The Collaborator (10 page)

B
lanche has laid the table for tea. Everything is immaculate. She’s put out the best linen napkins, with the silver napkin rings that she and Millie were given as christening gifts; and there are roses from the garden in a cut-glass vase.

‘So what’s all this about?’ I ask her. ‘I mean, it’s a sweet thing to do—but it doesn’t happen all that often …’

‘Don’t you like it, Mum?’

‘Yes, it looks lovely,’ I say. ‘Thank you …’

She has an eager, hopeful smile.

‘Actually, there
is
something,’ she tells me. Her voice a little ingratiating—smooth as Vaseline. ‘I wanted to ask if I could maybe go out tonight.’

‘Out?
Of course you can’t go out. Not after the curfew. Of course not, Blanche. What on earth were you thinking?’ I say.

‘The thing is.’ She hesitates. ‘There’s going to be a party at Les Brehauts,’ she says. I hear a little uncertainty creeping into her voice. ‘Celeste and me have been invited.’

I think of Les Brehauts, the Gouberts’ big whitewashed house near the church. It’s double-fronted, rather splendid, with wide sleek lawns and abundant borders and whispering poplar trees.
Recently, when I’ve cycled past, I’ve seen German officers in its grounds.

‘So—who’s giving this party, exactly?’ I say. ‘I thought that Mr and Mrs Goubert had gone on the boat. I thought Les Brehauts had been requisitioned …’

Blanche draws in breath, like someone about to dive into deep water.

‘The thing is, Mum, it
has
been … Somebody invited us. He said it would be a good evening. There’s going to be dancing. You know how I love dancing. What could happen to us exactly?’ she says.

‘Who is this somebody, Blanche?’

I see her throat move as she swallows. Pink spots come in her cheeks.

‘He’s called Tomas Kreutzer,’ she says.

‘Kreutzer?’

‘He likes Celeste,’ she goes on rapidly. ‘He came to the shop where she works. He wanted to get his watch mended.’

I stare at her—not quite believing what I’m hearing.

‘So—the
Germans
are giving this party?’

‘Celeste says Tomas is ever so polite. Really, Mum. He doesn’t agree with the war. He thinks Great Britain and Germany should be allies—because we’re so alike. He says we aren’t like other races.’

I don’t say anything.

‘He was going to be an English teacher,’ she says. ‘Well, there’s nothing wrong with that, is there? That’s good, isn’t it? To want to be a teacher? It’s not
his
fault this happened, Mum.’

I’m amazed that we’re having this conversation.

‘Blanche. You’d be out after curfew. You could be shot,’ I say.

‘Of course we won’t be.’ She has all the blithe certainty of youth, when you believe that nothing can touch you. ‘Tomas will give us a lift,’ she tells me. ‘Tomas says it will be fine.’ She comes close to me, clasps my wrist with urgent fingers. ‘Mum. It’s just some boys and girls wanting to have a good time. It’s just a party. What could be wrong with a party?’

‘No, Blanche. You can’t go.’

‘The thing is—Celeste won’t go without me.’ She clears her throat. ‘I
promised
her, Mum.’ She suddenly sees a new argument to try, appealing to the morality of promises. ‘I should keep my promises, shouldn’t I? You’ve always said that’s important …’

‘And what does Celeste’s mother say to all this?’ I ask.

‘Yes. Definitely,’ says Blanche. ‘I
know
she’ll say yes. I mean, it’s not as though there’s all that much fun in our lives nowadays, is it?’

‘Blanche. Of course you can’t go. I’m amazed you asked. You’d be putting yourself in danger. That’s the end of it.’

She can tell now that I’m not giving in. I see the bright blaze of anger in her.

‘You never let me do anything.’ Her voice is shrill. ‘You treat me like a baby.’

‘Things are difficult, Blanche. You know that. We have to be careful. We can’t just do what we want.’

‘I’ve got a job now, Mum. You can’t treat me as though I’m still
three.’

‘Blanche. We’re at war, for goodness’ sake.’ ‘It’s
your
war,’ she says. ‘It’s not
our
war. This stupid, stupid war …’

‘Well, that’s what we have to live with,’ I say. I glimpse Millie open-mouthed in the doorway—fascinated, appalled.

Blanche’s eyes spark.

