The Book of Ebenezer le Page (16 page)

Though I don't suppose Jim would have been any different, even if he hadn't had money behind him. It was his nature. He worked from morning to night in his slow easy-going way, and didn't think any further. His brothers was different. Gerald, the youngest, was a smart boy and knew it. He was dark and not nearly as tall as Jim; but had a grin made everybody like him. I didn't much. When he was a boy at the Secondary School, Jim and me went to see him act in a play called
Twelfth Night
, which the boys was doing in St Barnabas Hall. He played the part of Maria; who was a wicked little minx; and I couldn't help thinking it was his own nature he was acting. When he left school, he worked in the Old Bank; but the hours was so short you could hardly call it work. He didn't earn much but he knew how to spend it. He was out roller-skating at St George's Hall most nights. Wilfred, the second, was fair like Jim, but had pale hair he kept neatly parted on one side: not like Jim's mop of straw that flopped all over the place. He was slim and wiry; and quicker in the mind than Jim. He was for ever getting ideas for doing things different, and saving time and money. Jim would say, ‘Well, if there was better ways of doing things, they would have been found out years ago.' Jim was satisfied to have vraic spread on the ground for manure, but Wilfred had to have patent guano and ordered oat-cakes from Bibby's for the cattle. The cows didn't die of indigestion, as Jim said they would. In fact, they won several first prizes at the Cattle Show that year. ‘There, you see!' said Wilfred. Jim said, ‘Our cows won the prizes because they come of a good family.' For all that, he did say to me once, ‘It's Wilfred, you know, who ought to run this farm when Pop's gone.'

I didn't dream Jim was thinking of going away, until one Sunday afternoon when we went for a ride on our bikes. I said we might as well go by Perelle and call on Tabitha and see how her and Jean was getting on. Jean was home. It was a pleasure going in that house. There was never any quarrelling, never any black looks. There was no fuss or bother either; and everything was as clean as a new pin, the way Tabitha always kept things. I saw how right Tabitha had been to stick to Jean. I don't suppose you could call him handsome exactly. He had a rough face rather with curly black hair that grew well down on his forehead; but he had an honest, pleasant look about him, and you felt at once he was a chap you could trust. He wasn't tall, but sturdy and strongly built. His face lit up when he saw Jim. ‘They haven't burnt you for a boud'lo yet, then,' he said. ‘Aw no, not yet,' said Jim, ‘but they will one day.' They sat on the sofa together talking and laughing, while Tabby and me got the tea ready. ‘I know why you've come today, you,' she said, ‘you knew what we've got for tea.' ‘I don't know what you've got for tea,' I said. ‘Spider crab,' she said. When Jim and me got outside, I said, ‘I'd like a little home like that, me. I don't know which of them I envy most.'

I thought we was going to ride back home then; but Jim wanted to go on to Pleinmont, for some reason. I looked over at Lihou as we passed by L'Érée, and thought of the two of us on that little island by ourselves all night. I was wondering if he was remembering too. When we got passed Fort Grey, I pointed out to him the cottage where old Mère Quéripel lived. It was a real old witch's cottage. It was built end-on against the side of a worked-out quarry, and the thatch was so low down you could hardly see the windows and they seemed to be looking at you sideways; and it had one crooked chimney coming out of the roof. Jim said, ‘I suppose Mère Quéripel come out of that chimney on her broomstick.' I said, ‘I expect Liza do as well.' ‘I wouldn't be surprised,' he said.

He wanted to go right on to the end, so we took the right-hand turning in front of the Imperial and went along by the Trinity Houses and round by Fort Pezeries and left our bikes on the grass by the Table des Pions. We then climbed down between the two big rocks and stood on the edge of the cliff looking at the Hanois. Jim said, ‘This is as far west as we can get, isn't it?' ‘It is,' I said. He said, ‘America is over there.' ‘I can't see it,' I said. ‘Let's go, you and me,' he said. I thought he was joking. ‘We'd get on all right,' he said, ‘just two Guernsey boys, eh?' He was bubbling over with the idea. ‘I've been thinking about it for a long time,' he said.

