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“Because you’re Harrison, as in Harry’s son?”
“Clever.” I shouldn’t tug her close again or rest my chin on top of her head. She feels too nice in my arms, much nicer than the talk we can’t seem to avoid.
“Okay, let me see if I have this straight. You are descended down the male line from Hector, to Howard, to Henry, to you, right?”
“Right.”
“So, why do you think my grandad hates your family?”
A question everyone in my family has asked a million times.“He was in the resistance during the war.” At least, it’s the only reason that makes sense. “He was very young, a teenager at the time, but it was him that denounced my great grandfather. It seems the resistance had gone to see Hector about not selling bread to the Germans, and my great grandfather ordered them out of his house and threatened to report them to Oberleutnant Von Bausch directly.” I swallow. “At least that’s how Hedge told it. And he told it to everyone on the island. Don’t go near the Hemingways, or their lands unless you want to be handed over to SS for interrogation or worse.”
Elodie is quiet, thinking. I can almost feel her struggling to justify this, to find an excuse, an explanation. I know what she’ll say before she speaks.
“It was a time of strong feelings. I can imagine he thought he was warning people to avoid risk. But Hal.” She moves away to sit opposite me, her legs tucked under her. I make no effort to touch her again.
“Isn’t it time to forgive and forget? What my grandad did and what Hector did. It was all so long, long ago. I mean…” She pauses calculating in her head. “Eighty years ago.”
She looks at me with such faith, such conviction. Gradually her expression changes as she watches me, she knows there is more. There’s worse.
“It didn’t stop eighty years ago. Not even after Hector himself was arrested and taken to a prisoner of war camp in Germany where he died.”
“Why?”
“His wife was convinced he must have helped the resistance, but no one believed her. People said he must have been cheating and got caught, and the family were ostracised. After the war, Howard, his son, my own grandfather, took over the bakery. Considering, it was the only bakery on the island, so many people started baking their own bread at home rather than buy from us. And still, it didn’t stop. Hector’s daughter, Helen, nineteen at the time of her father’s death, shut herself away, at home, and never went out. No one visited her so when she died in the 1960s, she lay dead for several days before anyone found her.”
“Oh God, that’s awful.” Elodie covers her mouth with her hand. “I can’t believe La Canette people, I mean…” She struggles to absorb this. “I mean they must have…”
“Regretted?” I ask. “Yes, they did. The vicar spoke up for her in his Sunday sermon and asked people to offer the family kindness. Some people even sent flowers to the grave and more than a few people went to see her brother, Howard.” I remind Elodie because she must be getting confused with all the names.
“I’m glad.” A tentative smile curves her lips.
“Yeah, it lasted a few days until Hedge…” And I really struggle to keep the bitterness out of my voice. “He got blind drunk and was found by the war memorial ranting that if Hector hadn’t been the baker, no one would have died. For days he wandered the lanes saying over and over,We told people he was traitor, we told everyone not to go near his lands.The implication was that Hector must have denounced several others around the island and caused their deaths by reporting them to the Nazis. No one can actually prove this, but people were arrested and shot quite often for as little as having a hidden radio. As you know, Hedge is a very beloved man on this island. So, people rallied to his cause and the boycott of my family was revived.” I breathe slow and deep to ease the tightness in my chest.
We’ve grown up with this story, lived it, carried its scars. One would think it’s become easier to tell just one more time. But talking about it at home to my family who already understands isn’t the same as telling someone new, someone who is hating having to hear it and doesn’t want to believe it.
“My grandfather Howard decided to fight back, this time, encouraged by the vicar. He wrote to the War Office and the German government archives determined to find out the truth about why Hector Hemingway was arrested. The answer when it finally came…”
Elodie sits up, face hopeful.
And I imagine my grandparents being just as hopeful when they got the answer.
“Turns out, Hector the baker had indeed been cheating, charging for more bread than he delivered. Not once or twice, but several times a week for ages. Someone must have noticed the discrepancy and gone over the accounts for the last three years – trust the Germans to keep accurate records. Hector had indeed been short-changing them for years.”
The next part of the story touched me too deeply, so I get up and go to the kitchen and look for a bottle of something. Why hadn’t I thought of this before? Telling this story will be easier with alcohol. There’s only the last of the white wine so I bring the bottle with me and climb back into bed.
Elodie shakes her head refusing, so I take a swig before settling myself for the last part of the story. The frown lines deepen on Elodie’s forehead.
I gloss over the rest as fast as I can. I tell her how people started calling us thieves. How they stopped buying our bread and forced my grandfather to close down the bakery. How we became gradually poor, and people jeered at us.Thieving Hemingwaybecame a popular slogan.
Eventually, Elodie stirs, ready to speak. I slide the now empty wine bottle down to place it beside the bed. It misses and rolls on the floor.
“How sure are you that Hedge said all those things? In 1960, I mean. And you say he was drunk.”
“Yes, the story goes he stayed drunk for a fortnight until people stopped talking to the Hemingways.”
Not the answer she wanted to hear, obviously. “That’s really horrible. It’s quite a grudge.”
“He used to be an angry crusading man, your grandfather. In spite of all the sweet honey.”
