The Book of Lies (15 page)

‘Are you going soon?'

‘Yeah,' Michael lowered his eyes and shrugged, ‘I've got it sorted. My ticket out of here.'

I sat very still and told him that I'd really, really miss him. Then I told him he couldn't and shouldn't go anywhere, and that Guernsey wasn't actually so bad.

He laughed. ‘Wait a few years and you'll see what I mean. You'll get so desperate you'll do
anything
to get away.'

I asked Michael to explain but he was too busy finishing my whisky. Then he said he didn't want to talk anymore, so we just sat and watched the clouds move. I imagined us flying away together through them, but now I wish I'd made more of an effort to talk to him about his problems. I should've made him tell me what was bothering him so much. I feel a bit guilty about it all, and you'll understand why if I skip forward to the next morning.

I walked into my form room at ten to nine and found a crowd of girls gathering in the corner. For the first time in her life Lisa Collenette had an audience, but it was obvious why. Her face had turned purple and her eyes were swollen, and as she blew her spectacular nose Nic gently rubbed her shoulder. I don't like Lisa much and it's not because she can eat whatever she wants and stay skinny, or because she looks like a ferret, or because she beat me in Geography. I just don't like her. Furthermore I never understood how someone so genetically handicapped could be related to Michael. (Does third cousin twice-removed
³⁹
count?)

I asked what was wrong.

Nic shook her head grimly.

‘You'll never guess! Michael Priaulx went off the top of Pleinmont Tower last night. They've had to airlift him to Southampton because his condition was so bad no one could help him here.'

I was so shocked I nearly fainted there and then.

‘I only saw him yesterday and he was OK.'

Nic's neat little eyebrows jumped.

‘What? You saw Michael? Where?'

‘My house. He came round for a chat.'

Lisa glared at me. ‘What about?'

‘This and that,' I shrugged, ‘We had a few drinks.'

Lisa's eyes got big and scary. ‘
Drinks
?'

I thought everyone would be impressed but instead they were appalled.

Nic shook her head. ‘Christ, Cat, that's why he fell. He was pissed out of his brains.'

I was standing there, feeling a lot like I was in court on trial, when in walked Mr McCracken and told us to sit down.

‘But we can't have a lesson, sir,' Nic said quickly. ‘Lisa's cousin had a really bad fall and he might die and Cat's just told us
why
!'

‘What? No, I didn't! I just said I
saw
him. You're getting ahead of yourself.'

Nic stroked my arm like she cared, but the tone of her voice was all wrong.

‘It's OK, Cat. We know you've had a hard time, what with your dad and everything, and I know you
really
liked Michael . . . only you shouldn't have given him
alcohol
.'

The whole class seemed to hold their breath and stare at me. Mr McCracken slapped his books down on the desk.

‘What's this?'

Nic spun around to face him. ‘
Well,
sir,' she looked back at me, ‘we don't know the full story, but Constable Priaulx found his son at the bottom of the Pleinmont Tower early this morning and apparently he'd been drinking heavily and had fallen from the top.'

She then went on to itemise Michael's injuries, with lots of excellent gesturing. Apparently Michael's head had swelled up like a Giant Jersey Cabbage
⁴⁰
and he'd nearly lost an eye. He'd also broken both his arms and legs, cracked several ribs and blown a puncture in his lung. There was the suggestion he might be paralysed.

‘And was he alone?' asked Mr McCracken.

Nic swung back to look at me. ‘Who knows?'

‘What are you trying to say?' (I must've been purple by now.) ‘I wasn't with him. I don't know anything. I don't, sir!'

I felt guilty for no reason at all, and was angry with everyone for staring.

Mr McCracken gave me a curt nod. ‘Right, well, be sure to tell the police if you think you can help, Cathy. As for the rest of you, this isn't some kind of kangaroo court so I suggest you all sit down and let that be the end of it.'

But it wasn't. The minute class was over Nic grabbed my arm and hauled me off to the loos.

‘What the fuck!' She was shaking her head as she steered me over to the basins. She then checked her mascara in the mirror. ‘Shit, Cat. What were you playing at in there? You really lost it!'