‘We didn’t
have
to live with it.’ She’s spitting out the words. ‘It didn’t have to be like this—we could have gone on the boat. It would all have been different if only we’d gone on the boat. I would have a life then …’ Bitterly.

It hurts, because there’s truth in it. Probably we should have gone. Everyone got to Weymouth safely. Perhaps I was a coward. Perhaps I should have been braver. It all seemed to happen so rapidly—that sudden fork in the road: and you choose one path above the other, and then there’s no going back.

‘Blanche—I made the best decision I could.’ Wanting her to understand—wanting to justify myself to her.

‘Well, it wasn’t the right one, Mum. What kind of a life is this, cooped up here on Guernsey?’

‘I’m trying to keep us all safe,’ I say.

‘That’s all you care about, isn’t it? Keeping safe,’ she says. Her eyes flare like blue gas-flames. ‘You don’t care about
living …
You can’t keep me shut away here for ever. I’ve got my own life to lead.’

‘Blanche …’

‘I hate this stupid, stupid war.’ Tears are streaming down her face. ‘It was just a party,’ she says. She runs off up the stairs.

Tea is ready, on the immaculately laid table, but Blanche stays up in her room. I knock on her door, but she says, ‘Go away.’ She sounds as though she’s still crying: there’s a choke
of tears in her voice. I decide to leave her for now, and let her come down when she’s ready.

‘Blanche isn’t here,’ says Evelyn.

‘She’s not feeling well,’ I tell her.

I’m glad Evelyn didn’t overhear the quarrel; I know if she had she’d be giving me lots of advice: how that girl needs a good talking-to, how I shouldn’t put up with her backchat; how children need plenty of discipline, they need to know where you stand.

Millie gives me a conspiratorial look from under her eyelashes. Tonight, her table manners are perfect; she has a rapt, goody-two-shoes expression. She’s relishing this unfamiliar role—of being the better-behaved daughter.

After tea, I read her a bedtime story that tells of a girl who married a creature as ugly as a hedgehog: and at night he took off his coat of spines and became a handsome man. I’ve always loved this story, but I’m reading mechanically, not very aware of the words. The thing Blanche said is in my mind:
That’s all you care about, isn’t it? Keeping safe. You don’t care about living …
I wonder if she is right—if this is a flaw in me—remembering how when I first came to Guernsey, I embraced the restriction, the simplicity, of life here, content to live in the quiet of these secluded valleys, with my roses and my piano and my poetry books. There has always been something in me that is drawn to seclusion, to life in a small enclosed room. I’m so shy, so wary of strangers—it’s as though I need to protect myself against other people, defend myself against them. Yet deep inside I know that a cloistered room, however willingly entered, will soon become a prison.

Blanche doesn’t come down as she usually does, to half listen to the story and flick through old copies of
Vogue
.

Once I’ve heard Millie’s prayers and tucked her up, I go to Blanche’s door. This time I will walk in and speak to her, whatever she says. I hate it when there’s trouble between us. I’m longing to patch up the quarrel, now she’s had time to calm down.

I knock, but there’s no answer.

‘Blanche?’

I half open the door, say her name again. My voice falls into silence.

I walk right into the room.
Oh God. No.

The room is empty. The clothes she was wearing are in a neat pile on her chair, but the bed is still made, not slept in, her pyjamas under her pillow; and I see with a thud of my heart that her window is flung wide. You could climb out there, and clamber down onto the roof of the shed, and from there down into the garden, and leave without being seen.

I can’t believe she’s defied me like this. I’m so angry with her; so frightened for her.

M
y pulse races off: I’m full of a desperate energy. All I can think is that I have to find her, and bring her back and keep her here, where she’s safe. Evelyn and Millie are both in bed: I can leave them. The light is thickening already, sepia shadows gathering in the corners of the house, and I remember what Captain Richter said: You know about the curfew. Don’t put us in a difficult position … I can see his stern mouth, as thin as the gash of a razor. But I push the thought away. I can walk through the fields to Les Brehauts, and nobody will see me. I will find her and bring her home again.

I cross the lane, walk through my orchard, along the hem of the wood. The air is chill, profound, smelling of autumn coming—of woodsmoke and rot and ripening fruit. On the other side of the wood, the fields belong to Peter Mahy. I walk along the narrow track that leads across his land. The sky is a lavish ultramarine, and the unshadowed parts of the fields are bleached and colourless in the twilight. The rabbits that dart and skitter there are absolutely black, as though they are made of darkness, and shadow laps at the foot of Peter’s broken-down barn, like a pool of deep water.

