My Godfather Bernard

Bernard Montreuil

Naming the first male had become somewhat of a tradition in my mother’s family due to a mysterious promise, the rhyme and reason conveniently forgotten down over the years.

According to this custom all first-born males were to be given a ‘Scottish’ Christian name. Donald, Angus, Gordon, McCloud, Stuart, these together with a whole host of cousins and uncles stretched back down the years to the moment of that first mysterious agreement. My badge to this exclusive club was ‘Iain’ evidently a Gallic alternative meaning John. A cruel irony really when you consider that the Isle of Wight is five hundred or more miles from Scotland and as far as I know no one from my family had been to Scotland. Although my cousin Judith tells of some distant cousin named Alan, spending a night or two in the infamous Barlinnie prison in Glasgow, before being transferred back to the military camp from which he had deserted some two months prior.

Who or what had been the original instigator of such a tradition no one knows although it’s true to say that my cousin Judith would waste no time in clarifying with wild inventions of the imagination all of which the painstaking result of her constant vigil of eavesdropping. She would tell me everything I ever needed to know. In a low whisper and payment of promised kisses in the gas meter cupboard Judith would moan and shudder in no uncertain detail relating to scandal and family skeleton stories about a romance between that of our own grandmother’s sister had succumb to a far from home and wayward gallic lodger.

Family mystery and romance hadn’t ended there, my godfather had been a Parisian named Bernard; I had often thought how interesting it might have been to meet him. Cousin Judith often retold the stories of how Bernard and my Auntie Norma were secret lovers ‘had a baby she did, but it was got rid of, lowering her eyes to hand digging a fold into skirt. Sworn to secrecy I would listen for hours on end as told me story after story. ‘After Norma, Judith continued, he had sister after sister…  Judith seemed thrilled by the likelihood t that her own mother or even mine for that matter had been taken by this magnificent Frenchman.

Now, fifty or more years on he would be very nearly one hundred years old and even to this day whenever I happen to be in Paris whether in a bar or riding the Metro I find myself staring questioningly and for far longer than is considered polite at very old men with an obvious penchant for the Joie de Vivre.

Bernard had, it transpired once been a titled nobleman whose ancestors having escaped with their heads intact, lived as uncomfortable elitists in a large chateau in the Loire surrounded by acres of ripening vines. He had fought in the Spanish war and had been approached later by the French Underground to work with British Intelligence.

The possibility that Bernard was a dusty French aristocrat might have been enough but Judith informed me of countless talent, which placed him, justifiably well within the ranks of the irresistible.  As a master chef he had once parachuted over Berlin where he had quickly gained a post within the Nazi high command so that he might relay snippets of information back to French or the British. There was sensitive side to this fearless adventurer he was blessed with wide knowledge of the arts and as well as painting and writing he was it seems a poet extraordinaire, years later I remember finding tied with wide green ribbon a carefully folded letter in a trinket box my Mother kept by her bedside.

Would that I could be as rich

Rich that can be called to love

I wish I could have all of that

When all I have is wealth

Puissais-je être aussi riche

Riche qu'on peut appeler à aimer

J'aimerais pouvoir avoir tout ça

Quand tout ce que j'ai c'est la richesse

Wrapped in a dainty embroidered handkerchief all held together by a small wooden clothes peg were a bundle of curling photographs. He wasn’t hard to find, a large jolly looking moustachioed man dressed in a tight-fitting navel tunic and carrying his white peak cap beneath his arm on his other side strapped within a black scabbard hung his sabre.

Although the sepia penned handwriting on the back of the photograph was faded the name Bernard Montrueil beneath fondest wishes forever was flourished and bold.

The war Office in collaboration with the Free French Navy had decided to billet Bernard at my grandmother’s house explaining that he held the rank of First Officer of a coastal command patrol corvette.

The tinkling of fine bone China trembled towards the safe outstretched hand of the suave Monsieur, taking up the cup and saucer and making sure to extend his little finger just so, he sipped soundlessly as bright blue eyes dancing light, lit her face.

My grandmother’s conversational French was fluent limited only by the fact that she spoke English throughout affecting a stilted French accent whilst Bernard passionate and warm animated responded flawlessly in her mother tongue. Nonetheless, so Cousin Judith says, true lust found a way and so began the Frenchman’s ardent and relentless pursuit. Auntie after Auntie were to fall victim, nieces, daughters, and twin second cousins, hardly out of school, visiting from Swindon with their younger brother, not to mention funny Miss Arnold, ‘her with the limp’, who worked as a waitress at the Spurs Café were just some of Bernard’s conquests meticulously detailed by Cousin Judith.

