Читать книгу Gold Beach - Elisabeth Jones - Страница 7

Moffat, Scotland, June 6th 1959

Isobel's accident almost made her forget which day it was. She was so worried about what had happened that she was moving around as quickly and lightly as any working day. Fortunately, as was usual on that date, we didn't have any tenants. That Saturday we didn't go walking by the river with Betty either. However, the candle kept burning for the whole day until it burnt out by nightfall.

As my mother headed for the kitchen to make breakfast, I went up to my room to have a wash and get dressed, but most of all to leave the lock and key in a safe place. In my mind, I kept praying to heaven that my mother wouldn't notice the swap, so I would be able to return to that past she kept locked up any time I wanted. Before I went down I stopped in front of the mirror. I looked at myself thoroughly and desperately in search of the slightest resemblance of the man I had until then thought was my father, but I only found the dimples I shared with this Elwyn who I had just met. My curly chestnut hair was nothing like John's wavy black hair. The pain that was crushing my chest got so strong that I could hardly breathe. That was the first of a great many times that I hated having opened my own Pandora's Box, but it was too late to back out. I had started the unimaginable. My mother called me from the kitchen to come down for breakfast but I felt unable to hold back my tears or eat anything. On the one hand I wanted her to get out of the house so I could go back as soon as possible to that story I had just discovered, but on the other hand I wished I had never discovered it at all. Unfortunately, the events of the day didn't allow me to return to the attic until well into the night. When she called me again I dried my tears with my hands, sighed and headed for the kitchen using Isobel's misfortune as an excuse.

That day, on which I would have appreciated my mother's corresponding silence, she kept on talking all the way through breakfast. My monosyllabic answers made her smile more than once, mistaken about the true reason.

‘I didn't know you were such a close friend of Isobel's,’ she said, smiling. ‘You had never mentioned her before, but I'm glad you get on so well. In a couple of hours, Geena will bring her to stay here while she's working. She told me that she’ll pick her up at night but I think they would rather sleep here, that way if something happens I'll be on hand to take care of her. You don't mind, do you?’

‘No,’ I replied, keeping my eyes on my plate even though I couldn't help wondering whether that unexpected visit would hinder my plans.

‘I would teach you to treat this kind of wounds but I don't think Isobel would like that.’

‘I can imagine,’ I said without going into detail.

I was answering out of habit, not because I was actually listening. My mind kept going over the photographs I had seen and what little I had read. I needed some answers. I couldn’t hold back in the trenches any longer the battle that was being fought inside me. It came out without thinking. I didn't even consider the consequences. The first question I asked her marked the beginning of my adventure.

‘Mum, why don't you ever tell me anything about the time you lived in Birmingham? You hardly talk about my grandparents. I only know their names and that they died many years ago,’ I said with a calm voice and a steady gaze.

My mother gave me a look of surprise as her smile began to disappear from her face. After a few seconds she slowly swallowed and answered me.

‘You're completely right, Philip. I should talk about them more often. They don't deserve to be stored away among my memories as if they had never existed.’

Her answer reassured me because I figured that she wouldn't mind talking about her past. The door was just open. I was ready to cross over and start walking.

‘Was it Birmingham where you met my father?’ I asked fully aware of the way I had put the question.

My mother looked at me in silence for a moment in which her lips trembled slightly. Finally she answered, lowering her head.

‘No. Your grandmother Barbara died shortly after my birth and your grandfather Robert died in Dunkirk. Being left an orphan, my aunt Jennifer took me in but some years later I decided to go and live far away from there. I'll explain why to you some other day. One morning I set off to Moffat with your father's brother, your uncle Michael, who lived near my friend Brenda. When I arrived here, your father offered me a job I couldn't turn down at that time.’

‘He fell in love with you the moment he saw you, didn't he?’ I asked her with a smile, trying to comfort her as I saw the sadness in her eyes.

‘It was very easy to love your father. We fell in love soon after we met.’

‘Why don't you have photographs of your wedding day?’

‘Those were different times, Philip. We got married at the church one afternoon accompanied by Michael and Geena, our witnesses. We didn't have a party or celebration, we simply got married, full stop.’