‘What was
I
playing at? What were
you
playing at?'

Nic smiled at her reflection and dabbed under her eyes.

‘Excuse me, but I wasn't the last person to see Michael Priaulx in one piece.' She turned to look at me. ‘And if Mr McCracken thinks you were getting all cosy with Michael what's the harm? He might get jealous. Don't you get it? It's a
ploy
.'

I laughed nervously. ‘Right. But I wasn't having any kind of secret
thing
with Michael and I don't like you implying that I was. We should get our facts straight, and find out what happened
.
And on that note,' I took a breath, ‘where was Pete last night?'

Nic blinked. ‘What? Oh, you're kidding me. Fuck
off
! You don't seriously think Pete was involved. He was with me, of course.'

I'll admit I was disappointed that Pete had an instant alibi.

Nic laughed. ‘And you were just telling
me
not to jump to any conclusions.'

‘I can't help it,' I replied
. ‘
Michael said you were bothering him at Donnie's the other weekend. Maybe Pete got jealous.'

Nic shook her head.

‘You and your imagination
.
'

It's true I have a brilliant imagination (which explains my high grades in Creative Writing) and I'm embarrassed to admit I did imagine all sorts vis-à-vis Michael and his death-plunge-drama. Thank God he's come back. He can explain things for himself. I think I've waited long enough – that's probably why he came round. He's been away all these months and now he's ready to set the record straight and tell me everything. And I can tell him everything, too. He's the only person who'll understand what I did and why. I hope he won't judge me. He might even be glad Nic's dead and thank me for killing her. Maybe he'll promise to keep my secret and maybe we'll get married.

He's obviously desperate to talk to me because he left me a note saying so:

Do you need a gardener?
If so, please call M. Priaulx on 237678
.

How amazing is that? If I need a reason to keep living it's definitely Michael Priaulx. I love him, I think. Nic said I didn't know anything about feelings but now I do. I definitely understand what all those words mean. You
fall
for someone because you lose your balance. You have a
crush
on them because you've been
squished.
I love Michael Priaulx, for sure. He can honestly smash me to bits.

Property of Emile Philippe Rozier

The Director-General of the BBC

Broadcasting House

Portland Place

London

W1A 1AA

Dear Sir,

I am writing with regard to the television documentary ‘Lying with the Enemy' aired on Sunday night last.

I was outraged and appalled by what I felt was a grossly inaccurate depiction of Guernsey and its people during the Second World War, pandering to only the lowest sensibilities. It would of course be impossible to convey the full tragedy of our five years spent under German rule in a mere
60
minutes, but you clearly approached the subject with an agenda, and the result was a crass simplification of a complex history. You stirred up the usual controversies but had no fresh material as the basis for your claims, instead hoping to titillate your viewers by dwelling on subjects such as the apparently ‘all too common' liaisons between local women and German soldiers.

Although I do not deny that these liaisons occurred, I would like to alert you to the presence of French prostitutes, brought onto the island for the sole purpose of ‘servicing' the troops. How lusty do you imagine us natives to be? For the most part Guernsey housewives devoted all their energies to finding ways to clothe and feed their families. My own mother, for example, was reduced to working as a laundress, pressing and mending officers' uniforms to earn extra money. When asked what she thought about this so-termed ‘horizontal collaboration', she said most people on the island were too exhausted to involve themselves in illicit sexual liaisons. She pointed out that those that did were often the very young and naive, or the poor and ill-educated, and they were not won over by charming ‘officer gentlemen' but more worn down by their own desperate circumstances.

Most islanders had no idea when the Occupation would end. Many believed the Germans were here to stay. By
1942
we were surviving on less than
1
,
000
calories a day. It was a terrible time, but our personal circumstances were not nearly as pitiful as those of the foreign labourers brought in to build Hitler's Atlantic Wall, many of whom perished in the most appalling conditions. Your film was replete with lingering shots of the bunkers and towers, and yet barely made reference to the human cost of building them.

