A Place of Hiding

“Will Frank return soon?” Deborah asked.

“Oh, we’ve time enough for our business ’fore he gets here,” Graham Ouseley declared. “Don’t you worry about that. Frankie doesn’t like what I’m up to, I got to tell you. But I promised myself I’d do the right thing

’fore I died. And I mean to do it, with or without the boy’s blessing.”

He doddered into an overheated sitting room, where he scooped a remote from the arm of a chair, pointed it to the television where a chef was expertly slicing bananas, and doused the picture. He said, “Let’s have at this in the kitchen. There’s coffee.”

“Actually, we’ve come—”

“No trouble.” The old man interrupted what he clearly thought was going to be Deborah’s protest. “Like to be hospitable.”

There was nothing for it but to follow him to the kitchen. It was a small room made smaller by the clutter it held: Stacks of newspapers, letters, and documents shared space with cooking utensils, crockery, cutlery, and the occasional misplaced gardening tool. “Sit yourselfs down,”

Graham Ouseley told them as he eased his way over to a coffee press that held four inches of some greasy-looking liquid that he unceremoniously dumped with its sodden grounds into the sink. From a bowing shelf he took down a canister, and with a shaking hand he spooned up fresh grounds: both into the cafetiere and onto the floor. He shuffled across this and captured the kettle from the cook top. At the tap he filled it with water, setting it to boil. When he’d managed all this, he beamed with pride.

“That’s that, ” he announced, rubbing his hands together and then frowning, said, “Why the hell’re you two still on your feet?”

They were on their feet because, obviously, they were not the guests the old man meant to receive into his home. But as his son wasn’t there—

although due to return soon if his errand and the presence of his car were any indication—Deborah and Cherokee exchanged a glance that said

“Well, why not?” They would enjoy a coffee with the old man and simply wait.

Nonetheless, Deborah felt it only fair to say, “Frank’s due back soon, Mr. Ouseley?”

To which he replied rather peevishly, “Listen up. You’re not to worry about Frank. Sit down. Gotcher notepad ready? No? Good God. You must have memories like elephants, the two of you.” He lowered himself to one of the chairs and loosened his tie. Deborah noticed for the first time that he was nattily dressed in tweeds and a waistcoat, and his shoes had been polished. “Frank,” Graham Ouseley informed them, “is born to worry. He doesn’t like to think what might come of this business between you and me. But I’m not concerned. What c’n they do to me that they haven’t done ten times over, eh? I owe it to the dead, I do, to hold the living accountable. We all have it as our duty, that, and I mean to do mine before I die. Ninety-two I am. Four score and more’n ten, it is. What d’you make of that?”

Deborah and Cherokee murmured their amazement. On the stove the kettle whistled.

“Let me,” Cherokee said, and before Graham Ouseley could voice a protest, he got to his feet. “You tell your story, Mr. Ouseley. I’ll make the coffee.” He gave the old man an appealing smile.

This appeared to be enough to mollify him, because Graham remained where he was as Cherokee saw to the coffee, moving round the kitchen to find cups, spoons, and sugar. As he brought things to the table, Graham Ouseley rested back in his chair. He said, “It’s quite a tale, you two. Let me tell you about it,” and he proceeded to do so.

His story took them back more than fifty years, to the German occupation of the Channel Islands. Five years living under the bleeding jackboot, he called it, five years of trying to outwit the damn Krauts and to live with dignity despite degradation. Vehicles confiscated right down to bicycles, wireless sets declared verboten, deportation of longtime residents, executions of those deemed “spies.” Slave camps where Russian and Ukrainian prisoners worked to build fortifications for the Nazis. Deaths in European labour camps, where those who defied German rule were sent. Documents studied into the time of one’s grandparents to ascertain whether there was Jewish blood to be purged from the populace. And quislings aplenty among the honest people of Guernsey: those devils willing to sell their souls—and their fellow islanders—for whatever the Germans promised them.