by Martyn Allez
It’s poor etiquette to be late for a funeral, especially if it’s your own. I hitched a lift to the crematorium in the hearse. No one notices I’m late.
They are playing the march from Aida. Do you recognise it? I know it well; it’s been my ringtone for years. Don’t call, I never answer, “James Le Cras can’t take your call, please don’t leave a message.” Four well-dressed men carry the box covered by Jersey’s flag, the red saltire. It would have been six once, that’s shrinkflation for you.
Jersey spent five years under the jackboot of occupation during the Second World War. My father was a small boy then, such dark times, still within memory’s touching distance for a few; when islanders chose to speak in their ancient language, in defiance of the occupying force. The island was liberated on May 9th, 1945. They’ve commemorated this day every year since. The seventy-eighth anniversary was just three weeks ago.
My wife and I spent the day in Gorey, the village where my father grew up. A pilgrimage of sorts; walking in his footsteps. Things didn’t go according to plan. Katy spent the entire day there, I only spent most of it.
We were exploring the area where Dad had lived. Katy pointed out the nearby road sign, “Does that mean what I think?” Although she liked to make fun of the island’s road names, her pronunciation is perfect. Even some locals struggle with “Mont Orguiel,” the magnificent Elizabethan castle that that watches over Gorey.
“Rue de Bordelle? Almost certainly, this used to be a busy harbour after all, full of sailors. Remember that photograph of Dad’s old house in 1939? I think it was about here. We’re in what used to be Rue de Nord, He told me he could see the old railway station and the slipway from his bedroom.” There were newer stones in the sea wall on my left and modern bungalows in Clos de la Gare in front of me.
“Don’t you wish you’d asked your dad more about his life here?”
“Would he have told? The people who lived through The Occupation never liked to talk about it.” Dad was a young teenager when he left. We came over a few times for holidays when I was a child, but after “Ma” died, he didn’t visit for twenty-five years. I thought of “Ma,” my great-grandmother, such a larger-than-life character, who lived to be a hundred, and never left the island.
“The last bus is in half an hour. If we miss it, you’re paying twenty quid for a taxi. See you at the end of the quay.” Katy said as she climbed the steep stone steps towards the fortress.
“Jacques’s cottage must be one of those down that way. It was pink then, but I’m sure it’s either that grey one or the blue one next door. I’ll meet you at the granite bench. You can see the lights in France from there.”
“Don’t go knocking on doors; it’s supposed to be a holiday. Call me if you start feeling dizzy. Just don’t forget about the bus.” She always makes a fuss.
I’d always wanted to spend Liberation Day on the island. It’s to my eternal regret that I never spent one here with Dad. He’d only come back for two. The first one was the 50th, and I remember he was so excited to get the Royal Invitation. The second one was just a few weeks before he died.
As I walked along the quay towards the cottages, I could see the car headlights near the French town of Carteret, fifteen miles away. They moved like fireflies in some overly complex, choreographed dance routine. The last wave of commuters was rushing home as twilight turned inexorably to night; late for supper; laden with provisions for the week; bearers of news; or just going home. So familiar but so different; a different land, different time, different language, even different side of the road. I knew Dad had walked these same stones and enjoyed the same views of the neighbours across the sea.
It had been a good day; Dad would have enjoyed it, even when I tried to sing the national song. Katy said she didn’t know which was worse, my tuneless singing or the incomprehensible words.
“That’s the one.” I had not intended to speak aloud; thankfully, no one heard. I remembered the boot scraper in the shape of a boat. When I was a small boy, I’d found it fascinating. This was where Jacques, Ma’s old friend, had lived.
Memories came flooding back. I was six years old again. Dad was there alongside me, prompting me to plunge further into the depths of my memory for those tiny details that seem inconsequential, but which bring our recollections back to life. We’d parked the small green Morris, that Dad had borrowed, just here, right where I was now standing on the harbour wall. You can’t do that now; cars are too big.
Dad had knocked on the door, and a large man had opened it.
“Salut, mon vie,” I’d never heard my father speak in the local dialect before. He shook the man’s hand.
“Beinv’nus,” the man shook my hand; no one had done that before. “Hello, young fellow. I’m Jacques.”
Jacques’s wife Emmie gave me chocolate biscuits in the small kitchen at the back of the cottage. When I thought she wasn’t looking, I offered one to Roger, their friendly black terrier. Before we went into the sitting room with tea and more biscuits, Emmie gave me half a crown and said, “Don’t tell Jacques.”
“Remember the bucket, Jimmy?” I could hear my father’s voice as I stood looking at the cottage. How could I forget it? There were two large sea monsters in the container that Jacques gave Dad “for Ma.” That’s how I remember the poor captive lobsters, and why I’ve never eaten seafood. As we were leaving, Jacques gave me half a crown and said, “Don’t tell Emmie.”
