Dangerous Waters Read online

  Squaring her shoulders Jeanne walked to the porch and, after inserting her key, pushed open the stiff, creaking door. It had never been used very much, as the usual entry for all and sundry had been the back door, never locked, this being Guernsey. The low, beamed ceilings made the cottage somewhat gloomy as dusk approached so Jeanne had to switch on the lights, relieved that the electricity had not been disconnected. As she entered the sitting room on the left she was assailed by a musty, damp smell and this, together with the blast of cold air which hit her full in the face, prompted her to force open the windows to let in warm, salty fresh air. She gazed around at the room she had not seen for what felt like a lifetime.

  The familiar, now dusty pieces of furniture, were still in the remembered places. Her grandmother had been a creature of habit, rarely moving things around for the sake of a change. Jeanne walked round, lightly touching the solid oak furniture which had been in the family for generations. The more modern sofas she remembered as being marginally more comfortable if piled up with cushions. But they were now looking old and shabby. The threadbare carpet on the oak floor and the curtains, which looked as if they would not survive much more pulling to and fro, added to the picture of neglect. An ancient wood burning stove squatted on the granite hearth in the inglenook fireplace surmounted by an old blackened beam. There was no central heating as her gran had not approved of such ‘new fan-dangled’ innovations and had not wanted her home cluttered up with radiators, pipes and a boiler. She had been happy to clean out fires in the main rooms all her life and made it clear to anyone who would listen that it was much healthier than central heating, even though the smoke did blacken the walls and ceilings.

  Across the hall was the basic kitchen.

  The chill from the slate floor struck up into the soles of her trainers as she walked round the large room. Jeanne ran her fingers along the wooden tops of the two freestanding cupboards, leaving a trail through the dust. Under a window was the old stone butler’s sink with tarnished brass taps which she now turned on – yes, there was water, she discovered. Good.

  Next to it was a blackened range cooker which she remembered as consuming coal at a prodigious rate. As she touched it she realised, with a shock, that this was the first time that she had ever known it to be cold. The range had been the true heart of the house. The absence of its warmth spoke such volumes that Jeanne shivered, whether from the cold or her grief she wasn’t sure.

  The smell of the kitchen felt wrong to her. It was musty and the air tasted brackish, like dirty water. It had been so different once, with the smells and tastes of baking, especially bread. Closing her eyes she could picture a familiar scene.

  A wonderful aroma of freshly baked bread filled the kitchen as a young Jeanne, hands covered in flour with white streaks on her face, frowned with concentration as she kneaded the mixture in the bowl. Her mother was standing next to her, hands in a similar bowl as Gran pottered about, calling out instructions.

  ‘Now, not too firm or the mixture’ll be too dry. But not so light as t’ leave it uneven. Mm, you’re getting the hang of it, Janet, but I’m not so sure about our Jeanne!’ She chuckled and her plump, smiling face brought a small grin to the girl’s face.

  ‘I’m no good at this, Granny. I’ll just watch Mummy.’ She looked at her mother who smiled her lovely wide smile, tossing her long, dark hair out of harm’s way. The hair that Jeanne had inherited.

  ‘Never mind, darling. I’m sure you’ll be a great cook when you’re older. I’ll teach you what Granny’s now teaching me, which I have to say, is rather a lot!’ She smiled at her mother in law who then explained the next stage in preparing a perfect Guernsey Gâche.

  Jeanne’s eyes watered as she remembered the words spoken so lightly by her mother years ago. She had not had the chance to teach Jeanne very much, so she never did master making Gâche.

  After a quick rub at her eyes she opened the doors of the two wall cupboards which still contained the everyday china her gran had used. She turned to gaze at what had been Gran’s pride and joy, a dust coated, but still beautiful, enormous solid oak dresser. Handed down through generations, it had been made locally by a master cabinetmaker, whose name, Martin Le Mesurier, had been carved on the back. The best blue and yellow porcelain was laid out on the shelves giving a welcome, cheerful air to the otherwise stark kitchen.