On the way riding back he explained how he had it all arranged. His father was sending some cattle to the States and somebody had to go with them. Whoever went with the cattle would have his passage paid; and I could be the one to go and Jim would pay his own passage. His father was quite willing. ‘I would travel with you, of course,' he said, ‘in the same part of the ship.' I let him talk. I knew it was a wangle for them to pay my passage and not hurt my pride. He said, ‘We'd be sure to get work with the cows. What d'you think?' I said, ‘How can I leave my mother?' He said, ‘I suppose not.'

He didn't say another word for a long time. At last, just as we was turning inland at Gran'-Rock, he said, ‘Nothing perfect is ever allowed to happen in this world.' I left him at Les Gigands. He wanted me to go indoors with him, but I didn't feel like it. It was a grey evening and when I got round Sandy Hook the grey sea was coming over the grey stones and the clock of the Vale Church was striking the three-quarters. They was as sad as the bells. My mother was just back from the Brethren when I got in. I told her I had seen Tabitha and Jean and they was well. I didn't tell her Jim had asked me to go to America with him and I had refused for her sake. It wasn't true altogether. I didn't really want to go away from Guernsey. I bet they don't have spider-crabs in America.

Jim didn't go neither. When I went down on the Thursday evening, expecting to hear what I didn't want to hear, the first thing he said was, ‘It's going to be all right. Wilfred is going.' His mother said, ‘As if we could let Jim go on his own, without you to look after him!' I said, ‘I have always had the idea it was him looked after me.' She laughed. Wilfred was gone within a month; and the night before he went I was invited to his farewell party. He was very excited about going. He said, ‘When I come back some of you people will have to buck your ideas up.' He was going to stay over there six months, or a year; and study the up-to-date methods. Actually he didn't come back to Guernsey again for ten years; and then it was only on a short visit to his mother after his father died. He had become an American by then and was married to an American girl. I must give Wilfred his due. He had done well for himself. He had gone to an Agricultural College in the States and, so as not to be a drain on his parents, waited on the tables to pay his way. The girl he married was well-to-do and had influence; and he ended up as a judge of cattle at the big shows. His wife was a strapping wench, as I remember her; and I could see she had him well under her thumb.

There was changes at the farm once Wilfred was gone. For one thing, Lydia came more into view. Until then she had hardly done a stroke of work. Once a blue moon she would go in the dairy and stamp a few pounds of butter; but afterwards she was tired and had to rest. Now she began to take charge of everything. She didn't do much herself and still coughed from time to time to let you know she might drop dead at any minute; but she gave the orders and nobody dared to go against the wishes of Miss Mahy. Jim's father was delighted with his Lydia. He was getting very heavy and wheezy like poor old Victor and didn't do much. The brunt of it fell on Jim; but Lydia took on Phoebe Ferbrache to work in the dairy and help with the milking.

I had known Phoebe Ferbrache to say hullo to ever since she could toddle. She was the youngest of the Ferbrache family from Sandy Hook; and there was at least a dozen. From a child she was a wilful little miss with a pointed chin and a pointed nose and eyes like black marbles. I couldn't imagine what on earth Lydia was thinking about to have her on the farm; but when our Phoebe spoke to Miss Mahy, it was as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. She grabbed at every chance she could to be helping Jim. If I'd had any sense at all, I'd have seen what was going to happen; but it didn't enter my head that even Jim could be such a fool.

I was nearly struck dumb when he came round one evening and asked me to be the best man for the wedding. He was sheepish about it, and I knew there was something wrong. ‘Come on, out with it!' I said. ‘Yes,' he said, ‘she's going to have a baby.' I said, ‘Ten to one it isn't yours.' ‘It is,' he said. ‘I was the first.' I lost my temper. ‘Damme, your mother was quite right!' I said. ‘What you want is a nurse to look after you!' He said, ‘I was afraid you wouldn't like her.' I said, ‘The only thing for you to do is to let her have you up, and pay her so much a week as the Court decides. It will come cheaper in the long run.' ‘I can't do that,' he said, ‘she trusted me.' I thought I bet she did trust you: she knew just what sort of fool she'd got hold of. I said, ‘How the devil did it happen? Was you drunk?' He said, ‘It was in the barn. She threw herself on my chest and began to cry. I couldn't do anything else in the circumstances.' I said, ‘Well, it's one way of stopping a girl crying: I know that. Myself, I'd have walked out of the barn and left her there to cry.' He said, ‘Yes, but then you haven't got a heart.' ‘Thank goodness, I haven't,' I said, ‘or I'd be married a dozen times by now!' He said, ‘I wish it hadn't happened.' I said, ‘How are your people taking it?' ‘They are not very pleased,' he said, ‘but they don't want a lot of talk. Lydia says she will never speak to her again.' I said, ‘All right, I will be your best man; and I will never say another word against Phoebe. God help you, Jim!'

