The Book of Ebenezer le Page (46 page)

He was very quiet. He didn't talk much about his troubles, and I really thought he was beginning to forget. Of an evening after tea, I would sit by the fire with my pipe and read the
Press
; and perhaps have a drink beside me. He would have a drink beside him too; but would be sitting up to the table reading the big Bible. It was funny to see him sitting there reading the big Bible like my mother used to; but having a sip of beer every now and then. ‘I wonder why this book is called the Good Book,' he said one night. ‘It has been the cause, or the excuse, for more wars and persecutions and tortures and miseries than any other book ever written.' It was the only time he said much about the War. ‘Hitler is the Old Testament all over again,' he said. ‘It is no wonder he hates the Jews.' I didn't follow him then, and a lot of other things he jerked out from time to time I didn't understand. That time I asked him what he meant.

‘Beware of any people who say they are chosen of history, or by God,' he said. ‘They choose themselves. There are no Chosen People.' I said, ‘Well, my mother didn't think that: she believed in the Elect.' ‘So do the Communists,' he said. ‘They call them the Proletariat. The Nazis call them the Aryans. It amounts to the same. The Totalitarian State. There is nothing more false. The true total is outside the reach of our human hearts and minds. At most, we only get a glimpse of it.' ‘I don't know about that,' I said. ‘I have never got a glimpse, even.' ‘It is better that way,' he said, ‘than to imagine you know it all. Thank God I am an islander; and can never be anything more!' I wonder what he would think if he was alive now. Guernsey become day by day in every way more and more a Totalitarian State. I reckon Hitler won the War.

When he went on about the New Testament, he got me quite frightened. I had always thought in my own mind the Kings in the Old Testament, like the Kings and Queens of England, was a bloodthirsty lot; but I had always thought the New Testament was sort of all right. He said it was worse. ‘No man cometh unto the Father but by Me.' Those were the most blasphemous words any man ever uttered. He spoke of Russia. If in Russia you don't think what Comrade Stalin says you are allowed to think, you are liquidated. That is bad enough; but at least the Communists don't believe there is anything after. The Christians do and are totalitarian about the next world as well as this. For centuries they have been consigning countless millions to hell. He said it was Jesus Himself who set the example. On the Cross He promised Paradise to the repentant thief, but not to the unrepentant. ‘He was right there, surely,' I said. ‘I might bring myself to forgive a chap: but he would have to say first he was sorry. Otherwise, I would have to be forgiving all day long.' ‘Yes, but you don't pretend to be God,' said Raymond. He spoke of Judas; and then I really did think he was possessed by a devil. He said Judas was the only one of the Twelve who loved Jesus. The others only followed Him. Judas knew Him through and through for what He was; and died from love of Him and with Him. I said, ‘Well, that is not what it say in the Bible, you know; unless it say it in Greek.' ‘Where was He those three days?' he said. ‘In Hades, begging forgiveness of the damned. It wasn't until the Harlot out of the fullness of her unreciprocated love had raised His spirit from the dead He could ascend into heaven. I tell you, if Jesus of Nazareth does indeed sit upon the Throne of God, judging the quick and the dead; then Mary of Magdala is seated at His right hand, and Judas is the power behind the Throne and stands, holding the bag.' He closed the Bible. ‘In this book I will read no more,' he said. I didn't see him open it again; or any other book, for that matter. He glanced at the
Press
occasionally and sat by the fire with his drink and smoked a cigarette and dreamed.

It is hard to know what to do for the best in this world; for whatever you do have a way of turning out different from how you thought. When I got Raymond to leave Les Moulins, I honestly thought I was doing the best I could for him. It was the last thing I wanted to do for myself: I didn't want him to leave me ever, and when I got back home from seeing him off on the bus, I felt bereaved. I had my doubts then if I had done wise; yet I had been thinking for some time things couldn't go on as they was. For months I was the only living soul he ever spoke to: except for Tabitha when she came, and Louisa after my blood. At first I had sent him down the Bridge a few times to get things; but he always came back with his haunted look, and said everybody was pointing at him and talking about him. I said, ‘Well, perhaps they are, and perhaps they are not. In any case, people point at and talk about other people just so as to have somebody to point at and talk about. If it come down to brass tacks, they are only interested in themselves.'