‘So every time you said you were going to visit the family and left me with Dad or Geena, it was to see your aunt Jennifer?’

‘Well, yes. I used to go to Birmingham, visit her, spend the night there and come back home the day after.’

That answer comforted me. For a moment I had thought those trips had been to see Elwyn, but soon I ruled out that stupid theory since that man, according to my mother's diary, had died years ago.

‘Why don't you visit her any more?’ I asked in surprise.

‘Because I don't want to leave you alone,’ she lied. ‘Now I phone her once a month to check on her and that saves me the journey. She understands.’

‘And does she live alone?’

‘Philip, I don't want to talk about her any more,’ she said with a steady voice.

Her reaction didn't surprise me as I recalled what I had read about Aunt Jennifer in her diary. I had made a mistake asking about her. The conversation was over. My mother lowered her head to her plate with her face burdened with sadness. I didn't dare to ask what day she got married to my father because I was certain that she would lie. Dates spoke for themselves. My mother must have arrived in Moffat pregnant.

‘Next Saturday, when we go walking by the river with Betty, you'll tell me some more things about my grandparents, alright?’ I said with a smile to loosen the tension I had created with my unfortunate enquiries.

My mother looked at me with moist eyes and a trembling smile. She stood up leaving her breakfast unfinished and started to wash up in silence. I finished my porridge reluctantly, left my bowl in the sink, cleaned up the table and asked her if she would mind me going out to walk Betty for a while. Without even looking at me she replied I could take as long as I wanted. I’m sure she didn't kiss me goodbye as usual because she didn't want me to see her crying.

I ran out of the house as if I could escape from the past that had lived with me hidden in the attic for all those years. My loyal guard followed my steps, paying attention to whatever I might need. She didn't even ask me to play with her as I did every Saturday. All she did was simply stand by my side and keep me company. We started to walk along the path in the opposite direction to the town. Even though I was walking slowly then, my heart kept beating as if the race were still going on. When I reached the clearing in the woods that I liked so much, I sat to catch my breath and put my thoughts in order. Two things were haunting me. The first, realising how much my mother must have suffered for the thought of taking her own life to have crossed her mind. The second, thinking of my father and what it must have meant to him raising another man's son. As I recalled his last words to me I understood that he loved her madly without caring about her past. Promise me you'll take care of your mother and you'll do what it takes to make her happy, no matter what. What did he mean by no matter what? Was he trying to tell me that whatever I may find out I should try and make sure she was happy? Did he really know my mother's history? Could it be that he had read her diary? What must he have felt knowing that she loved another man? All that caused me distress but made me love the man I considered to be my father a thousand times more. The pillars on which my life had stood until then had collapsed. I was left with no option but to investigate to find out the truth and start building my new reality. Would I be able to read all of my mother’s secrets and keep them inside of me as if I had never discovered them? If that man had truly died in the war, the only thing left to do was to face the truth about who my father really was. I didn't know where to begin or where it would lead me, but the key was in that diary. I made my father's deathbed words to me my life’s mission. My mother deserved to be happy. I stood up decisively as if I was telling myself go ahead. Betty glanced at me and wagged her tail energetically as if saying count on me. I stroked her head and scratched behind her ears, I smiled and we set off on our way back.

As I arrived home, I saw that Geena had just parked at the gate. I ran to them to help Isobel out of the car. As soon as she saw me she adjusted her cardigan to cover her neck wounds. I opened the door and held out my hand to help her. She took my hand softly but then quickly squeezed as if she wanted to express her pain without words. I had never noticed the beauty of her eyes until then. My mother welcomed them into the house like they were family. I moved awkwardly along the corridors as if I was absent and disoriented. Half an hour later, Geena left for work at the pub. Saturday was just the day on which she worked full time. She kissed her daughter again and again as if she could ease her pain this way and left very reluctantly. After she had cleaned and dressed her wounds, my mother asked me to stay with Isobel and keep her company while she went shopping in town. The usual sadness of that day had come back to her, maybe caused by my unfortunate questioning this time. I complied without protest. My first intention was to make her some tea, turn the TV on and once she was comfortable, go up to the attic to read everything I could before my mother returned, but in the end I didn’t. Isobel's company gave me peace on that awful day. I settled her in the sofa and covered her up with a thin blanket my mother always kept handy to warm her legs. I settled down on the other end where my father used to sit to read. I switched on the table lamp, even though it was 10am, as the daylight scarcely came in through the window. The sky was completely overcast. Betty lay down on the carpet in front of us to keep us company.

