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“Better than the Nazis.” Grandad suddenly pipes up.
My heart falls. I assumed he was alright, but it’s been a few hours now and he must be getting tired. That’s when his hearing seems to get worse, and he can start rambling a bit.
“It’s the silk factory,” I say. “Some of the ladies who work there helped sew up the damask into bags for us—”
“That’s the one the Germans built when they came here.” Grandad interrupts me. “Artillery chambers. Big Howitzer guns shooting at Allies’ ships.”
“That’s right,” another customer, an older man, says. “The Atlantic Wall. They had lots of fortifications like our casemates. On Jersey, Alderney, Guernsey, we all had ’em.”
“All built by Russian prisoners.” Grandad has two spots of colour on his cheeks, I’ve never seen him get so animated. Several customers seem interested too and gather back around the table.
“Why did they bring them here?” someone asks.
I don’t hear the answer because just then, Myles walks in and comes over to talk to me. He says nice things, but I’m distracted. Several more people cluster around Grandad, and I’m worried because he must be getting tired now and I don’t want him to look confused in front of people who respect him.
“I’ve been seeing people in the village square carrying your bags.” Myles says, just as someone else asks. “You still remember?”
“Remember?” Grandad answers loudly. “Not a thing you forget. People afraid all the time. And hungry all the time. Rationing biting us worse than savage dogs.”
Shame and guilt twist inside me for misjudging Grandad and assuming he was confused when he mentioned the Nazis. This is a part of history he knows a lot about; just a glance round at the people listening to him is enough to show me how everyone respects his authority on the topic.
Unfortunately, now everyone’s talking about starvation; it seems insensitive to bring the conversation back to eating honey. I raise my eyebrows towards Myles with a lopsided smile.
“Look like congrats are in order.” Someone blocks my way. It’s Alastair Sweeny, the debt collector. And there’s nothing congratulatory about the way he narrows his eyes at the displays.
Another man, taller with wispy hair, stands next to him as if they came in together. “How long do you think you can keep it going?”
I’d love to tell them to get out but there are too many customers around for me to be rude.
“Hi,” I say without much warmth.
The two men look around the shop then back at me. Even their movements are in sync like a pantomime double act.
“We hear you had help from Hemingway next door.” Alastair says. “How does Hedge feel about that? A Hemingway in his house. Or maybe he’s too senile to know, these days.”
Senile? How dare he say that? But before I can say anything, the other man, the tall balding one with the wispy hair interjects.
“Oh, we know Mr Hemingway.” He stresses the surname in a way that makes the hairs rise on my arm. “You haven’t met my associate. Tim Morris.” He indicates the balding man. His head looks like a dandelion clock that’s lost half its hairs and a passing breeze might blow away the rest.
“Please excuse me, I’m busy today.” I step around them to go to the till. But Morris follows me, he actually follows me.
“Can’t believe you invited Hemingway into your house.”
“Did someone say Hemingway?” one of the customers asks. “Isn’t that the one building new holiday cottages next door?”
Alastair answers, but loud enough for everyone else to hear. “We’re surprised he was allowed to keep the house. It doesn’t belong to him; they should have lost their lease years ago.”
Alastair now steps forward. “Hedge, you remember Hector Hemingway.”
Grandad, in the middle of saying something, suddenly stops.
“Of course, he remembers,” Morris answers in a too casual voice. It’s as if they’ve rehearsed a scene and come here especially to play it to the audience.
“He tried his best to warn people. Hedge was in the resistance, weren’t you Hedge? Must have been doubly hard living next door to Nazi collaborators.”
“Excuse me.” I say again. “This is not the place—” but he ignores me, goes on talking as if I’m not even there. I haven’t been treated this way since I left my job in Manchester.
“Should have been run off the island as soon as the war was over,” Alastair joins in. “We know what they did to collaborators in France, but not here. We’re too soft.”
