the smoke, I heard sirens wailing. Then I felt Ray tug at my collar.
We helped each other up, taking a minute to get our balance. It was like my ears were blocked but I could see the fear in Ray’s eyes. So he’s human after all, I thought. Then I turned my head and saw the blaze on White Rock. Hé bian, Emile, it was a terrible thing. People have forgotten about a lot of things the Germans did, but they’ve never forgotten White Rock. Nothing much had ever happened on our little island until that day. Lots of places got hit and lots of people, too. The tobacco factory near the bus terminal was up in flames, but it was the docks that got it the worst. They’d flattened the tomato trucks that had lined up along the Weighbridge and machine-gunned their petrol tanks so everything was in flames. There were thirty dead, if I’m right, but you should check that.22 Without saying a word to each other Ray and I headed straight for the smoke and the flames. Of course, everyone else was running in the opposite direction, crying out in shock and pain. I remember a woman clinging to an older man who was holding a bloody handkerchief to his eyes. Lots of people were cut from broken glass or had been peppered with shrapnel, and an ambulance had been blown to bits. The heat and the smell is what I remember the most, and the blood on the road. Well, I thought it was blood but p’têt it was toms. Dozens of crates were smashed open. The boats were on fire as well. What a scene of dereliction! One man had had his toes blown off and was staring down at his feet with this puddle of red spreading outward. I went towards him, then I realised Ray had left my side and was heading down the harbour steps.
I would have followed – I swear it on my life – but there was a clammy hand laid on my arm.
‘How did you get here?’ I’d never seen Pop so wild-eyed and anxious. ‘Come. We must get home.’
I thought I hadn’t heard him right, but he told me again that we had to get home.
‘The bombers will come back.’
‘Wait.’ I looked about. ‘Shouldn’t we help?’
His bony grip tightened. ‘No! There are police and wardens for that. What about La Duchesse and Emile?’
His voice was near to breaking. He tugged at his shirt collar, choking from the fumes.
A policeman appeared at my side. ‘Get the old man home . . . it’s not safe,’ he told me.
I nodded, looking back at Pop. He was coughing and there were tears in his eyes as he turned his head away from me. He bent over, and I checked his back for shrapnel, wondering if he’d been hurt.
‘Pop,’ I said. ‘Are you all right?’
He shook his head and wouldn’t answer me. Then I looked again at the flames, the bodies, the dying and injured. I realised this was why he wept. I gently took his elbow, steering him towards the bus shelter.
‘We’ll go,’ I said.
He’d covered his face with a handkerchief.
‘La Duchesse,’ he wheezed. ‘Don’t tell her what you’ve seen.’
And to this day, Emile, I don’t know if he meant that I shouldn’t tell of the men and women burned alive, or of our father weeping like a child.
But either way I never did tell. How could I tell our mother that?
15TH DECEMBER 1985, 7.32 a.m.
[Sitting-room, watching breakfast TV]
Of course Mum wouldn’t like me talking about her, so it’s better if I talk about Therese. Nic said Therese only cared about what men thought of her, but as far as I could tell Nic was just the same. I thought Therese Prevost was The Perfect Mother as per the Fairy Liquid commercials. Nic called her pathetic and sad, but I’m guessing she was mostly lonely. Mr Prevost is the manager of Lloyds Bank so he was always working/entertaining clients with or at his golf clubs, leaving Therese to comfort shop at Little Red in Smith Street – Guernsey’s most-expensive-ever shop. But half the clothes Therese bought she never even wore. They were hidden away in the spare room, which is where Nic always found them. I remember one Sunday afternoon I was gluing together my toenails with Nic dancing about in a slinky blue jersey dress.