie with too-pale skin and twiggy legs who got poked and teased and laughed at, but as we marched up the gangplank I felt something stirring deep inside. I’ve spent a long time trying to explain what it was that made me do it, and I cannot find a simple, single reason. Perhaps it was the fear and mayhem, perhaps it was the heat, or perhaps it was a bit of island madness. As that bright sun beat down I felt my cheeks burn up, and then I started screaming.
‘I shan’t go. You can’t make me! You put me back!’
Back then I had a pair of lungs, me, and I could shout myself inside out. I was lashing out with my elbows and kicking like a donkey. Quel tripos! The boat was already moving as I lunged for the side and started going over, and I would’ve ended up in the water had it not been for Ray. He was right at the edge of the pier, holding on to the railings, leaning over to me. All I saw was a big, brown hand and then I felt this grip so tight it cut off all the blood. I was safe, or so I thought, as Ray Le Poidevoin reeled me in.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ someone asked.
‘He’s going to stay and kill some Jerries!’
I laughed although I didn’t know why, and I clambered with my new friend up onto the harbour wall. Someone tried to grab my shirt. Did I hear my mother shout? I turned to watch the boat move off and the sea open up. Then I turned back to St Peter Port, to the crowds that thronged forward. Nobody could touch me and I thought I was so clever: this was history in the making and I would help to make it. Did I realise then what a dark and damnable history it would be? No, but I should have had an inkling when Ray pointed upwards, into the rich blue, cloudless sky.
‘Look!’
I lifted my head and nearly toppled backwards from the effort.
There were German planes circling high overhead, and they looked like little silver fish. The world itself was turning upside down and would never be righted.
‘Now, man amie,’ Ray whistled. ‘Now the party’s starting!’
13TH DECEMBER 1985, 5.30 a.m.
[My bedroom, 2nd floor, Sans Soucis, Village de Courtils, St Peter Port,