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“Not that. No, the not knowin’.”
“Not knowing what?” I ask, dragging the basket of silk cuttings from behind the counter. May as well use the time to cut more ribbons.
“If we’d’a known it was only gonna last a handful o’years, it would’a been easier to bear. But to look at them Germans with their organisation, with their building fortifications everywhere, it looked like they’d be here forever. Like the whole world would be speakin’ German. They confiscated all the radio sets, so we never heard the BBC. We had nothing to show we was not fighting a losing battle.”
Oh.
He’s got a point. In England, so much effort and money was thrown at raising the spirits of the nation. Films, documentaries, news reels at the cinemas. Even the royal family refused to leave London, showing they had faith and hope. All to keep up morale.
How much harder to fight, to stand firm if you thought you were standing alone.
“It must have been really difficult to resist the army, to refuse to cooperate if you didn’t have much hope of victory.” I’m thinking of Hector Hemingway who had a family to protect and was probably ordered to supply bread.
“You know Young Parker at the post office? Her uncle was caught with an amateur wireless set, and they shot him. And Bailey was hiding a chicken in his house, for extra eggs because the rations was biting us like wolves. When the soldiers found him selling extra eggs, he was dragged off and he had a heart attack and died in the interrogation.”
“No wonder —” I stop before finishing the sentence out loud. Instead, I just say, “That’s very harsh.”
He scoffs. “Harsh? That’s nothin’. You want harsh you should’a seen how they treated the poor Russian prisoners. Slave labour. Poor buggers, starvin’. Treated so cruel. We used to go up into the apple trees and watch them march by, they was dropping dead on the lane from lack o’ sleep and food. You say we dint have much hope. They had no hope at all. They must’a forgot what hope means. And when the snow came it was so much worse for them. My mam burned the porridge one day, tasted foul, she had to give it to the pigs. Afterwards, I snuck out and scooped up some of it.” Grandad holds out both hands cupped. “We ran to the quarry where the Russians worked. We couldn’t get close because the soldiers was in the way but we threw it down to them and poor buggers, they all ran on it like it was gold. And after…them as ate even half-a mouthful got whipped.”
I don’t want to hear more of this. Grandad was right; we’re lucky not to know. Although now I understand a couple of things better. It’s clear why people did what they did, both the collaborators and the ones who refused to forgive them. When a man died for hiding an extra chicken, Hector Hemingway wouldn’t have wanted to risk the same fate. Equally, I see why those who did disobey and suffered for it cannot forgive him for taking the easy route.
I started this talk hoping to find a solution, which now seems even less likely. Just like Hal’s grandfather who applied to the war archives for information hoping to clear his father’s name and ended up incriminating him even further.
A customer walks in. A hipster type with long hair twisted up into a man-bun, no doubt one of the visitors that came for the day.
“Do you sell any bee pollen?”
I show him the relevant shelf with the selection and let him browse.
I change the subject to something less depressing. “What do you think, Grandad? Should we branch out into some new products?”
This is a question that has been on my mind lately. The initial flurry of interest which brought me lots of customers in the beginning has now settled down and footfall has dropped to a trickle. The shop is still selling honey every day, but that’s nowhere near enough. La Canette’s population is roughly two and a half thousand; there’s only so much honey you can sell, even to the most sweet-toothed of its residents. Unless I find something else to add to my repertoire to generate sales revenue, my plan to pay off the debt is going to fall flat on its face.
“What do you think about making more products to sell? Herb-infused honey?”
“All honey is herb flavoured if you know what you’re tasting because the bees feed on them…” And off he goes talking about the topic he loves. The customer is interested, and he comes closer to listen. This is wonderful because it makes Grandad feel like he has a role in the shop, not just an old man sitting in a chair.
I leave him talking and go inside the house for a bottle of water. When I come back, I find the hipster hanging on Grandad’s every word, fascinated by the idea of unique island herbs. He’s obviously into the whole organic natural movement, if the tattoo of a cannabis leaf on his arm is any indication.
When he sees me, he comes to the counter and pays, not only for a bag of bee pollen, but he’s also chosen several jars of honey.
“Have you thought about bottled drinks?” he asks.
In fact, it’s one of the ideas I’ve been thinking about. Honey-based drinks we can mix. But unfortunately, it needs specialist equipment which means an additional investment. I’m trying to make money not spend it. But that’s not something to discuss with a stranger. “I read something about a sparkling soda.”
“Or mead,” he says. Yes, he looks like the kind of guy who knows about mead, and probably wears hemp cloth too.
“Not yet. We’ve just reopened.” I place his purchases in a bag – the ochre damask donated by the Casemates – and thank him.
He shakes Grandad’s hand, thanking him for the information and turns to leave. “You should consider mead.” Are his final words to me from the door where he steps aside to let someone else in.
Pierre beams brightly. Her hair is adifferent colour, deep raspberry, which makes her look more sophisticated.
“You’re back!”
She comes in, arms full of a stack of books which she puts on the floor before bending to kiss Grandad on his cheek. “How are you Hedge?”
Then she and I hug.