‘You can guess what they'll call me on Monday at school when they hear what happened to me, right?’ she asked, shaking her head disapprovingly.

I looked at her, not knowing what to say. I had no idea what she was talking about.

‘I really don't know,’ I told her as I made myself comfortable on the sofa.

‘Gowdie. They'll call me Isobel Gowdie,’ she said as she twisted her lips.

‘And who's that?’ I asked confused.

Isobel gave me a surprise look. ‘And you were born in Scotland? Good heavens! Everybody knows the story of Isobel Gowdie!’ she said as she took off her shoes and put her legs up on the sofa. ‘No more than four years ago rumour had it that a British soldier had seen Isobel's ghost when he was camping in Auldearn. Don't you remember having heard it?’

‘Well, not really, no. How did she die?’

‘Burned at the stake,’ she whispered as if she didn't want to be heard.

‘Was she a witch?’ I asked curiously.

‘Oh, I'm not quite sure about that, but as the story goes it seems that she was a housewife accused of witchcraft. She was born in Auldearn, in the Highlands, where that soldier said he saw her ghost. She seemed to be an ordinary woman until she got accused, but then again, what can you do with a woman who says she has the ability to turn into any animal she chooses? According to what I've read, her confession made everyone's hair stand on end. And as she told everything so exactly and in detail, even though she didn't look or act as if she really was a witch, she ended up being sentenced to die at the stake. Nobody would have let her live after what she had told them. Now historians say that possibly she was mentally ill and she made up her confession to avoid the flames, but you know, madness kills you in the end one way or another.’

‘Who told you this story?’

‘Nobody. I like reading. I read novels and stories but most of all history books.’

‘History books?’ I asked in surprise.

‘Yes. I've always wondered whether my father's death was worth it or not, that's why I read everything I can on World War II. When I grow up I’m going to be a History teacher. I'll teach my students what happened in the past so it won't happen again in the future. What about you? What will you become when you grow up?’

Isobel was teaching me a lesson of maturity. Her life hadn't been as easy as mine. While I enjoyed my free time fishing, she did the housework to help her mother. I used to study because it was my duty; she did it to carve out a future that would improve her family's welfare. I'd never thought about that question seriously.

‘Well, I don't really know,’ I answered with a shrug.

‘Well, you have this business and some day, when your mother retires, it will pass on to you, although I've always thought you would be a good teacher.’

‘Why do you say that?’ I asked surprised.

‘First of all, because you get good grades and that says a lot about your character, and secondly because of the way you help Malcom Johnson with his homework. You don't even realise but you are teaching him, and you actually do it very well.’

The discretion with which Isobel had followed my movements proved how absent-minded I was. I had lived in my own world all those years without paying attention to what was around me. What they said about girls growing up faster was true, at least in Isobel's case.

‘I'm going to ask your mother to let me come to work at your house. That way my mother will be able to rest a bit. And in the future, when I become a teacher, I’ll work at the town school so my mother can retire.’

‘You didn't meet your father either, did you?’ I asked directly, as if taking it for granted that we shared the same misfortune.

She looked surprised at seeing the unexpected turn of the conversation.

‘What do you mean by either? Your father didn't die in the war and you were lucky enough to meet him, even though it was only for a few years,’ she told me rather surprised.

‘You're right,’ I said with a forced smile to conceal my blunder. ‘Do you know what happened to him and where he died, at least?’

‘Of course I do,’ she replied, frowning as if the question had offended her. ‘He should have died fifteen years ago today, but he died a day after seeing Charles de Gaulle make his first speech on the 14^th of June in Bayeaux. He was very unlucky. He landed on Gold Beach with the first wave. Around 6.30am he had already stepped on French soil. What turned out to be a miracle was what ended his life.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He managed to survive the carnage with only a couple of wounds. But there was so much death around him that he didn't pay attention to himself. He kept on fighting with his regiment until they set Bayeaux free the day after the landing. When, at last, the troops had their first break he realised how weak he was. He died in the hospital of that town from septicaemia.’

