But he needed somewhere safe to make this bomb. The cellar? The lean-to at the back of the lodge? And then he saw Mrs H. on her way to Hauteville, and thinking of the house, though he had never been inside and never wanted to, he saw at last how it could be accomplished, where it could be assembled without fear of interruption, in Victor Hugo’s house, with only Mrs Hallivand allowed through the front door, and he, the odd-job gardener, clipping the hedges at the back. And he went to Mrs H. that evening, brought her a fat rabbit and skinned it in the kitchen while he told her who was coming and what they must do. “If we could cut the head off, Mrs H., think how it would bring all this to an end,” and gave her a lot more fanciful stuff, about the underground and short-wave radios and Commandos coming out of the sea to save them, and she, silly old woman that she was, saw herself in the centre of things again and agreed, briefly worried about bloodshed and killing, but placated, believing like all women that war could never be as bad as it is, never understanding its cruel and insatiable capacity until it rushed over them like a flood tide. “Cut the head off, Mrs H.,” he said, holding down the skinned corpse, sawing through the bloody neck. “That’s what Winnie expects us to do. Cut the head off. Watch the body run round in circles.”
Hauteville House it was, then, with Mrs H. carrying the materials in her little basket; sugar, weedkiller, nuts and bolts nicked from the garage. It was good to keep her going; it stopped her thinking too much. She was Little Red Riding Hood on her way to see her grandmama. She could outsmart the Wolf]
He began to assemble his bomb. Clock, batteries, bits of Plasticine to hold the wires firm. But still he needed to determine where to place it. Though it was not necessary for him to plant it exactly where Hitler might be, it had to be close enough to activate that instinct for rage and retribution on which he was depending. Fifty feet would be enough. Every morning he walked into town sifting through the pavement gossip but he heard nothing of note. Every afternoon he chanced his arm and went through the Captain’s room to see if he had left any papers, but he could find nothing there either. Every evening he stood, fighting back the yawns while he served them late-night drinks, for he had started on the stealing rounds by then. Weedkiller was not a problem, he had packets of it back in the Lodge, but he needed more sugar, once as plentiful as grains of sand, now as precious as the grit kernel of a pearl. By day he accepted invitations for morning coffees and high teas in the hope that he might discover whether it would be worth his returning, tyre iron in hand. By night he broke in.
The days grew closer. The Major was due to return. Licence to roam would be at a premium. Isobel had come round Thursday, asking about the party, complaining about that fat oaf Ernst, who was always hanging around her house, trying to engage her in conversation. “I wish Daddy could deal with someone else,” she had said. “They’re just like Siamese twins!”
Of course. Van Dielen! They’d be preparing certain fortifications for his inspection—a gun emplacement, a lookout tower. Van Dielen’s yard might have the details. That evening, with the Captain and Molly at the cinema, Bohde at the printers, he walked down to van Dielen’s yard and under the noise of the clanking cranes and whistles of steam kicked in the wooden fence with the toe of his boot, and scrambled through. There had been a great pyramid of crates he had to climb over, and at one point he slipped, putting his foot through one of wooden lids. Jammed fast it were and though he didn’t like it much he had to switch on his torch to free it. That’s when he saw them, rows and rows of tins. Custard! He’d always known George had been involved in the black market but never on this scale! He’d taken a couple, thinking there wouldn’t be tnany opportunities left for him to enjoy a bowl, thinking too that when the time came, he might try and arrange a little something for George in his plan.
The hut had proved a disappointment. Nothing there at all except blank order forms and bills of lading stuck on a nail next to a calendar of film stars. He’d scooped a handful of invoices in his pocket, appropriate confetti for his unsuspecting bride, taking the tin of tea and packet of sugar with him as well, to make it look like the foreigns again, messing the place up like they might. Poor bastards got blamed for everything.
He got back to the Villa to find Molly and the Captain having a flaming row upstairs. Thinking the house was empty, they were in tull throat. Albert stood at the foot of the stairs and listened. He could hear it all. The Captain was getting jumpy. Suddenly it had dawned on him how serious this visit might be. “Well, why not me,” she was yelling, “if Isobel can, why not me? Afraid I can’t hold a knife and fork properly?”
“You’re not van Dielen’s daughter, that’s why.” The Captain was trying to explain. “Her father was a friend of Dr Todt. It’s out of my hands completely. You’ll be there, Molly, but not at his table. It’s the best I can do.”
A dinner! They’re giving him dinner. He hotfooted it over to Mrs H. and told her invite Isobel for coffee the next day; Isobel came round and pretended not to know anything about it. He didn’t know whether to believe her or not, but, as luck would have it, by that lunchtime it no longer mattered. He found out, going down to see to Mrs H.’s shoes. Up at the big school, St Elizabeth College, which had been empty for two years or more, a bunch of workmen were busy painting the place up. They had a big dining hall up there, probably the only place big enough on the island to get all the dignitaries in that would be coming, Guernsey’s lot and those ferried over from Jersey too. But St Elizabeth College were no use to him. He’d never get within a hundred yards of the place. Then walking back, down the road from the police station, outside the Royal Court House, he saw a soldier carrying in that blessed picture. More work going on inside too, hammering and painting and hanging up their flag from a pole on the roof. The Royal Court. Guernsey’s Parliament! They were going to be presented to him. Perhaps listen to one of his speeches, not that they’d understand a blessed word. Perhaps they’d have to swear allegiance to him, or give him a big key. A presentation at the Royal Court, lunch at St Elizabeth’s. Maybe the other way around. Either way he’d have to go past the police station, have to be driven beneath the little room at the top where Guernsey’s Amateur Dramatic and Operatic Society rehearsed; Mrs H.’s fiefdom. If he could get it up there he’d be in clover. He could set it off himself when he passed, or hang it out of the window perhaps, like a real drainpipe. The slate of Guernsey wiped clean, ready to start afresh. Whatever they said afterwards about what had gone on here, they couldn’t deny what they had done in the end! He would be saving Guernsey’s soul!
The bomb was almost ready now. All he had to do was to get it down there. So one afternoon he and Mrs H. wrapped it up in brown paper and stuck painted paper leaves in the top and made it look like a stage palm tree for one of her blessed plays. When the coast was clear he sneaked it out of the front door and marched it on his shoulder all the way through the town, like it were a rifle, the green paper leaves blowing in his face, getting all sorts of whistles and catcalls from people he knew and some he didn’t. He’d even met Ned on the outside stairs, even got him to help him carry it up. And there it sits. At the top. By the window. Waiting.
He reads the letter out once more. “Dearest Dad, Am in the best of health. Thinking of you always. Keep smiling. Kitty” For the first time he hears a tremor of uncertainty in his voice, as if by speaking of his daughter’s life and her love for him rushing over the cold water, he has somehow placed it all in jeopardy. He holds the letter out, squinting at the squashed lines. It was Kitty’s hand that wrote those words, Kitty’s lips that kissed the envelope.