Chapter 39
S eagrove, Jersey, Channel Islands
As Lizzie continued along the garden path, Seagrove’s rear silhouette appeared before her with its tall chimneys and Victorian bulk.
She gazed at her family heritage, filled with gratitude that she had got onto the island without being caught. Throughout the journey, she kept thinking her luck was about to run out, but she had made it.
The gables and dormers jutted out of the roof, and she longed to run to the back door and let herself into the house, but dark fabric flapped against the pale stone that glimmered in the moonlight, forbidding her from entering.
Lizzie knew the main house had been requisitioned but hearing it and seeing it with her own eyes were completely different things.
She gulped back the rising dread in her throat.
The bastards had stolen their house and draped their flags of death all over it.
A white-hot anger flooded over her, and she stumbled off the path and into the orchard, where she clasped her hands to her sides and leant against an apple tree, gasping for breath.
She must calm down before looking for her grandparents. Trembling in the shelter of the trees, with the familiar scent of the ripening fruits in the air, her rage gradually subsided.
If her grandparents were still living on the estate, she must cross the gardens at the back of the house without being spotted so she could reach the old Gardener’s Cottage.
Blackout curtains covered the back windows of the main house, and the moon cast only a faint glow to light her way, but she couldn’t risk using her torch.
She didn’t know how many guards there were and where they might be positioned, so she had to be ready to duck out of sight at any sign of movement.
Sea mist glistened on the slate roof and dampened the night air as she set out in the shadows around the perimeter of the gardens towards the cottage.
Her feet inched forward, careful not to make a rustle to alert a sentry to her presence.
The sound of the waves bashing on the granite, and the old house groaning and sighing beneath the battering of the wind made Lizzie feel at home, but her heart drummed, and her senses were on higher alert with every step.
The sound of boots rang out over the elements, and she shrank back against the wall that surrounded the estate. Lizzie shivered as she clutched her coat to her body and waited.
The footsteps approached, and she lurked in the shadows of the beautiful grounds she used to play in as a child. Now she was hiding from the enemy in her own home, and rage threatened to engulf her again as the rhythmic steps drew closer.
The guttural territorial ‘kronk-kronk’ of a raven made her jump.
Ravens were native cliff-dwellers in Jersey, and she remembered their haunting sounds.
An answering call echoed on the wind, and as always when a raven appeared, Lizzie felt Jack’s soothing presence wrap around her like a protective mantle.
The footsteps halted on the path, and a soldier turned around slowly and faced her, his gun glinting in the moonlight.
The raven called out again, loud and shrill, as if alerting her to danger, and she watched the soldier, the pulse pounding in her neck as she swallowed her breath.
It seemed like an age that she stood there, her back pressed against the cold wall, the melodic song of the raven and the angry tides crashing on the rocks below, filling her ears.
The soldier moved, and she saw the glow of a cigarette and the smell of smoke drifting on the air as he resumed his slow walk, boots clicking on the hard path.
Lizzie gasped for air when he was a good distance away, and her legs felt weak.
After some time, she continued her tentative journey towards the cottage she had visited so often in her youth, when the kind gardener’s wife would treat her to a delicious home-baked Jersey Wonder.
The memory of the buttery taste of the deep-fried twisted doughnut, dusted with caster sugar, teased her tastebuds and made her stomach groan and her mouth water as she realised that with all the excitement she hadn’t eaten a bite since morning.
As she continued along the perimeter, listening and watching for any sound or movement, the shape of the single-storey stone cottage slid into view, its chimney etched against the dark sky. The windows were sheathed in blackout blinds, and only a faint light filtered around the recesses.
The light gave her hope. The gardener and his wife had left for England before Lizzie, so she knew it wouldn’t be them inside.
The danger was that the cottage had also been requisitioned and her grandparents weren’t living there, after all.
It was a possibility, but her knowledge of how the Germans operated led her to believe the chances were that any troops would be stationed at the main house.
From what she’d seen so far, there wasn’t a large military presence that warranted an overspill to the smaller buildings.
Yet.
All that would change with the Atlantic Wall fortifications at Portelet. Lizzie clung to the hope it was false information designed to throw informants off the trail when reporting to the Allies on German operations, but Uncle Charles believed it was real.
Lizzie strained for sounds from the cottage but could hear nothing but the wind ruffling the leaves in the tall trees and the churn of the waves below.
But this was her only chance to see her grandparents, and her gut guided her to take the risk as if she sensed their presence nearby, drawing her closer like a homing pigeon.
With that decision, she scanned the area for sentries. All was quiet and still, so she crept to the front of the cottage and touched the door latch, pressing lightly. It didn’t budge.
Damn it, the door was locked.
There was no time to waste, so she made a dash around the back and took cover by the lilac bush as she surveyed the small property.
A sweet fragrance overpowered her, and she was instantly gripped by poignant memories.
The image of herself as a little girl, picking bunches of lilac blooms to surprise her mother, pirouetted through her mind.
Tears filled her eyes, and she gulped, fighting the turmoil. Seagrove was occupied by an evil force, but the lilac bush, planted long before she was born, still flourished.
Crossing the back garden, Lizzie put her ear against the door, listening for voices. No sound. The minutes ticked by, and she questioned her earlier conviction. In the old days, the doors were never locked, but it could be different now with the enemy on the doorstep.
If troops were using the cottage as their barracks, she doubted they would leave it unguarded. The soft lighting behind the blackout curtains, and the peaceful house pointed to civilians, not soldiers in residence.
