The Guernsey Doll
Hauteville lived up to its name. When Victor Hugo was exiled from France, he set himself on a pedestal. The shops and pubs on either side of the street leading up to the Hugo house looked as though they were about to tumble into the sea below. Monica climbed the sidewalks carefully, fearing she'd trip and roll like a bolder into the vicious waves below. She'd taken this walk nearly every day since she'd left France and moved to the island. Whenever she felt foreign and alone, she abandoned the milling crowds of St. Peter's Port to look for a sense of complacency up here, closer to someone who might understand who she was, or who she wished she could be.
Had the office of tourism not planted a sea-mangled French flag out front, it would have been hard to locate the house—the modest façade made the house look like it could have belonged to anyone. The tourist season behind it, the place was locked up against the elements, but Monica had visited it so many times she could easily picture the eclectic décor of the rooms behind the shutters.
She felt as though she knew the man behind the stories through the way he described the inhabitants of Guernsey and their "nationalité complexe". Like Hugo, she wanted to be adopted here, but she hadn't been forced out of France—not blatantly.
Charcoal clouds inched closer, as treacherous and compelling as he had described them a century before. The wind carrying them slapped at Monica's cheeks, drying her tears as quickly as they fell. From everywhere, the church bells came, filling the corners with their historic echo. It seemed to Monica as though there were more churches on the island than residents to fill them. As their empty tunes mingled, the sun was swallowed by the incoming storm, making their song all the more ominous.
With one last glance toward the flag, Monica turned and headed towards the stairwell that would take her back to the shopping district. But first, she would stop and read the inscription on the plaque that she already knew by heart. It was her way of paying tribute to the castaways of the past, and it served as a reminder to her that she must continue to blend in, to pretend she belonged here.
She'd come across the plaque a year ago, and since then, she'd researched the appalling history behind it, a history that Monica feared might repeat itself here like it repeated itself in other parts of the world. The gold engraving read, To the memory of Katherine Cawches, Guillemine Gilbert, Perotine Massey. All believers in the Lord Jesus Christ who on, or about 18th July 1556, and near this site, were cruelly burned to death at the stake for their Protestant faith. The latter named was pregnant at the time of martyrdom and gave birth to a son in the flames. The child was retrieved, but it was ordered that he be thrown back.
Monica had removed her veil, even highlighted her hair, and hoped that the people of Guernsey would see her as nothing but a French immigrant, almost one of their own.
The clouds now fully blanketed the island, making everything appear somber. Even the gray of the granite steps and wall seemed to intensify.
She looked toward the spot half-way down the steps where she expected to find the plaque. There, slumped against the wall, she noticed a figure that didn't belong there. Had it not been for the tassel on the hand-knit hat, she might not have noticed it at all. The dinginess of the overcoat mixed in with the stone and although the tassel now appeared nearly the same shade as the coat, she could tell it had once been some shade of red. Instinctively, Monica moved to the other side of the rail and sped up to a skip. When she passed by it, she heard its breath but didn't turn to look.
A flash of color drew her attention to a family embarking on their ascent at the bottom of the staircase. Their shiny burgundy cheeks and thick coats of English primary shades reassured Monica. Their gloved hands linked them together, the man on one side, the woman on the other, and the little girl bouncing between them. The child's laughter ricocheted off the stone wall and steps, and her blonde girls poked through here and there around her furry collar, bouncing to the rhythm her polished black derbies provided. When they all met in the middle, Monica offered them an apologetic nod, and they let go of each other and separated to give her room enough to slide past them.
Shortly afterwards, when Monica reached the bottom step, she felt a change. Their giggles subsided, their steps quieted to a mere pitter-patter, like sneaking slipper feet. Monica turned around. This time she couldn't avoid seeing the person slumped against the wall, and nestled between its two gray legs, was a child, half-hidden under the long coat.
The bright, cheery family Monica had crossed now slinked past the two on the steps, and their silence accentuated the anxious shuffle of their feet. Monica couldn't see their faces, but she knew their eyes remained forward, pointed towards their feet, like hers had when she'd passed these people minutes earlier. Only the girl, too young to understand shame, gawked at the vagabonds. In her hand, the blonde girl held a doll that looked like a miniature replica of herself, and she swung the doll nearly in the dingy child's face.
When the child on the steps looked up at the doll, Monica noticed it was also a girl. Although dark with filth, Monica could tell that freshly scrubbed, her face would have been pale. Iridescent against her soiled clothes and skin, her eyes held a glassy expression, something hollow, as if she might be blind or empty of emotion. Monica knew the feeling, the desire to become blind, and the stronger desire to become invisible, and Monica had been trying to forget that feeling for years.
Monica was propelled back to Paris. She could almost smell the wretched roasting stench of the Metro in the air. Disgusted, she filled her lungs with the dewy fragrances of the island, tinged with fishy undertones. But Monica's memories lurked. She could picture her mother's raised open palm, and she could hear the trembling rhythm of the shuffling feet, feel the icy floor shake with the explosion of each incoming train.
How dare they come here, Monica thought, taking one last glance at the mother and child on the steps. How had they managed to get here? Fear and anger ran through her veins, bringing forth that familiar chill that made her bones ache.
She'd read once that Victor Hugo had welcomed poor children into his home for lunch once a week, but she had a hard time believing that. In any case, poverty didn't apply to modern day life in Guernsey—the people were sheltered by the vicious sea as if the fortresses that remained scattered along the shore still held ammunition. Monica had come here to escape France and her past, hoping to find security on an island that refused to belong to anyone except itself. And now, these people had dared come here, threatening to proliferate like mold and force the islanders to take notice of their vulnerability.