  Jeanne reached out and carefully picked up a plate, gently stroking away the dust to reveal the oh-so-French pattern she remembered well – a legacy of her gran’s French ancestry. With a sigh, she replaced the plate on the shelf and moved over to the old pine table in the centre of the room.

  The top was scored by the knives used over countless years by countless housewives as they chopped, sliced and pared. Six pine chairs of varying design were drawn up around it, used for most family meals with diners huddled next to the range for warmth in the winter and in summer basking in the sun pouring through the opened windows. Jeanne traced the marks on the table with her fingers and found, on one edge, the initials she had laboriously carved as a child – J.L.P. They were barely visible and she grinned at the memory of what she had once thought of as her ‘secret’. But her gran had found them and her usually smiling face had looked so hurt that Jeanne had burst into tears, and promised not to be a bad girl, ever again. But of course there had been more scrapes, inevitable for the tomboy she had been.

  Just off the kitchen, well away from the range, was a walk-in pantry in which had been stored milk, cheese, butter, meat, eggs and all other perishables. Gran had never had a fridge but the pantry had faithfully preserved the family supplies. Jeanne was thankful to see that any fresh food had been disposed of as the vision – and smell – of five months’ old milk and bread didn’t bear thinking about. All that now graced the shelves were empty storage jars and the old-fashioned tins so beloved by her gran for storing homebaked cakes and biscuits.

  Suddenly feeling chilled and despondent, Jeanne decided to leave the rest of the ground floor and climbed the solid wooden staircase to the landing, off which there lay four bedrooms, the bathroom and airing cupboard.

  She opened the door to what had been her grandparents’ bedroom, a reflection of the shabby discomfort of the sitting-room, it had the same musty smell. Although the room was a good size it only possessed a double bed with a small side table, a wardrobe and a chest of drawers with a chair beside it. There were few ornaments and no signs of feminine vanity except for the small wooden mirror on the chest. Gran had been a warm, lively woman but she had not been concerned with her appearance and wore the same old clothes till they fell to pieces.

  Jeanne picked up a framed black and white photo of her grandparents on their wedding day, their faces smiling selfconsciously at the camera.

  ‘Hello, Gran, I’m back,’ she said softly as she ran her fingers over the picture.

  Taking a deep breath she then lifted up the only other photo, a larger coloured one of her laughing parents and her eyes were drawn to her mother, proudly cradling her baby self. Involuntarily, her left hand went to her own stomach and as she replaced the photo on the chest, her throat tightened.

  ‘Oh, Mum, how I miss you! There’s so much to tell you and it really hurts… ’

  Her stomach clenched as waves of grief swept over her and her breath was reduced to short, hard gasps. She couldn’t bear it, she really couldn’t! No-one could. Falling onto the bed, Jeanne gave in to all the pent-up emotions now brought to the surface by her return. She had to be strong and face the demons before they destroyed her. Easier said than done when you felt like shit, she thought.

  It was a while before she felt anything like calm again but time was pressing. After glancing into the two other double bedrooms she checked out the bathroom which was as austere as she had remembered. It was still painted a horrible green, with a chipped enamel bath on claw feet, an old fashioned wc and a big pedestal washbasin.

  She walked across the cold, cracked lino – an even more bilious shade of green – and tried the tap on the bath. Rusty brown water trickled out, nearly drowning a spider slumbering near the plug hole. After a few minutes the water cleared and Jeanne switched off the heavy tap and repeated the process with the washbasin. As she let the water run she scrutinised herself in the foxed mirror hardly big enough to hold an entire face.

  Reflected back was a mass of long, dark hair framing a pale face dominated by what were normally large, bright blue eyes, now reddened and puffy. Under the somewhat ordinary nose, her mouth was unsmiling and the overall effect was almost sullen. God, I can’t meet Molly and Peter looking like this, she decided, splashing cold water onto her face, wiping it off with a tissue. A quick repair job with the makeup in her bag and a tentative smile completed the transformation. It was if another person entirely had stepped into her skin. Feeling pleased with the improvement – as after all, she didn’t want to depress her hosts – she went out onto the landing.