She didn't have it all her own way, I'm glad to say. She thought she would be living at the farm, or at least in one of the cottages; but Lydia put her foot down. She wouldn't have ‘that trollop' living in the house, or near it, at any price. Mrs Mahy arranged for them to live in a cottage she owned at Sous L'Église in St Saviour's. The old couple who had been living there wanted to go and live with a married son. It wasn't a bad little place with three vergées of ground; but digging and planting and growing wasn't what Jim had been used to, and he liked plenty of space to move about in.

They was married at St Sampson's Church at eight o'clock in the morning. They was going to Hastings for a honeymoon and had to catch the morning boat at ten. The Ferbraches was to the church in force; but, except for Jim's father and mother and young Gerald, the only Mahy present was Christine Mahy's sister, Gwen, who was one of the bridesmaids. The other was Phoebe's sister, Eileen, who was as common as she was. Lydia didn't go. I kept my word and tried to be nice to Phoebe. I told her the Russel was like a mill-pond and she was going to have a good crossing. She said ‘P'raps,' as if she didn't believe me even about that. She didn't trust me from the start.

When the wedding group was taken, I thought I had better make the best of it and so put on a grin like a Cheshire cat; but when I saw the photo in Norman Grut's window in the Pollet, I wished I hadn't. Poor old Jim was smiling sheepishly, but looked like a lamb led to the slaughter. Phoebe had a smirk on her face like the cat who stole the cream. She was wearing a white dress, and it fitted her tight; but I couldn't see no sign of a baby. I wondered. There was a breakfast at the farm; but Lydia didn't show herself. Jim's father and mother and the bridesmaids was going to see the married couple off from the White Rock and I was asked to go with them. I said I must get home and change and go to work. I had been through as much as I could stand. Jim came to the gate with me to say good-bye. He hung on to my hand with both of his. ‘I want to see a lot of you when I get back,' he said, ‘I'll let you know when.'

I didn't see Jim again for months. I knew he was back. I went down to the farm to find out and his mother told me she had been to see him. Gerald had driven her over. He quite liked Phoebe. Jim's mother didn't say much. She wasn't one to let everything out like Hetty; but, reading between the lines, I got the idea Phoebe didn't want Jim to be seeing his parents. Jim's mother said, ‘I can't blame the girl really: we don't pretend to be fond of her.' Lydia and Jim's father was dead against her. It was only Gerald who was friendly. Jim's mother said it was nice to have me there, even without Jim, and I must go any time I felt inclined; but it wasn't the same for me.

I went along once more to keep in touch. Jim's mother had been to see him again. She was more outspoken this time and said she wasn't going to be prevented from seeing her son by anybody: not even his wife. He was working very hard. The old couple who had lived there hadn't been able to do much and the garden was a wilderness of couch-grass and dandelion. Jim had done well with the pears and the plums that year, and there was a sunny corner where he would be able to grow outdoor tomatoes the next summer. The house inside was looking quite nice, she said, but, again reading between the lines, I guessed she had provided most of the things. She didn't say if he had mentioned me and I didn't ask. She did say, however, that she hadn't managed to get a word with Jim on his own, without Phoebe being there.

Then one Sunday afternoon I was sitting on the grass in front of Les Moulins, looking down on La Petite Grève and thinking of nothing in particular, when I looked round as you do sometimes if somebody is looking at you, and there was Jim coming round the Chouey, pushing his bike! I jumped up and ran to meet him, and he threw his bike against the hedge and hugged me like a bear. ‘Come indoors and see my mother,' I said. ‘She'll be as pleased to see you as I am.' She was. She wanted him to stop to tea, but he said he couldn't. He had been to Les Gigands to see his mother and now had to go straight back home because Phoebe didn't like being left on her own. My mother said, ‘How is your wife?' ‘Flourishing,' he said. I didn't have to ask how he was. I could see. He had the look in his eyes of a hurt dog.