Had you taken the time to interview a diverse cross-section of islanders you might have come closer to the extremely complex truth, instead of making such extraordinary claims whilst consistently underplaying genuine acts of what you called ‘petty resistance' such as the harbouring of banned radio sets, or the theft of food or fuel. Let me assure you these crimes resulted in very serious penalties on more than one occasion. Perhaps they are not grand acts of heroism when considered against Great Britain's apparently impeccable war record, but they are memorable when set in the appropriate context, which is something you consistently failed to do. Guernsey is a tiny island, and with such a dense concentration of enemy soldiers it was impossible for any large-scale resistance movements to develop.

The hardship of life under German rule varied from household to household, but, generally speaking, the constant fear and deprivation led to bitterness, resentment and exhaustion. By
1945
both soldiers and civilians alike were in a desperate and humiliated state. One German officer compared the island to a ‘sanatorium' for the sick and wounded. In real life people had lost their health, their livelihoods and their property, children had lost the chance of a decent education, whole families had been destroyed.

Furthermore, I would like to point out that Guernsey was six million pounds in debt after the Occupation, and there has been no compensation for islanders who were deported or imprisoned by the Germans. It is thus perhaps a drama, but one that is continuing.

I am appalled at how standards have slipped into the gutter and I have grown tired of these poorly researched, anti-Channel Island programmes, and therefore will not be renewing my television licence, since I cannot agree with providing financial support for things I stand firmly against.

Yours sincerely

E.P. Rozier

Manager/Editor of The Patois Press

Sans Soucis

Village de Courtils

St Peter Port

P.S. There were no GESTAPO on the Channel Islands – only Geheimfeld Polizei. Lack of proper research only entrenches stereotypes and deepens the resentments we islanders feel towards those so intent on judging us.

17TH DECEMBER 1985
,
9
p.m.

[In bed, dreaming of Michael Priaulx.]

Sex! Drama! Passion! Who needs TV?

I've just been on the phone to Michael. I called him up after boiling myself alive in the bath, and applying three coats of The-Body-Shop-Sage-and-Comfrey-Blemish-Minimiser to my entire body.

I welcomed him back to Guernsey and he asked me if I was being Ironic. I was impressed/surprised that he knew what it meant.

‘I get the feeling people are avoiding me and I thought you might be, too,' he said. ‘We should meet, have a catch-up.'

Catch-up might be code for a Rampant Snog. (OK. Probably not.)

‘I've only been back five minutes and I'm going mad. Mum's scared to let me out of the house and jumps whenever the phone rings.'

I can't blame Mrs Priaulx for being a bit anxious. She remembers her youngest son drinking Meths/ head-butting cattle/crashing his motorbike a trillion times, and she probably just hoped he'd grow out of it. At least she's letting him out of the house, though. We've arranged to meet by the old Military Cemetery tomorrow afternoon. Don't worry, that's not as grim as it sounds! The cemetery is actually very pretty and well-kept, with all the graves arranged in mathematical fractions, and the lawns neatly clipped, etc. Down the far end there's a big cement cross with flowerbeds beneath it. You never see anyone there, though, so whoever does the gardening must be embarrassed to be seen doing it, because most of the graves are German.

But not all of them. My grandfather is buried there,
par exemple
. He was a soldier in the First World War and for a long time I thought that was how he died. I can't believe he's too happy about where he's buried since he's stuck between a Jerseyman and a German. But the German was quite famous and his death caused a scandal. At first they thought a farmer had killed him, then they decided he'd killed himself because he didn't want to be sent to the Russian Front. Then they said he'd been robbed and stabbed by his own batman (who was promptly found down a well and so obviously
had
committed suicide). As this story demonstrates, Hitler only sent his youngest/most inept/injured soldiers to the islands because they wouldn't be needed to fight. They therefore mostly had a holiday.
⁴¹
Dad said it was a shame Syphilis didn't kill them all. Have I mentioned the French-style brothels dotted around St Peter Port? And that's not to mention what the local women were up to. Inevitably there were frequent outbreaks of Venerable Diseases, as well as some suspiciously blonde babies.
⁴²