Smile and be a Villain (2 page)

The walk down to the harbour, though a bit steep, was very pleasant. Homes on either side were sturdy, well-built and neatly painted. Some had tiny front gardens. Men and women were at work on many of the houses, digging, painting, repairing. They responded to our waves with cheery greetings. The traffic up and down the road was as good-humoured as that in the village; where there wasn't room to pass, one car would pull over to the side and wait for the other, with no sign of ill temper.

I was slightly winded by the time we reached the bottom. The slope had forced a faster pace than I would have liked, so I was glad simply to stop and look at the harbour spread out before me.

There was, of course, the usual clutter of any working seaport. Huge shipping containers littered the pier, along with the derricks used to unload them. Boats of every size and type from rowboats to pontoon boats to cabin cruisers to cargo ships were tied up at the dock or moored out in the water, along with sailboats ranging from simple sloops to full-fledged yachts.

But beyond the busyness there was the beach, a crescent of golden sand, and beyond that the sea, as sparkling and blue as the Mediterranean, and as beautiful.

I love the sea. I always have. Growing up in Indiana, with the nearest ocean something like eight hundred miles away, I had to content myself with the waters of Lake Michigan, where my family used to go for vacations. I thought it was wonderful until one summer we went on a long road trip to the east coast, and I saw the ocean for the first time. Heard the crashing waves, tasted the salt on my lips, watched the tide coming in. I was hooked forever. The big lake was still nice, but it wasn't the same.

Then, late in my life, my husband died and I moved to England. I've been told that at no point in England is one more than sixty miles from the sea. I don't know if that's literally true, but it can't be far wrong, and that, for me, is bliss. If I feel like watching waves, I can get in the car and go, even if Alan is busy with something else. I can take a few sandwiches and eat my lunch and listen to the cry of gulls wanting to share (or wanting it all) and still be home in good time for tea. The wind blowing in my face is a tonic, refreshing and invigorating.

I grasped Alan's hand and sighed with pure contentment.

However, I'm nearing seventy, and Alan has passed that milestone. After a while I got tired of standing, and the sun was getting a little too warm for comfort, even with my broad-brimmed straw hat for protection. Alan loosed my hand and stretched his neck and shoulders. ‘Getting stiff,' he said. ‘The old boy needs a rest. In other words, how about a pint?'

‘That sounds perfect, but I don't know if I'm ready to walk back up that hill.' I turned around to look back. The hillside looked beautiful, covered with wildflowers on one side of the road and attractive houses on the other. It also looked even steeper than it had coming down.

‘We don't have to, just yet.' He gestured with his head. ‘I'm sure one of those pubs can provide good beer.'

We went into the Divers Inn, which was just beginning to fill up with customers, mostly visitors, I thought. We enjoyed our beer, laughed over the dummy in the corner dressed in full old-style diver's rig, helmet and all, and talked about dinner. ‘I don't want to eat out,' I said. ‘I'm tired. Couldn't we pick up sandwich makings somewhere and eat in our rooms? I'd like to sit and read the stuff we picked up about the island, and plan what we're going to do tomorrow.'

The barman directed us to a small but very nice grocery store where we bought materials for an upscale picnic supper: pâté and Stilton, smoked salmon, a couple of interesting salads, granary bread, and some fresh apricots and raspberries.

‘Wine?' I asked the woman at the till.

‘Are you staying at the harbour or in town?'

‘In town.'

‘Then you'll want the off-licence at the Coronation Inn. It's in the High Street, just at the top of Victoria Street. Look right and you'll see it.'

I groaned at the thought of walking up Victoria Street after the climb up Braye Road, but Alan took pity on me. ‘Let's take a taxi back to Belle Isle, then I'll walk up to the off-licence.'

‘You are a verray parfit gentil knight,' I said gratefully. ‘You're on.'

So we had our picnic, with a nice bottle of some sort of Spanish white wine, and planned out our next couple of days. It had been a lovely day, quiet, leisurely – the perfect beginning to a holiday. We went to bed well-pleased with Alderney, each other, and life in general.

