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A Jersey Midsummer Tale

A NOVEL BY ROY McCARTHY
The world about us might change but the people of one generation are no different to that of another. In A Jersey Midsummer Tale Roy McCarthy creates not one world but two the first pre-war, the second set in a Jersey which, very clearly, belongs to the 21st century.

Scrupulously researched, with a hidden thread linking one era with another, A Jersey Midsummer Tale is a realistic, poignant homage to time, love and the changing world around us; a portrayal of an Island way of life in which the characters emerge as real, flesh and blood creations with all the fears and ambitions that they and we have always had.
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A Jersey Midsummer Tale

Written by Roy McCarthy

No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior permission by the author. All rights reserved.
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY.

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By the same author

No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission of the author. All rights reserved: The lyrics of 'Mr Blue Sky are by Jeff Lynne, formerly of the Electric Light Orchestra. This first edition is dated May, 2012.
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY.

A Jersey Midsummer Tale; copyright Roy McCarthy

A JERSEY MIDSUMMER TALE is Roy McCarthys second novel and is very different to his first, Barry, which is set not in Jersey but against a contemporary background of England and Ireland. It is a story about running ... but running where and, more particularly, running away ... from what?

Barry

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HE looked at his watch 7.33am. Come on, not good enough, he muttered to himself. Helier Le Quesne wanted his cuppa. Still grumbling, he turned back to the sea wall and, leaning forward on his elbows, gazed out again over St Aubins Bay. There in the harbour approaches and resembling a concrete battleship floating on the half-tide was Elizabeth Castle. Helier well recalled the days it was used by the militia, but now it was simply a landmark visited by throngs of holidaymakers at low tide. Helier regarded the Isle of Jersey as it made its way sedately across the bay, engines cut right back now that it had left the deep waters of the English Channel. It glided from the direction of Noirmont Point and would soon pass behind the castle on its final approach to the Albert Pier. By now the majority of the passengers aboard were lining the port side railings. A few had preferred to spend most of the night leaning against the rails, smoking, thinking their own thoughts as the boat chugged its way southwards. The weather had been calm, the starry skies clear and the moonlight showcased the many other, smaller boats winking in the dark as they plied their way to and from the other islands, or as they cast their nets for the fish of the sea that would, if unlucky, be on sale in Jerseys markets later that day. As dawn had broken in the east the island of Alderney had slipped by and more passengers yawned and gathered at the rails as the boat approached Guernsey, over on the starboard side. Within the hour the Isle of Jersey had disgorged a percentage of its passengers at St Peter Port and was on its way again. Before long, the port railings started to fill up as the cliffs of Jerseys northwest coast appeared. Presently, the boat was steaming along St Ouens Bay with its sand dunes rising away towards the Islands hinterland. Cameras aplenty clicked as Corbire lighthouse was rounded and the boat headed for the harbour.
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The first impatient passengers started to gather their suitcases and belongings and took their place near the disembarkation points so as to get a head start and get their annual holiday under way. Helier was dressed all in black shoes, socks, trousers, jacket and cloth cap. A vaguely white collared shirt, fastened up to the last but one button, broke up his otherwise sombre appearance. His old Raleigh bike which leant beside him against the wall was, of course, similarly black. He had made his way to West Park from where he lived, the family farm at Five Oaks. There he had the use of a small cottage where he was tolerated as a family elder. He had worked all his life on the railways and contributed only rarely around the farm. Helier worked to his own timetable which rarely coincided with the seasonal rhythms of the working farm. Hearing sounds behind him he turned around. Babs Ecobichon had finally arrived and was unlocking the tea kiosk. A large woman, Babs brooked no nonsense but nevertheless it was in Heliers nature to instigate a skirmish. What time is this? he asked, customers queuing and the proprietor asleep in her bed. Helier, fuck off. After the night Ive had, dont start with your sharp tongue. For two pins Id knock the head off you. Having got that off her chest Babs busied herself with the tea urn and generally setting up her kiosk for the day. Helier considered that honours were even. Ah, sorry Babs. I didnt mean anything by it. A cup of milky tea when youre ready. Itll be a few minutes, Babs responded, mollified somewhat. He turned again to the sea wall. The sun was rising over the harbour to his left. It had yet to burn off the sea mist so that the Minquiers to the south were not yet visible. Sweeping away to the west was the expanse of St Aubins Bay, curving around to the village of St Aubin. Further on the cliffs led to Noirmont Point. A little way behind him the stationmaster was busying himself in readiness for the first train of the day outwards to Corbire. Helier knew that the line would be busy this day with the races. He would probably make his way up there himself later. But now a young couple wandered slowly by, holding hands, the first of many holidaymakers who would pass this way today. The man wore a lightweight suit and tie with a jaunty check cap, she a