She saw from my quizzical face that it was the first time I’d heard that word.

‘Septicaemia is a very serious infection that spreads quickly all over the body and it's mortal. If he’d have felt worse they might have taken care of him and he’d be alive now,’ she said, lowering her head.

I got closer to her to hold her hand. Thinking back on that moment I realise that nothing happens by chance. Basically, destiny has its secret plan although we don't understand it at first. On the 6^th of June 1944, our fathers' lives met with a purpose just as ours did.

‘And how did you get to know what had happened to him?’ I asked her in surprise.

‘From the letters he wrote to my mother. In the last one she received from him he asked her to name me Isobel and if I was a boy, Gareth, after him. A month later, my mother received a letter from the hospital confirming his death. I think it was one of the nuns that took care of him who wrote to us.’

‘I suppose your mother must have explained to you what he was like, right?’ I asked her as I let go of her hand and moved away discreetly.

‘Of course. I know him as if I’d lived with him. I'm very proud of my father. His photographs are my dearest treasure. I know he was a brave man that fought to defend his country. I've read his letters so many times that I know them by heart now. Even in the middle of the battle he didn't stop helping his comrades. Imagine, he even saved a soldier everyone thought dead. Remind me someday to show you the photograph he got taken with him.’

As I heard her words, something woke inside me. What if, by any of those twists of fate, my mother's first love was still alive? I stared at her. The sky blue in her eyes reassured me so much that I was on the brink of revealing my discovery to her, but finally I didn't. I chose to go on with the conversation.

‘Where is he buried?’

‘At the cemetery that was built for our soldiers in Bayoux. They say it's very beautiful, that it looks like a perfect British garden with its trees and its green lawn that always seems to be recently mown. A memorial was built at the entrance with an inscription showing how proud we are.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We, once conquered by William, have now set free the Conqueror's native land,’ she said solemnly.

‘William?’ I asked, expecting a new rebuke.

Isobel stared at me open-mouthed. I suppose she couldn't believe my ignorance on historical matters.

‘Robin Hood? Normans and Saxons? Doesn't ring a bell at all?’ she said surprised but unwilling to go into the subject. ‘I think that landing in Normandy was Churchill's idea of settling our unfinished business with them. I'll explain it to you some other day, ok?’ she said as she saw the blank look on my face. ‘I intend to work tirelessly until I save enough money to visit the cemetery and take flowers to my father.’

Those words made my heart miss a beat. What if Elwyn was buried at that cemetery too? I wondered. As I looked at her without knowing what to say, I felt certain that Isobel's life and mine had followed parallel courses until destiny joined us that day for some reason I didn't yet know.

‘I'll take you there, I promise,’ I said, totally convinced that I would fulfil my promise someday.

Isobel glanced at me in surprise but the light in her eyes showed the joy that statement had given to her. When I saw that her eyes started to mist over, I tried to cheer her up.

‘Your father must have been a hero,’ I told her enthusiastically. ‘If you’ve read so many history books, you must know loads of stories from the war. Will you tell me some?’

‘Of course,’ she said with a smile of satisfaction. ‘There's one that’s my favourite.’

‘I'm all ears,’ I said as I settled deep in the sofa.

‘When I tell you, I bet you'll be proud of being a Scot too.’

Our chat had made her forget the wounds on her body. She looked happy, not only because she was talking about her father and the stories she loved, but also, as I would learn some time later, because she enjoyed my company. Isobel began to tell the story as if she was reading a book.

‘Around eight in the morning on D-day, General Lord Lovat landed at Sword Beach with two thousand men under his command. His mission: to link up with the units of the 6^th Airborne Division that had landed by means of gliders and parachutes the night before.’

‘How can you just know it was the 6^th Airborne Division?’ I asked in astonishment.

Isobel gave me a cross look. ‘I've already told you I read history books. Do you want me to tell you what happened or not?’

‘Certainly,’ I replied politely.