  Jeanne hesitated, her hand on the stair rail, but instead of going down as she had intended, she went along to the last and smallest bedroom and opened the door.

  An icy blast nearly knocked her off her feet and she had to brace herself before stepping forward. The room was colder than the rest of the house by at least fifteen degrees. It was like walking into a cold store. The smell that caught at the back of her throat was a mix of mustiness and something she couldn’t quite place which left a metallic taste in her mouth. She gave only a cursory look at the room she had hated since a small child. Her eyes travelled over the single bed, cupboard and small chest of drawers set out on the bare, dark oak floor.

  She had always been puzzled by the increased chill factor which she had felt whenever she had been obliged to enter this room. Thank goodness, she thought, that she had never had to sleep
there, her parents’ modern house having been only a short distance away. Unfortunately, it had been the room used for storing surplus bits and pieces, occasioning the odd foray to find things her gran had needed.

  With a feeling of relief Jeanne shut the door and almost ran down the stairs and out of the front door. As she locked up she again thought back to the happy, carefree days spent here so long ago. As a child she had not noticed the cold or shabbiness, it had been so full of the love and warmth of her family. It had seemed like a wonderful place to her then and looking back she could see that it was her loving family which had transformed the ordinary house into a memorable home.

  She had known for years that one day she would inherit the cottage and had, more recently, imagined returning with Andy to help lay the ghosts. She had envisaged them playing at happy families with their children running about in the orchard, laughing and shouting at each other. But now that dream had been cruelly shattered and the thought of living there alone was too awful. She had to sell the cottage and move on – but where?

  chapter three

  The narrow, arched entrance to the Ogier’s cottage was a challenge to drive through and Jeanne was anxious to avoid scratching her car. However, most cars in Guernsey sported dents and scratches as the granite walls bordering the narrow lanes seemed to jump out and hit the unwary motorist.

  As she switched off the engine Peter and Molly appeared at their front door and with beaming smiles reached out and hugged and kissed her in turn.

  ‘At last! You’re here! Peter and I’ve been so excited since you phoned,’ Molly beamed at Jeanne.

  ‘I’m so happy to see you both again, it’s been too long –’

  ‘But you’re here now –’

  ‘And as welcome as ever, just come in.’

  ‘Thanks. Mm, what a wonderful smell!’

  ‘Yes, dinner’s ready to serve and I’m sure you’re starving.’

  ‘Sure am, ready to do justice to your renowned cooking!’

  Molly gave Jeanne a quick squeeze as they headed for the dining room. This opened through to the kitchen so that anyone cooking could still talk to those eating and as Molly ushered Jeanne into a chair at the polished oak table Peter went into the kitchen to open the wine.

  ‘Red or white?’

  ‘Red, please, Peter,’ Jeanne called, breathing in the heady aroma of what she felt sure was beef cooked in wine.

  Molly and Peter brought the food through and soon the table was covered in dishes heaped with steaming potatoes, mixed vegetables and the pièce de la resistance, Molly’s famous Daube de Boeuf Provencale. Jeanne began to relax properly for the first time that day, soothed by the warmth of her welcome. The Ogiers had, from childhood, been like a surrogate family.

  ‘Santè! And welcome back,’ Peter said as they clinked glasses.

  ‘Mm delicious, Molly. Haven’t tasted anything as good for ages.’ Jeanne smiled her appreciation.

  ‘Thanks. The recipe was Janet’s, passed down by your grandmother. So it’s rightfully yours now.’

  ‘I’ll be looking out for Gran’s recipes when I go through the cottage. Might encourage me to improve my cooking skills!’

  Mentioning her gran reminded her of why she was there.

  ‘I… I’d like to thank you both for what you did for Gran. And after –’

  Molly reached out and squeezed her hand.

  ‘It was nothing. We were happy to help. You know how much we cared about her.’

  Silence reigned for a few moments as they focused on their food and Peter topped up their glasses.