If I had known what lay ahead, I would have lit out for home by the first plane.

T
he next day dawned clear and cool, perfect weather for wandering about the island. We lazed in bed until the last possible moment for breakfast, which was excellent: scrambled eggs with smoked salmon (both local, we were assured) and fruit. When we were sated, we thought exercise was in order, so set out for a proper exploration.

‘Up or down?' asked Alan.

‘Neither. The church is just across the way. Let's have a look.'

I have a great fondness for old English churches. This one, I guessed, was not particularly old, certainly not medieval, but it was a pleasant-looking building in grey stone, irregular in design, with an apse-like structure in front of us as we approached through the churchyard. Some scaffolding at the side encroached upon the walkway.

‘Doesn't look as if any work is actually going on,' I commented.

‘Probably the usual lack of funds,' said Alan.

The sun was already growing warm, and the interior of the church was pleasantly cool. As my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I saw that a few people were gathering in the choir stalls. ‘I think we've walked into the beginning of a service,' I whispered.

‘Yes,' said Alan imperturbably. ‘I saw the notice. Morning Prayer. Shall we join them?'

A handful of women and the vicar were settling down. We asked, of course, and they graciously invited us to participate. There was a little bustle as they found prayer books and Bibles for our use, and we read and listened to the familiar, beautiful words of the Psalms and canticles for the day.

When the service was over, we introduced ourselves. The young man in the collar was not, it transpired, the vicar. ‘The regular man is on holiday,' he explained. ‘I'm a locum from a village near Canterbury. My name is James Lewison.'

‘Alan Nesbitt, and my wife, Dorothy Martin.'

Older people sometimes blink at the difference in our names. This young man didn't even blink. ‘And did I hear a transatlantic accent during the Psalms?' he asked me.

‘Yes, I'm American originally, but I've lived in England for some years. In Sherebury, virtually under the bells of the Cathedral.'

‘Ah, yes, you recently acquired a new bishop, didn't you? And a fine man, I'm told.'

We chatted about our new bishop and church matters in general for a few minutes. ‘So how long are you going to be here?' I asked.

‘Only two more weeks. The vicar's been gone for a week, and he'll allow himself only three away from his duties.'

‘I expect you'll be glad to get back to your family.'

He pulled a little face. ‘Actually, it's been rather peaceful here. We have three-year-old twin boys, and—'

I laughed. ‘You need say no more. In that case, I'm sure your wife will be delighted to see you again.'

‘She's very capable, and seems to take the boys in her stride. She has brothers. I was an only child, and … well … it's been lovely to have a tranquil interlude.'

‘Is there a large congregation here?'

‘Not bad, for a village church. There's quite a lot going on, actually, but I've been fortunate to have help. A retired priest from America has been volunteering a good deal. He can't actually take services, because of course he hasn't been through the “safeguard” vetting procedure. But he's been quite happy to act as a lay volunteer in all sorts of capacities. It's freed up my time considerably.'

‘And Mr Abercrombie is a real asset to our church,' said one of the ladies who had attended the service, as she finished putting the prayer books away. ‘We're all hoping he'll be able to get through the vetting quickly, because he wants to be able to assist the vicar here, as a real priest.'

‘He's planning to stay here in Alderney, then?' asked Alan.

‘Yes, he's thinking of buying a house and making this his home. We all hope he will!'

I noticed another of the ladies, the one who had sat next to me and helped me find my place in the service, which was slightly different from the one we used back in Sherebury. We were standing just in front of the lectern, and she moved past me in the crowded space with a murmured apology. I noticed her expression, the frown, the pursed lips, and watched as she strode up the aisle and out of the church without a word to anyone.

Hmm.

‘Will you be in Alderney for long?' asked Mr Lewison.

‘Two weeks,' replied Alan. ‘We decided to give ourselves a real holiday.'

‘And it's such a lovely place!' I added. ‘I do love islands, and this one is amazing.'

‘Have you done any of the walks yet? My name is Sylvia, by the way, Sylvia Whiting. I volunteer at the Visitor Information Centre, and I'd be happy to help you find some of the points of interest.'