‘Then shut up and listen. All his men were easily identified. Unlike the rest of the troops they wore green berets instead of helmets. They were such tough guys, weren't they?’

‘Of course, and we still are,’ I said smiling.

‘I’m sure. But you don't know the best part. Just as they were approaching the shore on their landing crafts, they would get up and shout at the Germans: “Over here, I'm here! Can't you see me? Who taught you to shoot? Your mother?” When bombs fell around them they got up and laughed at their poor aim, and so they went on all the while until they got to the beach. Anyway, I would have liked to see that, honestly. When they reached the shore they found that the first wave of soldiers were engaged in gunfire with the Germans. His commandos, to the sound of pipes, pressed on through infantry lines until they defeated the German machine guns. The beach was conquered and they had clear passage, now they had only six miles ahead to cover in scarcely three and a half hours. If they wanted to be on time they couldn't afford to stumble upon the Germans, so they cleverly chose an alternative route. The commandos moved forward through bushes, crossed wire fences and leapt over antitank ditches. And here comes the best part. When they bumped into a minefield, they chose to go on across it rather than losing time in a long detour.

‘I can't believe it,’ I said open-mouthed. ‘And they did?’

‘Of course.’

‘And didn't they step on any mines?’

‘If they did it's not in the books, so let's think that they didn't. About noon, Lord Lovat and his men were getting close to the rendezvous. The 6^th Airborne Division had been fighting for over twelve hours. The strength and ammunition of those men were coming to an end. But then they began to hear the distant sound of the pipes. Around one in the afternoon they saw them coming as they were playing Blue Bonnets Over The Border. That music made the soldiers forget where they were. They started to jump, shout, hold each other and run to their saviours in front of the astounded eyes of the Germans, who couldn't understand what was going on. Before they jointly went back to battle, Lord Lovat addressed the colonel in command and taking a look at his watch, he said calmly: “I apologise for being some minutes late.”’

Isobel started to clap with a smile of satisfaction and I joined her with a burst of laughter. What a man Lord Lovat must’ve been, I thought. The story delighted me and made me forget my other reality just for a while.

‘Why, I had no idea about this story but you're right, we Scots are something else,’ I said proudly. ‘Monday after school, if you don't mind I'll walk you home so you can show me those books and your father's photographs. I'd like to meet him.’

Isobel didn't say anything, she simply looked at me with a smile and a sigh that didn't go unnoticed. It was as if finally she got what she had been expecting for some time. That day our friendship began.

An hour had passed when my mother came back home, but for me it seemed like a few minutes. Isobel's company bewitched me in such a way that I forgot the world still existed outside the walls of my house. When we heard the front door we stood up from the sofa as if we’d been caught doing anything inappropriate. We went to the hall to meet my mother and offer our help, but she, after thanking us, refused it completely. Looking at her, I knew she was seeking solitude. Isobel stood in the hall in front of the candle that was burning out slowly next to my father's photograph and looked at me in surprise. Ignoring my mother's request, I went with her to the kitchen to help her to store the groceries. Isobel followed us and sat by the table.

‘Mrs McCoolant, did your father die in the Normandy landings?’ she asked curiously.

My mother couldn't turn to look at her. She kept putting the shopping away as if she hadn’t heard her. After the few seconds it took me to realise she wouldn’t be able to answer, I came to her aid.

‘No. My grandfather died at Dunkirk. If you’re asking because of the candle, it's a habit of my mother's. Every now and then she lights a candle in memory of my father.’

My mother turned very slowly to look at me out of the corner of her eye. She was crying but her smile let me know she was grateful. I hurried to finish putting the shopping away. I had to take Isobel out of there so my mother would have the solitude she needed on that day.

That 6^th of June marked a turning point in my life. Not only because of all the things I discovered in my mother’s diary, but also because of what began between Isobel and me.

Although Geena came home well into the night, we all wanted to wait up for her. Her features told of the tiredness of her long working day, but that didn’t stop her running up to her daughter and hugging her very carefully so as not to hurt her.

My mother made tea for us all and biscuits that we savoured in the living room, while Isobel explained to her mother what a good time she had had with me and Betty. Geena smiled to see her daughter happy and not thinking, so far, about the scars she would be left with after that fateful accident.

