A Place of Hiding

Speaking to Ruth would be the most efficacious method of moving the project forward. She was the likeliest candidate to be the legal owner of Le Reposoir— however this manoeuvre had been effected—and if that was the case, she might be manipulated into feeling a duty to fulfill her brother’s promises to people, perhaps agreeing to build a humbler version of the Graham Ouseley Wartime Museum in the grounds of Le Reposoir itself, which would allow the sale of the land they’d acquired for the museum near St. Saviour’s, which would in turn help to fund the building. On the other hand, he could speak to Guy’s heirs and try to wring the funding from them, persuading them to construct what would in effect be a memorial to their benefactor.

He could do that, Frank knew, and he should do that. Indeed, had he been another sort of man altogether, he would do that. But there were other considerations beyond the creation of a structure to house more than half a century’s amassment of military goods. No matter how much such a structure might have enlightened the people of Guernsey, no matter what such a structure could have done to establish Nobby Debiere as an architect in the public arena, the truth of the matter was that Frank’s personal world was going to be a far better place without a wartime museum in it. So he wouldn’t be speaking to Ruth about carrying on her brother’s noble work. Nor would he corral any of the others with the hope of squeezing funds from them. As far as Frank was concerned, the matter was over. The museum was as dead as Guy Brouard.

Frank squeezed his old Peugeot into the track that led to Moulin desNiaux. As he jolted the fifty yards to the water mill, he noted how overgrown the way had become. The brambles were fast overtaking the asphalt. There would be plenty of blackberries in the coming summer, but no road to get to the mill or its cottages if he didn’t do something to cut back the branches, ivy, holly, and ferns.

He knew he could do something about the undergrowth now. Having made his decision, having drawn the metaphorical line in the nonexistent sand at long last, he had bought himself a degree of freedom that he hadn’t even realised he’d been missing. That freedom opened up his world, even to thinking about something as ordinary as trimming bushes. How odd it was, he thought, to be obsessed. The rest of the world simply faded away when one submitted oneself to the constricting embrace of single fixation. He turned in the gate just beyond the water wheel and crunched over the gravel on the drive. He parked at the end of the cottages, the Peugeot’s bonnet pointing towards the stream that he could hear but not see through a thicket of elms long since overgrown with ivy. This trailed from branches nearly to the ground like an invitation from Rapunzel. It provided a useful screen from the main road through the Talbot Valley, but at the same time it hid a pleasant burbling stream from the garden where deck chairs in spring and summer could have allowed one to enjoy it. More work needing done round the cottages, Frank realised. Yet another indication of how much he’d let everything go.

In the house, he found his father nodding in his chair with pages of the Guernsey Press scattered like overlarge playing cards round him on the floor. Frank realised as he saw the paper that he hadn’t told Mrs. Petit to keep it from his father, so he had an uneasy few moments as he gathered the pages up and scanned them for a mention of Guy’s death. He breathed more easily when he saw there was none today. Tomorrow would be different with coverage of the funeral. For today, he was safe.

He went on to the kitchen where he put the newspaper back into order and set about making their tea. On her final visit to Graham, Mrs. Petit had thoughtfully brought a pie along with her, and she’d affixed a jaunty label to its tin. Chicken & leek, enjoy! was written on a from-Betty’skitchen card woven through the plastic tines of a miniature pitchfork upended and driven through the crust. This would do nicely, Frank thought. He filled the kettle and rooted out the tea tin. He spooned English Breakfast into the pot. He was setting the plates and the cutlery on the table mats when his father stirred in the sitting room. Frank heard him give an awakening snort first, followed by the startled gasp of someone who hadn’t intended to fall asleep.

“Time’s it?” Graham Ouseley called out. “That you, Frank?”

Frank went to the door. He saw that his father’s chin was wet and that a string of saliva had followed a groove from his mouth to form a stalactite of phlegm on his jaw.

“Getting our tea,” he said.

“How long you been home?”

“A few minutes. You were asleep. I didn’t like to wake you. How’d you get on with Mrs. Petit?”

“She helped me to the toilet. I don’t like women in the toilet with me, Frank.” Graham plucked at the blanket that was covering his knees.

“Where you been all these hours? What time’s it gone?”