‘That's very kind of you,' said Alan. ‘We only just got here yesterday, and we've been down to the harbour, but nowhere else. And we do enjoy walking.'

‘Well, then! Come to the centre any time. I'm going there now, but if you come when I'm not there, someone else will help.'

Alan and I looked at each other. ‘Sounds good to me,' I said. ‘And the centre's just down the street.'

‘Almost everything's just down the street in Alderney, or up, as the case may be,' said one of the other ladies, laughing. ‘Do enjoy yourselves.'

We left the church surrounded by goodwill.

There were, it turned out, seven planned walks in Alderney, designed to give visitors a good overview of the island and its more interesting features. It seemed there was plenty to see. Old fortifications from the time the islanders feared invasion from France, much newer ones built by the Germans when they occupied the Channel Islands during World War Two. Stunning views of the sea. Wildlife of all sorts, including rare sea birds and Alderney's pride, the blonde hedgehog.

‘They're extremely rare everywhere else in the world,' said Sylvia, ‘but we have a large population. They're not particularly shy, but you'll probably not see them in the daytime. They like to come out to feed at night. In fact, on Thursday evening we have a Bats and Hedgehogs walk, and we can almost guarantee seeing some then.'

I've never been able to get enthusiastic about bats, but I did want to see the hedgehogs, so Alan and I signed up for that tour. ‘Now, for today, which walk would you recommend we start with?'

‘My favourite is the Zig-Zag,' she said, pointing to one of the brochures. ‘There's a steep bit, but you can always turn around and go back the way you came, and the views are delightful.'

The sun was shining. The cool breeze was bracing. I was feeling hale and hearty and ready for anything. ‘The Zig-Zag it is,' I said with determination. ‘Alan, let's go and get our sticks and boots, and we're off.'

The first part of the walk, up to the top of Victoria Street and then into an area of homes, was easy if not particularly interesting. We passed the pub and off-licence where Alan had bought our bottle of wine the night before, and another pub or two. ‘Remarkably well-supplied with pubs for such a small place,' I commented.

Alan grinned. ‘Alderney has a reputation. Unfounded, I'm sure.'

Then we left the town proper and approached the airport (rather a grand name for a very small facility), and set out into proper country. A signpost directed us to the Zig-Zag.

In America we call such a path a switchback. A series of not-too-steep tracks took us gradually down toward the sea. The cliff itself was very steep, but the pathway made it easy, and Sylvia had been absolutely accurate about the views. She hadn't mentioned the wildflowers and the butterflies, but I kept having to stop and admire them. ‘There are so many of those adorable little blue ones!' I enthused.

‘My dear, they're all over our garden in summer.'

‘I know, but they're unknown in America, at least where I lived, and I still can't get used to them. Oh, and there's a red admiral! I do know those; we have them in Indiana, too.'

We encountered several people as we went on down the narrow path: a couple of obvious husband/wife pairs, then one lone man in a natty green-and-white jogging suit (‘A dedicated walker,' I whispered to Alan). Then there were three giggling teenagers who sounded like Americans or Canadians.

‘Ah, to be young again!' I said. ‘Look how easily they climb. But then I never was any good at anything athletic, even when I was their age.'

Diplomatically, Alan made no comment. He didn't even glance at the bulges of flab that I tried to hide with loose-fitting shirts.

I cleared my throat. ‘Yes. Onward.'

We reached the bottom of the cliff and walked along a paved road for a bit, then Alan stopped and considered the leaflet guide. ‘I think the walk goes this way,' he said dubiously, and pointed.

I was certain he was wrong. There did seem to be something resembling a path, or a track, leading up the cliff, but it must have been made by goats. It was so narrow it didn't seem as if it would accommodate two feet side by side, and it appeared to me to lead straight up.

‘Alan, that can't be right.'

He looked back at the guide. ‘It is, though. Look.'

He pointed to the contour lines printed on the little map. I hadn't noticed them before, and wouldn't have thought about their meaning if I had.