No more than half an hour had passed when we decided to go to sleep. The day had been too long for all of us. As we went upstairs to the bedrooms my heart started its own particular race, seeing that the time to return to the attic was coming. After saying goodnight on the landing, each of us headed for our own bedroom. Mother and daughter walked arm in arm to one of the guest rooms but before disappearing behind the door, Isobel turned her head towards me to give me a smile that made me blush. My mother smiled, seeing the colour of my cheeks. She came close to me, hugged me and kissed me with her usual tenderness, but this time she stared at me as if she wanted to say something. I know that she tried to talk but in the end she didn’t. I tried to smile but I think that I was unable to hide the remorse burning inside me. She stroked my hair and finally went to her bedroom. I didn’t move until I saw her disappear behind the door.

The hall had sunk into the darkness of the night. I looked upstairs. I wanted to go up to the attic as soon as possible but I had to be cautious. I had to wait a prudent amount of time to make sure that they were all asleep. I went into my bedroom and pushed the door without closing it completely to avoid any noise. I put on my pyjamas, sat on the bed and waited patiently while I looked through the window at the starry sky. Quarter of an hour later my eyes weighed a ton. I got up from bed because I knew that if I lay down I would end up falling asleep. I rubbed my face with my hands energetically as I walked to the window and once there I leant my cheek against the glass so the cold could keep me awake. My eyes were still heavy but my anxiety urged me to retake the road I had embarked on that very morning. I took a torch out of my wardrobe with extreme care. My keyring was already in my pyjama pocket. I grabbed the small blanket that was covering the foot of the bed, wrapped myself with it and started to walk. After closing the door of my bedroom as stealthily as I could, I looked down the hall. Everything was calm. I didn’t want to switch on the torch so I waited for my eyes to get used to the darkness. Finally I managed to set off without breaking the light nor the silence of the night. My sole concern was the creaking of the attic floor. I switched on the torch on the last flight of stairs. When I arrived at the top, I was surprised to find the door wide open but the tension of the moment prevented me from recalling whether I had closed it or not that morning. I stood at the door petrified as if I had seen Medusa’s face. I had never gone up there at night before. Outside, the sound of the trees swaying in time to an agitated wind made me shiver with cold but actually, although I didn’t want to admit it then, what I felt wasn’t just cold. The only window was too small to let in enough light to illuminate the whole room. You could see the centre of the room clearly but all the rest was sunk in the darkness. I didn’t even dare shine my torch to have a look around, because I had the strange feeling of being watched. Although I knew what there was in every corner of that room perfectly, now it seemed like the perfect hiding place for any intruder. I had to repeat to myself that I was alone several times to gather the courage to come in. As I was going to step in I thought that I’d better come back in the early morning. I didn’t think twice. I turned, determined to go back to my room but as I was going downstairs I felt ashamed of my cowardice. I went upstairs again and without looking around, I headed for the trunk with my eyes fixed on the floor. Instead of walking, I slid my feet so the wood wouldn’t creak. When my torch lit the trunk it almost took my breath away. It was open. I hadn’t the slightest doubt that I had closed it that morning to leave it just as I’d found it. My heart started to beat as if it had lost control of itself. I had expected to find it locked, that’s why I had brought my keys. I’d have sworn I had heard my mother going up to the attic in the afternoon. I thought she did it to lock it. Why was it open now? Was she giving me permission to read her diary? I didn’t know what to do. My panting was breaking the silence of the night. I didn’t dare look right or left and certainly not behind me. Was my mother hidden somewhere? For a moment I pondered the idea of asking aloud Mum, are you there? but finally I didn’t. I closed my eyes and told myself go ahead. I curled up under my blanket as if I could disappear inside. I reached out shivering to the trunk and took out the first notebook. I sat on the floor cross-legged and, unable to control the trembling that was shaking my whole body, picked up reading where I had left off that very morning.

The 25^th of June of 1944 marked a turning point in the way the diary was written. From noting down short phrases, feelings and particular events, it changed into something very like a life story. My mother didn’t want to remember only moments anymore, now she intended to preserve every detail of what she had lived.

The first words of that story made me forget how frightened I was.