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floral dress with a cardigan against the slight morning chill and a head scarf. Good morning, a fine day for a stroll, Helier addressed them genially. Hello! Yes, we thought wed head out early, make the most of it. The young man spoke in a cultured accent. On holiday then; where are you from? Helier knew that people liked to be asked. Near Aldershot, in Hampshire. Were on honeymoon! We flew over yesterday. The young man smiled at his bride, who blushed. Congratulations! Staying at the Grand, Id say? Helier nodded across the railway track and road at the imposing building looking out over the bay. Yes, thats right. And youd be a local man, I daresay? It was the opening that Helier needed. Indeed I am. And Ill tell you an island story, if you have time? Many years ago there lived a hermit, out there on the rock beyond the castle. Helier pointed. Yes, I see the rock! It was the first time the young lady had spoken. Well, Helier continued: the hermits name was Helier. He would keep watch for pirates and would warn the townsfolk when they appeared in the distance. In return the townsfolk gave him food to live on. The pirates naturally got fed up of this and one day they came and chopped his head off. Golly! said the couple in unison. But it all ended well for him as the townspeople made him a saint and named the town after him, St Helier. The couple laughed. I think the hermit would sooner have kept his head and foregone the sainthood! observed the man. But to finish my tale, my parents christened me either after the saint or after the town, I was never sure. Helier Le Quesne, at your service. Now, heres Babs with my tea. Helier concluded his tale. Thats wonderful, Mr Helier! Let us buy your tea, we insist. Well, thank you and have a nice holiday sir and madam. As the young couple wandered off he added a satisfied: Heh, heh!
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ROBIN Taylor reluctantly pushed himself semi-upright so that his shoulders rested against the headboard. He considered this action to be praiseworthy, under the circumstances. The easier and lazier course of action would have been to return to the prone position and doze away what remained of the morning. There, in any conscious minutes, he could daydream at his leisure and on subjects of his choosing. What else were summer holidays for? Having therefore compromised, he closed his eyes once more. Still not fully awake, his mind drifted easily back to The Parks in Cambridge. As a fresher at Caius, he had tried out for the college cricket teams earlier in the year. He had submitted his name to the captain of cricket and had dutifully attended nets in the spring. To his surprise he had impressed enough with his medium pacers to be given a run out in the 3rd X1. As a second change bowler he had taken 39 wickets at an average of 11.1 in 14 matches, mostly lbw or caught at short leg off his little off-cutters. Due to a few regular players taking early holidays he had been promoted to the 2nd X1 for the final game of the term and had happily grabbed a wicket, although he had barely appealed as the ball would have missed the stumps by a considerable margin. However, the umpire is always right, hed always been told. Old Fergie, the cricket coach at Victoria College, would have been pleased with him. His mind drew a selective veil over his efforts with the bat. And, when classes and cricket were over, there was always beer. Visits to the local pubs were actively discouraged, especially for those like Robin who lived in halls. However, such disapproval and the rules that accompanied them were simply obstacles to be overcome. And the methods by which they might be overcome had been handed down from student to student over terms and years immemorial. And, in the town, the students custom was welcome in any number of establishments. The favourite of Robin and his circle was the Yard Of Ale where, in the smoky lounge, a cool pint of bitter might be purchased for thruppence, a half pence more than in the public bar where the working classes gathered. It was Robins first experience of pubs and the pub life suited him well. He had no interest in smoking though, like some of the