Enjoying the memories, I walked down the deserted wharf to the granite bench nearest the castle steps. I could see Katy as she walked along the middle wall. She loved it up there, with just a few gulls for company. Twilight was darkening towards night. The headlights were much brighter now. Dad told me that when he used to play here on the quay, he knew it was time to go home when he could see cars’ lights.
This was Dad’s playground until everything changed in June 1940. He’d have watched as, over in France, military searchlights had replaced the headlights. He’d have seen the smoke, heard the guns, and even smelt the cordite as the Armée de l’air and the RAF fought their doomed defensive rearguard against the advancing forces in a macabre aerial ballet of death.
The invaders reached the coast on 27th June. The air battles stopped. The islanders waited. All eyes were on the French coast. They would be safe, wouldn’t they? The military had long since left these shores.
The next morning’s events are seared into Jersey’s history. There were two groups of bombers. One headed for Guernsey, the sister island, the other came here. Dad was at school. Did the class gather, noses pressed to windows as children will? Were they huddled under tables by teachers, sneaking frightened looks at the developing mayhem outside?
Three raiders came in low over the small harbour. Their dark grey forms made more menacing as they were highlighted against the clear blue June sky. Eight bombs hit the quay. More fell into the shallow waters of the harbour, showering the village with soggy, stinking mud and seaweed; throwing fishing boats onto their sides; and clearing the channel to the open sea better than any dredger could, before or since. A few craft sank, but nature and the islanders cocked a snook at the aggressors when the lunchtime tide righted most. Small victories matter; there would be precious few of those in the next five years.
On the quay and in the streets the villagers ran for their homes, or towards the castle for safety; untended horses bolted; and two dozen cattle, corralled in the tiny, abandoned station for transport to the capital’s butchers, stampeded to freedom and a reprieve. Delighted seagulls swooped on the unguarded morning’s catch.
I looked towards the continent. The headlights had stopped, and a fine grey mist had formed over a flat, calm sea. The fishermen here call it a fret. An old-fashioned white ship sailed slowly from the north, my left. It created no waves. I wondered if it was heading for one of the French ports or the new dock in Town, until I noticed the large red cross painted on the funnel. This was Vega, the wartime relief ship that Dad had told me about. This was the lifeline that brought deliveries of much-needed supplies for the beleaguered islanders during the long years of occupation.
The dancing French headlights became my company again; Vega and the mist vanished as quickly as they had appeared. What had I just seen? I thought the ship was scrapped years ago. I would surely have heard if there was to be a recreation for Liberation Day. Katy would have mentioned it; she reads everything.
The fret returned, obscuring the headlights. I was transported back to wartime. A second vessel, grey and much larger than Vega, appeared from the gloom. The ship’s main lights came on suddenly, lighting the far side of the harbour. Orange light flickered on the dark granite walls as celebrating islanders lit bonfires and torches. I saw a huge, roaring beacon on the castle that mirrored another that neighbours in France had built. I saw lights of hope, freedom, and friendship to replace the darkness of oppression. I heard church bells as they rang out across the island. I realised this was Liberation, seventy-eight years ago today.
Soldiers were handing out supplies. Their uniforms were a welcome khaki, not the grey of the invaders. A boy of about ten, dressed in threadbare clothes, ran past me laughing, holding a bar of chocolate. He was my father, an echo from the day the lights came back on.
The mist cleared, and I was back in the present. Today’s French headlight ballet resumed in near darkness. I saw Katy as she came down the steps to collect me. Then everything was still. The woman I love was frozen in mid-step; the lights ceased their dance; the sea’s restless movement paused. The silence was absolute.
I waved, but Katy did not see me; I called, but she did not hear. Dad was standing next to the bench. “Mon vie, it’s time to go now,” he said gently. I called out to Katy, “À bétôt, à la préchaine, j’t’adouothe.” My father and I walked across the sea towards HMS Bulldog, the ship that had liberated the islands.
Dad told me he couldn’t resist peeking at his ceremony. He said he enjoyed my speech, “Too many long words though.” I am about to eavesdrop on mine. I’m surprised to see so many people here; they must be expecting a good buffet. Make sure you get my flag back, Katy; fly it each Liberation Day.
I am late.
Martyn Allez is a retired IT and Business Change Director. He started to write fiction “in his 60s.” His stories about rebellious sheep have been published by the Australian flash fiction site “Witcraft,” and he was featured in the “In The News” event in Salisbury. Martyn likes to write stories that challenge the reader think “I wonder what happened next?”