  ‘So, how’re Phil and Natalie these days? We seem to have lost touch with each other.’

  Peter smiled wryly. ‘Even we, the parents, don’t hear much from them. Both pretty independent, aren’t they, Molly?’

  ‘You can say that again! But we do know they’re both well and happy, that’s the main thing. Phil’s in London now and Natalie’s just moved to Oxford. Last time we heard they were both seeing someone but I gathered that neither was serious. So – how’s your Aunt Kate? Keeping well?

  ‘She’s fine, thanks. Been a rock these last few months. I don’t expect she thought I’d end up on her doorstep again!’

  Molly frowned, ‘We were so sorry to hear about you and Andy. You must have been together for what, four years? Quite a while.’

  Peter took himself off to the kitchen to find some more wine.

  Jeanne was unaware that she was twisting her hair round her fingers, something she did when upset or stressed.

  ‘Yes, we were. But these things happen, don’t they?’

  ‘You’ll meet someone else one day, I’m sure. When you’re ready.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Could even be someone here.’

  ‘Not sure about that! Just being here – it all seems to come flooding back.’ Jeanne sighed. ‘All of it.’

  ‘That’s not really surprising,’ Molly said gently, ‘and if you wished, I might be able to help you, with what happened?’

  Jeanne looked at Molly with affection and knew that if anyone could help, it would be her. Not only had she been like a fond aunt over the years but she was a psychotherapist, well versed in dealing with problems such as hers.

  ‘Thanks, Molly. I’ll bear that in mind.’

  Peter arrived back after taking an inordinately long time opening more wine.

  ‘More food, anyone?’

  ‘No thanks, Peter. That was plenty. And absolutely delicious.’

  Molly also refused any more and she and Peter started clearing away the debris before serving the dessert. Jeanne was not allowed to help and was left with her thoughts.

  She watched Molly bustling about in the kitchen. She must be in her fifties now, just as her mum would have been. The thought provoked the familiar ache in her solar plexus. Molly was so different to her mother – cheerfully plump with a broad, smiling face and fair, now greying, curly hair – whereas her mother had been slim and dark and more serious, though still loving. Wonder what she’d look like now? Ah, don’t go there! Just don’t.

  Jeanne pushed down the unsettling thoughts and forced a smile as she watched her hosts bustling in the kitchen.

  The pan containing the dessert, Crêpes Suzette smothered with flaming liqueur, was borne in by a beaming Peter while Molly carried a jug of cream. Obviously no-one worries about diets here, thought Jeanne, grinning.

  ‘Now, coffee everyone?’ asked Peter after the crêpes had disappeared.

  They went through to the sitting room to relax with their drinks.

  The cottage was similar in design to Le Petit Chêne and Jeanne remembered how hard the Ogiers had worked to transform it into the warm, bright and comfortable home it now was. They had done a lot of the work themselves and could be proud of the result, she thought, noticing even more improvements since she’d last been there. Compared with the cold, damp and shabby cottage she had just inherited it was a veritable palace.

  ‘This is lovely, Molly. You’ve done wonders with this room,’ she exclaimed as she gazed around the sitting room. The walls, a warm peach colour, were covered in bookshelves and paintings and the main feature was a large restored inglenook fireplace. Jeanne gave a little sigh –oh, wouldn’t it be wonderful to have a home like this!

  ‘Thanks, we love it. So cosy, particularly in the evenings,’ replied Molly.

  Peter fetched a bottle of Calvados and poured out three generous measures.

  ‘Have you considered renovating your cottage, Jeanne? You could achieve what we’ve done here, no problem. And the garden was always stunning,’ he said, handing Jeanne a glass.

  ‘Thanks. It’s a thought, I suppose. But it would be such a huge project and cost a fortune to get it like this,’ she said, waving her arms around the room. ‘And I don’t have a fortune! And, to be honest, I wasn’t planning to stay long. Just tidy up the cottage ready for sale and then go back to England.’ She twisted her hair.