The House at Mermaid's Cove(25)

“Most people speak English these days,” she said. “But we have our own version of French—we call it Guernésiais. Do you speak French?”

I hesitated. If I told her I was fluent, she’d ask me where I learned it. Then I would have to tell her about Belgium, which would lead to more questions. “I learnt it at school,” I said. “But I wasn’t very good.” Both statements were true. I’d simply left out part of the story. That felt better than telling an outright lie while standing in a church, right in front of the altar.

“Have you ever been in love?”

The question came like a bolt from the blue. I looked up, blinking as a beam of sunlight caught my eyes. “Yes, I was, once,” I said. “It was a long time ago, in Ireland. It didn’t work out.” Dan’s face appeared against the afterimage of the sun’s rays. I’d met him at a bus stop in Grafton Street. I’d been struggling with my cello in a high wind, and he’d offered to help. His blue, sparkling eyes and big smile had made me forget all about the miserable music lesson ahead, on an instrument I was never able to master. He’d brought a sense of joy into my life—something I hadn’t really felt since my mother died. The memory of him had to be locked away when I joined the order. I hadn’t breathed his name for twelve years.

“And there’s been no one since? You haven’t left someone behind in London?” The look of gentle concern in Merle’s eyes made me want to let out what I’d been holding back. But I felt trapped in the web of lies I’d spun. “No—there’s been no one else,” I said.

“That’s a good thing, in a way,” she replied. “It’s hard, when there’s a war on, to be in love.”

There was a poignancy in her voice. “You must miss your husband terribly,” I said.

Merle’s eyes darted to the timeworn stones beneath her feet. “It’s harder for the children,” she said. “They don’t understand. Jacqueline doesn’t even remember him.”

“I can’t imagine what it must have felt like,” I murmured, “to be separated in that way.”

For a long moment she said nothing. I heard her draw in a long breath. “It was a blessing, actually.” Her eyes met mine. “Does that make me sound awful?”

I shook my head. “No, it . . . makes you sound as if you’ve been very unhappy.” I bit my lip. “I’m sorry—I’m not trying to pry.”

“It’s all right. I shouldn’t have said anything. But it’s so hard sometimes. Everyone thinks I must be missing him—that I must be longing for the war to end, so we can be together again. But I don’t miss him. If I’m honest, I hope I’ll never have to set eyes on him again.”

I glanced at the carving of the mermaid, searching for the right thing to say.

Say nothing—let her do the talking.

The voice in my head was Sister Clare’s. She’d spoken those words to me in my first week at the mission hospital, when I was struggling to deal with a distraught patient in the maternity ward—a woman whose husband had just been killed in a mining accident.

“Our marriage was in trouble long before I left the island,” Merle went on. “I was pregnant with Jacqueline when I found out Maurice had been having an affair.” Her eyes darted in my direction, as if she was weighing up my reaction. “It was with our housemaid, Ruby. She was eighteen years old—young enough to be his daughter.” Another pause. In the silence I heard her swallow. “He’d got her pregnant at almost the same time as me. Her baby was born on my thirtieth birthday—two weeks after I’d had Jacqueline.”

“What on earth did you do?” I whispered.

“What could I do?” Merle shook her head. “I had no money of my own—nowhere else to go. And I had two other children to look after.” She traced the carved edge of the choir stall with her finger. “He set her up in an apartment in St. Peter Port. I used to see her, pushing the pram, when I went to do the shopping.”

“How long after that did the Germans arrive?”

“Jacqueline was two and a half. I remember taking her and the others to buy ice cream one afternoon, and hearing gunfire on the mainland. That was the day they invaded France. I used to lie awake at night, panicking about what we’d do if they came to Guernsey. I had this terrible fantasy about killing Maurice and saying the Germans had done it. That’s how much I hated him.” She closed her eyes. “Listen to me, saying a thing like that in a place like this.”

“I don’t think anyone would blame you for thinking it,” I said. “It must have been torture, having to go on living with him.”

Merle opened her eyes. “It was. When the announcement came on the radio that we had to get the children off the island, I couldn’t pack fast enough. Maurice said he had to stay behind to look after the farm—but we both knew that wasn’t the real reason. I expect he moved Ruby in the minute we stepped on that boat.”

“Did you know Cousin Jack?” I asked. “Before the evacuation, I mean? Is that why you came here?”

“No, I’d never met him before. It was like Dunkirk—yachts and motorboats and fishing trawlers—all kinds of people, just wanting to help. None of us knew where we’d end up—we were just glad to get away.”