Shaking, she reached out her hand, her fingers touching the iron latch, and as she pressed with her thumb, the latch lifted silently. Lizzie opened the kitchen door and slipped inside, adrenaline rushing through every sinew, giving her the courage to face whatever awaited her on the other side.
The kitchen was lit only by candlelight, and her eyes took time to adjust. She blinked and stared at the small figure sitting in a chair at the kitchen table. The woman rose, her mouth falling open.
‘Lizzie!’ her grandmother gasped, staring at her as if she’d seen a ghost.
Lizzie pressed her finger to her lips and crossed the small room, tears springing from her eyes and spilling onto her cheeks.
The pent-up angst of the years they had been parted was like the eruption of a volcano.
Nan opened her arms wide, tears streaming down her face too, as Lizzie rushed into her embrace and they rocked together, overcome by emotion.
‘When, what, how?’ Nan spluttered between sobs and tears.
‘I’ll tell you what I can, but I only have a few hours and then I must leave.’
Nan hugged her granddaughter tightly to her as if she would never let her go, and Lizzie could barely catch her breath.
‘Where’s Pops?’ Lizzie croaked.
Nan pointed to the door, and Lizzie sank onto a chair, drained as relief washed over her and the rush of sneaking around the grounds dissipated.
She had feared the worst when her grandfather wasn’t in the kitchen.
She had feared the worst for them both, and seeing her grandmother alive and well was the answer to hundreds of bedtime prayers.
‘He’s going to think he’s dreaming when he sees you!’ Nan said, crossing the kitchen in her scruffy slippers and turning the key in the lock, defiance flickering in her eyes. ‘Now tell me how on earth you got here!’
Lizzie watched her grandmother crouch to stoke the embers of the stove, and the comforting hiss of the kettle proclaimed tea would soon be served.
‘You must be hungry, my love,’ Nan said, pursing her lips as she studied Lizzie. ‘You’re thin as a rake. I don’t have much to offer you at this hour, but how about some bread and butter?’
Lizzie said that sounded perfect, and she devoured a slice of bread with a scrape of yellow butter. ‘Oh, my goodness, I’ve missed this taste! There’s nothing like Jersey butter.’
At that moment, a familiar face appeared as the door gradually opened. Lizzie jumped to her feet and went to fling herself at Pops, who did indeed look as though he were dreaming.
‘My girl! What on earth? I mean, how …?’ He too was rendered speechless just like Nan, but he hugged her against his wiry frame.
They gazed at each other and hugged again, tears of joy running down the old man’s face. ‘I wondered if we’d ever see the day,’ he exclaimed finally when he sat down at the table opposite Lizzie.
There were only two chairs, and Lizzie saw how modestly they lived in the little cottage. ‘How did you come to be living here?’ she asked.
‘How did you know to find us here?’ Nan asked.
Lizzie cautioned them to speak in hushed tones. ‘No one must suspect I’m here. I saw only one guard in the grounds. How many are there usually?’
Pops said there didn’t used to be any, but recently some soldiers moved into the main house, which was when they were told they must move into the cottage as unpaid caretakers. ‘We maintain the gardens in exchange for living in our own property!’
Nan touched her husband’s arm. ‘It’s not so bad. Many have it much worse. You should see the labourers the Boche have shipped in. They treat them like slaves.’
‘That’s true enough,’ Pops said. ‘We are allowed the use of our small vegetable plot at the back, and some firewood.’
On closer inspection, Lizzie saw her grandparents had aged considerably since she’d seen them last. Their faces were heavily lined and gaunt, and they were both achingly thin.
Pops limped when he walked, and Lizzie asked what had happened to him.
Nan interjected. ‘He told the Nazis what he thought of them when they came to requisition Seagrove and permitted us to leave with only our personal items. They took ownership of the house and all its contents. A soldier whacked his ankle with the barrel of his gun.’
‘It’s nothing,’ Pops said, sipping the cup of tea Nan put in front of him. ‘It’ll heal in no time. Will take more than the Jerries to slow me down.’
Lizzie covered the mottled skin of his hand with her own, and tears threatened to spill down her cheeks again, but she held herself together. Time was against them, and she didn’t want to waste the precious moments they had together crying.
They talked for hours, huddled around the kitchen table as Lizzie told them what had happened with the family in London and St. Malo. The joy on their faces when they heard they were all alive and well was palpable.
It was almost 1 a.m. when Lizzie said they had better get to bed. ‘It won’t do to alert anyone to a change in behaviour, and it’s already very late.’
While Nan made up a makeshift bed for Lizzie on the sofa in the small sitting room, she said, ‘I’ll get you a nightie and a change of clothes for tomorrow, my love.’
Lizzie questioned her with a yawn. ‘What’s wrong with my clothes?’
‘You smell like the fish market! Anyone a mile off would guess you came in on a fishing boat.’
Lizzie giggled at her Nan’s expression, and a warm feeling permeated her chest. Her grandparents were living under occupation, and physically they weren’t at their best, but their spirit had not been broken.
When Nan brought Lizzie some of her old clothes to choose from, she almost broke down again with the wave of sentimentality that rushed over her.
‘They let us bring clothes, so I brought some of everyone’s just in case. I didn’t imagine for one minute you’d be here in the flesh to wear them so soon!’
Lizzie changed into an old nightdress, and Nan and Pops kissed her goodnight and retired to bed. Lizzie snuggled on the sofa under the embroidered eiderdown she remembered so well from Seagrove, and drifted off to sleep, her dreams dominated by a black raven watching over her.
Her small knife was hidden beneath the cushion she slept on.