“I have brought you something,” he said. “Here.”
He fished out a small packet, wrapped in tissue paper. Albert took a hand from the wheel and held the parcel up to his ear, shaking it gently. There was a metallic rattling inside.
“What is it, then?” he asked, easing it into his jacket pocket. “Gramophone needies?”
Lentsch shook his head. “Razor blades. Fifty. All new.”
“Fifty?” Albert was pleased. He rubbed his face in anticipation of his first fresh shave of the month. “That should keep me going for a bit.”
Lentsch was gratefol he did not say ‘until it’s all over’ or ‘until we throw you out’, though he knew that such thoughts must be on his mind. As a trusted member of the household Albert listened to the BBC as often as they did, standing at the back of the living room, hanging on to every word booming out of the huge radiogram. That was one of the reasons why he was in such demand. With his sources Albert had an invitation to tea at someone’s house every day of the week.
The car bumped down the narrow road, high hedges and ferns on either side. Then, as it began to climb again, Albert put his foot down and they were out on top, out along the narrow pitted track, past the high gates and onto the thinly gravelled drive, moving up through the lime trees to the Villa’s front entrance with its white pillars and grey stone steps. Passing the pebble-dash lodge Lentsch could see a bicycle propped up against a half-stacked pile of wood under the porch by the front door. Smoke rose up from the building’s squat brick chimney. Four o’clock in the afternoon and Marjorie had lit her fire already. She would have to be reminded once again about the need to conserve foei, though he understand well enough these unnecessary acts of defiance. Being forced to swap places with her caretaker was not something a woman of Mrs Hallivand’s background forgot lightly.
Like many houses looking out to sea, the rooms were set in reverse order, the utility rooms, kitchen, storerooms, washrooms placed at the front, while the main rooms, the library, the dining room and the drawing room, were found at the back. Dividing the two were the stairs to the cellar, the main staircase leading to the first and second floors and the billiard room. The house was quiet.
It was obvious there was no one there to greet him. He had expected someone, Zep or Molly. Even Marjorie could have put in an appearance. Lentsch felt cheated. He had brought gifts for them all, three hours spent in Granville hunting for presents he knew they would appreciate—dance records for Isobel, a twelve-year-old Armagnac for the Captain, a pair of silk stockings for Molly and a traveller’s set of Guernsey’s most famous author, Victor Hugo, for Marjorie. Dropping his bags on the tiled floor he strode down the hall and flung open the doors to the drawing room. The armchairs and sofa had been shoved back against the walls. The radiogram from his study had been moved in, his box of seventy-eights on the floor beside it. So this is what they got up whenever he left. Albert stood in the doorway, trying to hide an expression of guilt.
“You should have cleared up,” Lentsch told him. “I don’t mind parties while I’m away, but…”
Albert limped in and in a slow, deliberate move, pushed the sofa further back.
“It’s for you,” he said. “They’re planning a little get-together. I wasn’t meant to do this until later, but I promised Mrs H. I’d go to town before the shops shut. She’s got some shoes that need mending.”
Lentsch felt his spirits soar, though he tried not to show it.
“Who’s coming? Do you know?”
“The usual crowd. The Captain’s organized it all—he and Miss Molly.”
Lentsch walked into the hall, picked up the receiver and gave the number.
“You’re not meant to know,” Albert warned. “If the Captain finds out I’ve let on…”
Lentsch winked.
“Don’t worry. I…” One ring and someone had lifted the phone. He turned quickly, waving Albert away.
“Yes?”
She’d been waiting for him! He kept his voice as light as possible.
“Isobel! It’s me. I have just returned. I was hoping to see you. Tonight, perhaps?”
She spoke quickly. “I can’t, not tonight. I’m sorry.”
Lentsch smiled to himself. He could imagine her, standing over that glass-topped table in the drawing room, looking round to see if her father was in earshot. Soon she would piek up the receiver and move over to the staircase. It was where she loved to sit, talking, reading, painting her toenails. Her hair would be bunched back, her legs bare. He tried to sound disappointed.
“Never mind. I am sure I can find something else to do, down at the club perhaps.”
There was a silence at the other end.
“Isobel. Is everything all right?”
“Yes. Quite all right.”
“Your father—is he well?”
“Yes. He’s dining with Major Ernst tonight.” She lowered her voice. “Across the road.”
“In the Major’s house?”
“Yes.”
“And you will be all alone?”
“No, no. Some friends are coming over.” She was finding it difficult to lie, bless her.
“And did you miss me?” he asked.
“Not as much as I had thought.”
Lentsch closed his eyes. It wasn’t the reply he had expected. He didn’t know what to say.
“Oh. I had hoped…”
She corrected herself.
“I did miss you. It was just I did other things.”
He teased her some more.
“If I cannot see you tonight, how about tomorrow? Perhaps we could go riding. I have not taken Wotan out for weeks now.”
“Wotan. Such a ridiculous name for a horse.”
“To your ears, perhaps. For us it is a strong name, a strong name for a strong horse.”
“A beautiful horse,” she agreed.
“I thought I might take him over to Vazon and stretch his legs. Why don’t you come too? I could call for you in the morning.”
“Don’t you have work to do?”
“On Sunday?”
“You shouldn’t neglect your duties, Gerhard, even for your horse.”
“That is exactly who I should neglect my duties for. My horse is the second most important creature on this island.”
Lentsch could hear her laugh despite herself.
“Father will be gone all afternoon,” she relented. “Call for me then. Look, I’ve got to go.”
“Oh. Until tomorrow, then.” He shouted the last sentence to an empty line.
Albert was waiting in the drawing room, pretending not have heard a single word. Lentsch put his hand round his shoulders and walked him through onto the veranda.
“Let us walk around the garden,” he suggested. “Have you time? How are the moles?”
“Three while you were away.”
“Three? Pretty soon you will be able to make a coat,” Lentsch joked.
“Pretty soon we’ll be eating them. Our rations have been put back again. Is it any wonder we’re all dropping like ninepins. And we had another blessed break-in last night.”
“Another? The third in how many months? Have you told your nephew?”
“What can he do? It’s not us locals, Major. It’s the foreigns. They’re all over the place.”
There were sixteen thousand foreign labourers on the island, part of His vast army of slave workers, men stolen from the captured lands of the continent and put to work for the Organisation Todt; in Germany they worked in factories, built roads, mended railways. Here they were building the Western Wall. The whole area around the old quarter of St Peter Port was filled with them; Spaniards, Poles, Russians, and a huge contingent of North Africans. The Kasbah, Albert called it.
The two men walked to the end of the lawn and looked out. The boat had gone now, and the bay’s still emptiness accentuated its deep beauty. Since they had placed even further restrictions on civilian movement there were parts of the island which grew more sacred by the day. Lentsch shivered. Ernst’s threat came ringing back at him. He pointed across to the squat bulge of concrete billowing out of the cliff on the other side.