Here, Monica had thought she'd be safe. Everyone in Guernsey had a home, didn't they? Hidden away, up winding roads, the less affluent, London row houses even followed the island tradition by priding themselves with a stone. The coastlines were sprinkled with them, glittering rocks, that the islanders fetched and had engraved with gold the names they'd chosen for their homes. Perched on embankments, the headlights of rental cars set them aglow on summer nights, and the inspired tourist lost himself to the game, reading each one out loud.
Monica had no idea how many people here were actually rich, but it seemed to her that the ferry boats spat out more BMWs and Ferraris than they did Renault 5s. The locals put on quite the show each evening, filtering into restaurants in their scrumptious attire, so poised and elite. In the midst of all this glamour, Monica had pretended to forget life on the other side of the Channel. Here, the natural splendor of the sapphire waters, emerald fields, and diamond rocks left one to wonder if there was no other place on Earth. The people simply followed suit, shimmering themselves.
Monica looked up again at the bowed heads. Downwards, toward the sea she sped. A trip on a loose stone and she would be tossed into the foaming frenzy of the bay. The rain began. Umbrellas opened, people fled. She pulled her collar tight over her cheeks and lowered her face into it.
Despite the cold, she decided to take the long way back to her flat so that she could window shop on her way. Christmas was only a week away, and although she knew her mother would refuse to celebrate the holiday, she intended to bring gifts back to Paris with her. The shops illuminated with a good dose of English charm and French elegance—a blend that made for ultimate decadence. As she gazed at it all, she suddenly felt disgusted by these posh displays. Her mind kept drifting back to the scenes she'd tried to forget, and the one she'd just witnessed. Around her the streets emptied as shoppers took shelter in tea rooms. They stared back at her, sipping at their steaming cups and rubbing their hands together, unwrapping a scarf, removing a glove or two. The wind howled into the bay, masts sung in desperation, and Monica thought of the little girl shivering under her mother's coat, the dampness penetrating her skin.
Tenaciously, Monica continued on her way, trying to concentrate on the window displays that fogged up and blurred with raindrops. She stopped at one window that featured several teddy bears perched under a tree. Monica spotted a doll among them. It was set high above the others and dressed in deep red velvet that caught the tree lights in plush reflections. The porcelain face was painted with pink lips that pouted daintily and matching cheeks. Its caramel colored hair fell in smooth ringlets on the puffy shoulders of the dress, and a velvet hat rested on the top of its head. Monica stared into its marble-like eyes, pale blue and wide, and again, she came face-to-face with that emptiness she'd felt for years.
She ran, straight through puddles, soaking her shoes and socks. She ran towards her flat and the future she was forging for herself. If her mother could settle for a whiskey-blurred view from a plastic kitchen in a box of a home the government paid for, Monica wanted more. She wanted a house with a stone.
"It's all those books you read," Monica heard her mother telling her. "They make you think you're better than me." But she'd be better, Monica reminded herself. This year she'd bring back an armload of Christmas presents to prove that, knowing well her mother would sneer at her insistence to celebrate that "Catholic consumer holiday."
This year, Monica would refuse to join her mother who'd dish Restos du Coeur slop into Styrofoam plates, feeding the homeless in a weak attempt to rid herself of her own remorse. "We can't forget who we once were," Monica's mother reminded her each year.
No one in France had let her forget. If her mother had given Monica a European first name, her last name hadn't been changed, and her olive complexion served to confirm their suspicions. Monica would never be French, in France.
The storm ended as quickly as it began. A timid sun appeared, setting the slick granite streets into a frenetic celebration. Colored lights set the damp streets aglow. Monica had always hated this season as a child—all that glimmer and joy sickened her. If someone, anyone, had just looked her in the eye without wincing, it might have been enough. Maybe she could be cured, she thought then. She turned and began walking back to the shop, to the doll, to those eyes.
"Would you like it wrapped?" a salesgirl asked Monica a few moments later.
She must have nodded. The girl enveloped the box with green paper and tied a big red bow on the top.
With the box tucked under her arm, Monica made her way back to the steps, past the shoppers who had resumed their square dance of in and out, across and back, hands heavy with bags and faces light with bliss. Monica felt weighted by her soaked clothing, by the rich lunch she'd yet to fully digest, and by the task before her.
She imagined the child. Would she speak? Surely they wouldn't understand each other. She knew they were foreign, probably from Eastern Europe, having recently fled the post-war misery. Monica pictured the girls eyes, filling with anticipation and surprise as she reached up for the gift, and then she pictured them filling with a warmth that had never been.
Coughing up some brittle air, she forced herself to climb faster. The stairwell wasn't far off. But after she passed the house and the French flag, she peered down the steps to find nothing but bare stone. No masked shapes lurked there. She walked down the steps, wondering if it hadn't been a trick. Perhaps her mind had brought forth a memory, some image from her past, and stuck it here in another setting. Dizzy, she balanced her weight against the wall. She felt the smoothness of the Perotine Massey plaque under her fingertips, and sat below it with the gift between her legs. She slid the bow off, unfolded the wrapping paper, and lifted the box out.
Behind the plastic shield, the eyes looked back at her, perplexed. Monica removed the doll and took a deep breath of its newness. After a long while, she placed it on the step and gathered the paper and carton before heading back toward St. Peter's Port.
A little girl arrived before Monica reached the bottom of the stairwell. She was primped and pudgy. When their paths crossed, Monica smiled down at the child who responded by exposing her crimson tongue. Her mother, too busy tugging her along, did not notice.
"Mummy! Look," the child cried in delight. A chunky finger pointed in the direction of the doll.
The mother gave her arm a yank. "Don't touch, dear. It's dirty."
"The Guernsey Doll" was published in Thought Magazine, Issue IV.