When I come to the field below Les Brehauts, I can hear music from the party, spooling out over the quiet land, like a roll of bright silk flung out. ‘I’ve got you under my skin.’ I’m startled that they listen to the exact same music as we do, these people we are at war with. Somehow I hadn’t expected that.

Down below Les Brehauts, there’s a wrought-iron gate in the hedge that opens into their garden. I look up the long slope of lawn that leads to the back of the house, where there are graceful French windows and a terrace. I slip through the gate, walk silently up the garden between the herbaceous borders; dahlias hang their heavy heads, paled to the colour of milk in the dusk. The perfumes of the garden wrap themselves around me.

I stop at the foot of the terrace. From here I can see in; the blackout curtains have been rather carelessly pulled, and a sliver of topaz brightness falls out over the lawn, gilding each blade of grass it touches. There are moths about, drawn to the radiance; they seem to have a glittery dust on their wings, which glimmers when they enter the light. All around me is the drenching scent of honeysuckle.

I stare into the lighted room. This is the big drawing room across the back of the house. Mrs Goubert used to invite the whole congregation in here after the carol service at Christmas, to eat apple
gâche
and drink mulled wine and talk about island affairs. The room has been utterly changed—the carpet rolled up, all the furniture pushed to the sides, to make a dance floor. On the sideboard there are bottles of claret, and delicate crystal glasses that have an opulent gleam. Several couples are dancing. The men are all Germans in uniform, the girls all island girls. One of the men is winding up the gramophone. Celeste is there, dancing the Charleston with a tall German boy: I imagine this
must be Tomas, her boyfriend. Celeste is wearing a dress that is the rich, extravagant blue of cornflowers; it’s made of some glossy fabric that swings out with her movement and catches the light. There’s a faint gleam of sweat on her forehead: everything about her is gleaming. For a moment I can’t see Blanche—then I spot her by the piano, which has been pushed to the side. She’s talking to a solid young man, who is looking at her intently. She’s wearing her taffeta dress and one of her two good pairs of stockings and her favourite coral necklace, and her lips are very red: she has put on the lipstick I bought for her. She’s holding a glass of wine, though she isn’t used to drinking, she’s only ever had a little wine before, just a half-glass at birthdays or Christmas. Now and then she drinks the wine in small, hurried sips, running a finger up and down the stem of the glass. She looks flushed and scared and happy.

I was going to bang on the door, to march in and take her home with me. But I don’t move, just stand there, staring in through the glass. I can tell that she’s nervous—she’s nibbling her lip, and with her free hand she’s twisting a strand of her hair. She can stammer a bit when she’s anxious, and I wonder if she is stammering now, and trying very hard not to. She makes me think of a faun that might startle and skitter away.

I try to imagine walking in there, to tell her she has to come home. I see I was wrong, to think I could do that—that it was
right
to do that. I realise that all the anger and fear have left me. I feel a little foolish, that I ever thought such things. I watch her a moment longer; and a feeling falls over me like a fisherman’s net, captures me—a confused emotion, bittersweet, a little like grief, yet not that. My eyes fill up. I hear her words in my mind:
You can’t keep me here for ever. I’ve got my own life to lead.
I know
what this moment is—the moment every mother faces. This is when my daughter leaves me—when she steps out into the stream, steps into her own life. And so much about it is wrong: this setting—the Occupation, the war. But it still has to happen. She has to make her own choices now. I know this—that I have to let her go, that I can’t stop her, shouldn’t stop her.

There’s a pause in the music, so all I can hear through the window is the ripple of laughter and talk. Close to my face a moth beats soft, tenuous wings against the glass. In the room, the man beside the gramophone kneels down to change the record. More Cole Porter: ‘Night and Day’. More couples take to the floor, though Blanche is still talking to the young man by the piano. I watch the dancers a little longer. If I half close my eyes, the room is just a hectic, glamorous blur, a kaleidoscope of colour. I can’t make out the enemy uniforms, all the things that jar—it’s just young men and women dancing.

I walk silently back through the darkening meadows, the music singing in my mind. Above me, the moon is rising, and the night wind in the leaves of the wood is one long indrawn breath.