free, but Pop’s face brought me back down to earth.
‘It’s because the prison is full,’ he sighed. ‘We’ll be sent to the camps.’
I looked about but I didn’t see anything. Honestly and truthfully, Emile, the whole world of Guernsey vanished in that instant. It was as if we were taking part in a film and the scenery was falling away. Mon Dju, I thought, is this the ending credits? I stumbled forward and, blinded by the light, I went straight into a woman. She was taller than me, with a wide, hard face and eyes that glinted in the morning light.
‘You there.’ She looked past me and pointed to the officer. ‘Where is my son? What have you done with him? I know you’ve got him. Tu n’ peut pas me trompai!’
The officer told her to calm down but she wasn’t having any of it.
‘Bouger-dé! What have you done with him? Where is he? I want to know what you’ve got him for.’
I looked into her dark eyes and knew her name before she spoke it:
‘I’m Florence Margaret Le Poidevoin of Les Capelles, I am the mother of Raymond Le Poidevoin, and I want to see him now!’
I grabbed Pop’s arm to steady myself. There we stood, on the steps of a place they’d called Paradis, not yet dead but surely damned.
19TH DECEMBER 1985, 7 p.m.
[In the kitchen, having eaten ten fun-size Mars Bars. No idea why they are ‘fun’ since they’re so small you have no ‘fun’ eating just one, but then you eat ten and feel shit.]
I felt terrible after Nic and I had that fight at Donnie’s. Everything was falling apart and I didn’t know how to stop it. The rest of the weekend passed in a blur. I went round and round in circles (in my head), and I really wanted to talk to Nic about it. I called her up on Saturday night and even cycled round to Les Paradis on the Sunday morning, but nobody answered or came to the door. I had to wait until school on Monday for our Mexican standoff.
This time, though, I was ready for her. I had all my arguments written down in note form and carefully rehearsed. There was no way I was going to be called nasty names in front of the whole class. Oh no. I was in school early and waiting for Nic, smiling fakely at everyone, and I tried not to bristle when she came in with Vicky of all people. They were laughing so loudly, like they were having a good joke about something/someone. I wanted to tell them to shut up but I knew better, stayed calm and said nothing. Then everyone went quiet for Mrs Carey, who announced that she was standing in for Mr McCracken, who was stranded at Gatwick because of fog. Mrs Carey is our French teacher and the daughter of a slave worker who bought his freedom from the Nazis. He did this by helping them burn the corpses of his comrades. It’s an unbelievably nasty story and Mum was very shocked when Dad told her at a parents’ evening.56 She also thought it was rubbish since Carey is an ancient Guernsey name, but Dad pointed out that women change their name when they marry, and wasn’t that convenient.
But let’s get back to roll call: Mrs Carey was working her way down the register and when she called out my name I shouted ‘Yes’. I was ready for a catty comment from Nic or Lisa, but nothing happened, and when I looked around everyone was staring into space or stacking up their books. The bell went and we filed out for the first lesson and I was worried someone might trip me up, so I stayed back to let everybody go ahead. Nic filed past without looking my way. I was surprised and then annoyed. Vicky gave me a nudge and asked me what was wrong.
I eyed her carefully. ‘What were you talking to Nic about?’
She shrugged and said nothing.
I didn’t believe her.
‘Whatever she says isn’t true.’
Vicky frowned. ‘Like what?’
I glared at the doorway.
‘If she’s got anything to say to me she should say it to my face.’
But she didn’t. Nic ignored me brilliantly. All day. It was the last thing I expected. I tried to convince myself that being ignored was better than being shouted at (cf. Past History ref. Dad) but it didn’t feel right. I’d wanted shouting and screaming and when I didn’t get