Men did not; as you would have expected, dislike this tireless Frenchman in fact to the contrary they admired to man his indefatigable passion not to mention his infinite generosity at the bar and endless sources of black-market contraband.

As his genial repute grew his standing in the eyes of the local society became one of Hero proportion. In an effort to welcome and promote the friendly integration of the Free French the local Police Constable amongst other dignitaries encouraged Bernard’s company by way of a veritable carousal of social engagements. Bernard had an uncanny knack of being able to procure just the perfect accompaniment to surprise and delight. Not that any of this generosity was a reason to doubt his integrity. Not in the least, it was no more or less, he assured, than was expected of him during these dark days no more he insisted than modest gestures. Although regular supplies of silk stockings, fine wines, spirits or when regularly pushed, petrol for some essential corporate or official necessity maintained his popular demand with his fellow man whilst unstinting to a fault he continued to weave his magic with the ladies.

Bernard’s navel duties rarely interfered with his relaxed social life in fact he could well be described as inactive particularly in the light of the current world war. However, most evening’s duty called and as such our brave matelot, as a serving first officer, would be expected to take up post on night command. Although the duty roster was officially on a volunteer basis and normally expected to be shared fairly between all fellow officers of the bridge Bernard’s ‘esprit genereux’ was boundless.

Bernard Montrueil was a night person.

Perhaps it was because Bernard was no stranger to long sleepless nights or that the fast-moving navel Corvette patrol vessel was fast. ‘Fast’ due to the fact that she was, and probably would be until the end of the war at least, in dry dock.  In truth very little of the ship was still intact save the shell of the hull, which hung grey and motionless, cradled high off the waterline on huge wooden props. Bleeding twisting trails of rust ran down from the prow following the line of the anchor chains to where they lay piled in massive coils in the long grass. Close by, arranged in lines, stacked, thrown or disassembled were various internal organs of the Corvette. Each evening after exchanging a few pleasantries with the posted sentry Bernard would board the ship by climbing the ladders that were tied to the hull and once over the guardrail he ducked under a makeshift canvas awning entering the only superstructure housing left on the deck.

After turning up and lighting the two storm lanterns he would pour himself a small cognac from a wide choice of drinks stood in profusion on the cabin table. Moving quietly across the room he would squat unlock the chart drawer sliding out a small two-way radio, check the battery levels and begin a series of clipped coded received and transmitted messages. For the next ten minutes hushed message after message was breathed into the microphone the only audible sound the same chilling staccato that ended each message. Heil Hitler!

Once all had been completed Bernard would pour another drink, busy himself with making notes and taking up map references after which he would carefully slide the radio back into place update the ship’s log ensure all was locked behind him and leave. 

Was it possibly because she had spent very nearly all of her time every evening obscured behind a thick blue haze of Wild Woodbine cigarette smoke?  Her black pencilled seams and battling thighs hidden by the greater part behind the tankard-covered bar of the Harbour Lights that the blooming Sheila Mullet’s steadily growing maternal prominence had escaped almost un-noticed. Fortuitously, and not before time, it transpired that a long-lost aunt in some far-off northern mainland city had taken ill which necessitated Sheila’s speedy flight from the Island. 

The light was soft and cold as it lifted against the blue distant mainland as Shelia stood shivering beside the gangplank. Accompanied to the ferry by her sister they held hands and shared a cigarette their muted soft words billowing steaming smoke into the morning air. After a customary hug, sisterly tears and promises to write soon the sisters parted Sheila holding tight to a brown paper carrier bag in which was packed a few sandwiches and a book for the long journey that lay ahead.

It was later that same week that a scant report appeared in several of the southern papers pertaining to a report of a body, outlining the discovery of a naked young woman recently washed ashore near Bournemouth whose body was completely mutilated and unrecognisable. 

Bernard very aware of the sad and often grim spectre of war that ground on relentlessly As the war intensified, the nightly blitz attacks focused on the harbour estuary in an effort to demobilise the shipping and small aircraft armaments facilities but needless to say the many stray incendiary bombs wreaked havoc upon the tiny town of Cowes. Hundreds of townsfolk were killed and maimed and many more left homeless as they came blinking and shaking out from their flimsy air-raid shelters to a firestorm of smoking ruin and death.

It was after one particularly heavy raid that, perhaps that’s a story for another time.