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fellows, he had tried it but failed to see the attraction. After cricket and beer the more troubling but nonetheless pleasurable subject of women elbowed its way into his still half-awake head. After his education in Jersey at the all-male Victoria College he had headed for Caius College, Cambridge, assuming that all would finally be revealed to him in the matter of the female race. Nine months later such mysteries were, if anything, deeper than ever. Though there had been opportunities to meet and talk to these creatures he truly felt as if they lived on a different planet compared to that which he inhabited. Whilst he could talk easily and intelligently with his fellow students, he felt helpless when finding himself facing a woman or women. They always seemed to come in pairs, somehow. At a dance he might be wishing to open a conversation with, for example, Hettie, but found that her friend Aggie would listen and would often answer. If he raised a matter of the day to break the ice the women in question would often just giggle together and avoid his eyes. And, invariably, if one wanted to powder her nose the other one would, too. He couldnt work it out, especially as he considered himself fairly presentable and not bad-looking. Robin started not to go to dances. On occasion Robin would find himself alone in female company, maybe in the town or as a result of a chance meeting. These times were happier but no less frustrating. He had met Louise Farrelly on a few occasions and they had walked by the river, had visited art galleries, taken tea in cafs. Louise had friendly brown eyes, a ready smile and a cheeky line in conversation. The scent she wore was intoxicating and he was entranced by her stockinged, shapely legs and the promise of the shapely body that lay beneath her floral dresses. But she had resisted any further, more intimate approaches and would not commit to meeting him in the evening which meant their friendship had gradually drifted. He found himself once more aroused and yet again frustrated as he jumped out of bed. This is ridiculous, he said to himself, angrily. I have got to lose my virginity like everyone else. For Gods sake, Im 20 and these are modern times!
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GOOD afternoon, sir. How good of you to grace us with your presence today, Mary Taylor chided her son gently as he yawned into view. Morning, Mother. And less of the sarcasm if you please. Its only 11.30 and therefore not yet the afternoon. Only my son could try to sleep through the longest day of the year. Did you know that todays the summer solstice? Midsummers Day; really? I cant believe that the days will be getting shorter after today. Wheres Father? Hes taken the morning plane to Heston, got some business to attend to, he says. Whatever business that is I wouldnt know why he needs to go to London to do it. Theres a perfectly good telephone at his office down at the harbour, and the postal service from London is excellent. But, as long as he keeps me in the style to which Ive become accustomed, Im not minded to enquire. Mary chuckled to herself. Mornin sir, what can I get you? Maggie Picot, the housekeeper, appeared at the door of the dining room. She was a small woman, neat and tidy, with an apron tied around her working clothes and hair tied back. Maggie walked to and from her cottage at Portelet Common six days a week to housekeep for the Taylors. Morning, Maggie. Can you manage eggs and bacon and bread sliced thickly, if you please. Orange juice, maybe? Coming up, sir. So, what are you going to do this fine Midsummers Day? Mary quizzed her student son. Mother, Ive yet to plan my day, which I know must be intolerable for you. I may go to the races. Is there anything you want me to do beforehand? This last sentence he added dutifully, even though he knew his mother would have no duties for him. Maggie would take care of everything that needed doing. After breakfast he wandered into the garden and sat down in the gazebo. Neat flower beds were set out to the south of the lawn and the garden was tended thrice weekly by a jobbing gardener. Beyond the flower beds the land fell away steeply towards St Brelades Bay. The sun was high and the water sparkled. Far out in the bay he could see two steamers, one inbound from England and

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gently completing the final few miles into St Helier Harbour. The other vessel was westbound and would turn to the north once it had cleared the treacherous waters around Corbire. It would call in at Guernsey before continuing its passage to Weymouth which it would reach later that day. Turning his head to the left he could see the cliffs above Ouaisn Bay. Across the bay to the west and easily visible were the Parish Church and the ancient Fishermans Chapel. It would be busy down on the beach today, he thought. St Brelades Bay was thronged throughout the summer, with the buses from St Helier packed with holidaymakers. Others would prefer to catch the train from town, though that involved something of a walk from Don Bridge. Robin idly noticed the whistle of an engine as it approached either Don Bridge or Pont Marquet stations. Maybe hed wander down to the bay, buy an ice-cream and ogle the English girls in their bathing suits. One of them was sure to fall for him on sight and drag him into a bathing hut before submitting to his animal magnetism. Then again, he sighed, maybe hed just go into town after all and perhaps meet one or two old school friends.