His binoculars hung round his neck. Zeiss lens, picked up at the end of the war, victors’ spoils. He’d had them now for over forty years, and they weren’t new then. Best glasses he’d ever had, even better than the Dollands. They’d see him out now, the adjuster as sensitive as ever and the lenses pristine, without a scratch.

He jumped the last two feet or so onto the rock – how that woman got down was anyone’s guess – and strode out across the sand. Strange that he couldn’t see the woman anywhere. She must have walked fast, and far.

Joe clambered back up the cliff and walked behind the barn to where his caravan was parked. He’d never felt right about living in the house, not since the war, even though he kept it draught-free and in good repair. He’d even put in a bathroom for the old man, with an indoor lavatory, bought the toilet paper once a month from the cash and carry. He checked on him three times a day, got him his meals and sat with him of an evening, used the house to take a bath twice a week. But the old man couldn’t hear a thing, so talk was hard, and what could they say to each other now, after all these years? Better he stayed in his caravan with his sunken memories and shattered dreams and the old man lived in the house with his.

He kicked off his wellington boots and stepped with stockinged feet into his van. He doubted it was roadworthy now, but then he wouldn’t want to go anywhere. It was too large for the lanes of Jersey and had caused enough difficulty when he’d brought it down the road and manoeuvred it in place. He’d broken up the old Streamlite that he’d bought after the war with a sad heart, for it had stood him well. But thirty years was a good life for a caravan, and the Knowsley Juno that he had now was better for all-year living with its styrofoam insulation and double-glazed windows. He eased himself into the corner seat and picked up a copy of yesterday’s Evening Post.

He turned back to the letter. There was a PTO at the bottom and an arrow. He flicked the paper over.

PS My mother had some connection with Jersey and has various mementos from that time, including some newspaper reports. Were you also known as the ‘pugilist priest’, Father Joe O’Cleary, boxing champion in 1943? It would be too much of a coincidence to have a Joseph and a Joe O’Cleary on that tiny island!

Well. He might have something to say about that.

Chapter Three: Dora

CHAPTER THREE

DORA

Jersey: February 1942 – January 1943