LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter 3

       26 June 1940

      The windows of the house rattled to an irregular rhythm in their frames. At first they had thought a truck from one of the farms had driven too close to the house, but the sound had continued. There would be a long moment of calm, followed by the glass shaking a few times in quick succession. Some were quieter than others, then a large bang drifted across the sea as something bigger went up.

      The crockery on his tray clinked with each movement as Jack carried bowls of potato soup to his grandparents, trying not to spill any on the floor. He had expected them to look concerned when he entered their room, but they sat up against the metal headboard of their bed, quietly muttering to themselves.

      ‘I hear the Hun are at it again,’ his grandfather grumbled as he spotted Jack, who was too busy concentrating on the bowls to reply.

      ‘Thank you, dear,’ his grandmother said as he put the tray down on the only table in their room, a dark-lacquered, old wooden side table. He passed a bowl to her. She lifted the spoon and moved it towards her husband, who scoffed when he saw what she was doing. ‘I’m not an invalid,’ he said, before a cough racked his body. She smiled wearily at him, but Jack knew that she would do anything for her husband. As he would do for Johanna.

      He picked up the second bowl and there was another rumble from outside. Jack flinched as it rocked in his hands.

      ‘Don’t worry, Jacky,’ his grandmother said, and Jack was unsure whether she was talking about the soup or the sound of warfare drifting in through the open window. ‘You’ll get used to it, just like we did in the last war.’

      Jack wondered if this would be the same, that at some point the backdrop of war would become second nature to them.

      ‘The Hun wouldn’t dare,’ his grandfather agreed, before another coughing fit. Jack wanted to do something to help him, the man who had been like a father to him in the absence of his own father, but nothing they had done had helped. Jack longed for the grandfather who had told him stories of better times and convinced him to join the police force, knowing that he could never do anything else but try to help people, that since his father had died Jack had wanted to prevent anyone else suffering the same heartbreak. His grandfather was the man who had helped Jack feel like a local, forget that he was born in England and fit in on the island. It was funny to think that all those things had led him to become a policeman.

      ‘When are we going to see that nice young girl again, dear?’ his grandmother asked, breaking his reverie. ‘Jocelyn, Josie, whatsit?’

      ‘Johanna,’ Jack replied with a smile. ‘Soon, I hope, but well … you know what Mum’s like.’

      She sighed, then took a mouthful of her soup. His mother’s moods were an unspoken issue in the house. None of them truly knew what caused them, but all they could do was wait for them to pass.

      ‘She will come around,’ his grandfather said, joining in the conversation. ‘You’ll see – I’ll have a word with her.’ He managed to stifle a cough and his broad smile reminded Jack of past days.

      ‘Thanks,’ Jack said, smiling too, knowing that his grandfather would always come through for him.

      The windows rocked again, causing a little dust to fall from the ceiling. Jack left his grandparents to their meal and went into the hallway. He opened the front door, the creak of its hinges lost in the din, as explosions lit up the coast of France. His neighbours stood on their doorsteps too and looked about, frowns etched deep on their faces. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. The army had left only a few days ago, and the Islanders had hoped to be left alone now that they were no longer a threat. The newspapers had talked about the German advance, but no one had expected to hear it from here. Something terrible was happening over on the north coast. It seemed they wanted the whole of France for themselves.

      Jack left his house and walked up onto the headland to get a better look. Some of his neighbours followed at first, but then drifted off after a while, unwilling to witness the reality of what was happening. From up there a person could see for miles, to the south across the bright blue sea, to the faint white hue of clouds on the horizon. Jack stood there for a time. He often enjoyed it up on the hills and grabbed a glance over the sea whenever he could. Sometimes he would sit; others he would just stand and think. It gave him a chance to compose his thoughts and a bit of distance from home. At times he was tempted to sketch the view, but he had no talent for it. His mother could draw, creating something that looked like a reasonable landscape.

      The Cherbourg Peninsula was a muddy brown line along the edge of the sea, a land that seemed so far away. The wind was a south-westerly, blowing across him, threatening to take off his hat. The sounds had died out and been replaced by an eerie calm in which Jack could only hear his heartbeat and the occasional gust of wind. Over the few miles of sea blew thick black smoke, which left an acrid taste in his mouth. It was the taste of oil, strong and suffocating.

      Often scents and smells would blow across from the mainland,

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