It was really my fault, or at least through my carelessness, Raymond broke down. It was getting towards the end of May and visitors from England was beginning to come over in spite of the War, thinking they would get away from it. Instead, some of them got caught here by the Germans, and didn't get back until after the War was over: if they got back at all. Anyhow, it occurred to me to weed and rake around the ancient monument, though I wasn't being paid for it then, but just to make it look nice, and I asked Raymond to give me a hand. I just didn't think what I was doing. I was working at one end with my back to him, and he was working the other. I didn't even know anything was wrong until I heard him and looked round. He was sitting on the ground shaking and sobbing; and not able to control himself. I went over and sat by him and succeeded in getting out of him what was the matter. It was Abel. He had been thinking of Abel the day he dug up the bones. He had been so lovely! He was always seeing Abel about the place, he said; and sometimes he couldn't bear it he had lost him. He soon pulled himself together, and said he was sorry. ‘It is nothing you have to be sorry for,' I said. ‘It is only natural.' He said he had been trying so hard not to give me trouble. ‘I know I worry you,' he said.

That evening I talked it over with him quietly. I said first of all he must understand I didn't want him to go away and, whatever happened, he could always come back, if he wanted to; but I did think it would be better for him if he lived where he wasn't known and everybody didn't know his private affairs, and where there was nothing to remind him of the past. I could write to Liza Quéripel at Pleinmont, and I was sure she would do something. I remembered her promise. He could easily find something to do out there, and he would make new friends. It was the lunatic fringe of the island and the people round there was a more free and easy lot, and not nearly as strait-laced as round our way. He brightened up but said, ‘Who is going to keep the Captain off you?' I said, ‘I can keep the Captain off myself, don't you worry about that!' I was talking braver than I felt. He said it was a pity I didn't think of myself sometimes.

I wrote to Liza and explained as best I could. I didn't let Raymond read the letter because I put in it if she was out of pocket she must let me know and I would pay. I got a very nice letter back. ‘My dear,' she began, ‘I am happy you have taken me at my word at last.' She said yes, of course, she would take care of Raymond, and be glad to; and he could live in her house, if he didn't mind having the attic up the ladder. She had plenty of jobs herself she could give him to do; or, if he preferred it, he could work for other people. There was a shortage of men and it was going to be worse, as a number of the young fellows were waiting to join up. She said I mustn't think of paying her anything: that would make her really angry. She ended funny, I thought. ‘With love, you know. Liza.' Raymond said he would go.

I did one thing I know now was sensible. I might almost have known what was coming. I insisted on fitting him out before he went. I got his shoes mended by Jim Le Poidevin, and bought him a pair of boots with thick soles for working in the ground. I got him a pair of corduroy trousers from Queenie Brehaut, and some strong shirts and a handknitted guernsey. I packed his case for him, and put his old things in the rag-bag. I little thought the time would come when I would be glad to have his old rags to wear myself. He didn't have to go to Town to get the bus, because the summer bus round the coast was running as usual, and I put him on it at L'Ancresse. Before he got on he threw his arms around me and kissed me, as if I was his father. I don't know what the people on the bus thought; but I didn't care. That was how it came about that Raymond was living at Pleinmont when the Germans came. I didn't tell a soul where he had gone, except Tabitha. When people asked me where he was, I said, ‘He have gone for a change of air.'

Well, when we saw the clouds of smoke in the sky from the Germans blowing up things across the water in France, and boatloads of French came over with horrible stories of what the Germans was doing to them, I reckon we all knew our turn was coming. There was some fools who thought the Germans wouldn't bother about little Guernsey; but I have never been one to hope for the best when the worst is staring me in the face. The question everybody was asking was whether to stop in Guernsey, or go to England. That is, if they could. One minute it was said everybody would have to go; and the next minute that nobody would be able to. At last it seemed that anybody would be able to go who wanted to. Then nobody could make up their minds if they wanted to or not. I think at least half the inhabitants of the Vale and St Sampson's came to ask Ebenezer Le Page what he thought they ought to do. I knew what I was going to do. I didn't have to think twice. I was stopping. I didn't understand then, and I don't understand now, how any Guernseyman could leave his house and his land and his own people, and go and live without nothing among strangers.

I had some sympathy with those people who wanted to let their children go, or even go with them, because they was thinking for the good of their children; but, for all that, I thought the more Guernsey people there was left on Guernsey, the more trouble we could give to the Germans. As it turned out, we didn't give any trouble to the Germans. There was no English soldiers left on the island to fight for us; and we wasn't left with any guns to fight for ourselves, unless it was a few air-rifles and peashooters. I had to put up with a German patrolling regularly along our rough path outside Les Moulins; and wasn't even allowed to go down on the beach and pick limpets, when Tabitha and me was nearly starving. I am glad to say I got the better of him more than once, the nuisance! I couldn't bear to see the German soldiers about in their ugly helmets that looked as if they was put on back to front, and their dirty-looking greenish uniforms that made me feel sick. The nobs of the States had to stop on the island because it was their job; but I reckon most of them would have done so, anyway. I am sure Ambrose Sherwill would have. He was a fine man. His wife also decided to stop; and keep her children with her. She was a brave woman. It was during those days, when nobody knew if they was coming or going, I got friendly with Monsieur Le Boutillier. I met him outside my gate. He said, ‘What you doing, brother?' I said, ‘Business as usual.' He said, ‘Same here.' I said, ‘How about the kids?' ‘The whole family,' he said. I held out my hand.

I didn't give people advice as to what they ought to do. I said what I was doing myself. What they did was their own business. There was one other at least, besides me, who didn't think twice; and that was Lydia Mahy. I couldn't help laughing when I met her along the Braye Road one day. She was dressed in black voile up to her chin; and walking with her back as stiff as a poker, carrying a little black book in her hand. She looked every inch the old maid and Guernsey lady she was; and Germans or no Germans, was going the round of the houses, collecting her rentes. It was business as usual with Lydia. I said, ‘Hullo, so you have not gone then!' She said, ‘If they come, every woman, every woman on the island will be raped: every woman!' Her voice was trembling with excitement. They came but the worst that was to happen to poor Lydia was for her to have two German officers billetted at Les Grands Gigands. She said they behaved like perfect gentlemen.

I am not saying I was brave by stopping in Guernsey to face the Germans. There was one thing I was dead scared of: that was gas. I didn't want to end up like Jim Machon. It was perhaps as well I didn't have much chance to think of what the Germans might do to us. I had a more immediate danger on my doorstep. Louisa. She came every day. I didn't have the heart to hide from her, but let her come indoors and talk. She had one idea in her head. She wanted me to go with her to England; and she begged and implored me. I said ‘No! No! No!' but I might just as well have talked to her wooden leg, for all the difference it made! She would go home crying; and come back the next day and try again. On the Friday, I heard the explosions from the air-raid on the White Rock. I thought well, here they are: they have come! Louisa was gone home; but in the evening back she came.

She was in a terrible state. She said thousands had been killed on the White Rock. As a matter of fact, it was about thirty, I think. Among them was George Bougourd, who had fifty boxes of my tomatoes in his lorry for the boat. He got under his lorry out of the way; but it was hit and went up in flames, and he was burnt to death. The Germans was gone for now, she said, but was sure to come back: then if we wasn't all bombed and killed, we would be tortured and murdered to death, one by one. She had brought a suitcase and a big black bag. She wasn't going to sleep in her room in Town again on any account. ‘Goodness, you can't sleep here!' I said. ‘What will the people say?' The people could say what they liked: she didn't care what the people said! She would sleep on the green-bed, in a chair, on the floor, anywhere. I gave in and said she could sleep in my mother's bed. She said we could go on the boat to England in the morning. If I wouldn't go with her, she would never leave me: she would be true to me to death and we would die together! It was a horrible thought.