Welcome to my showcase for Beyond Summerland which is been hosted by HarperCollins and Harlequin
BEYOND SUMMERLAND
Author: Jenny Lecoat
Publication Date: July 2, 2024
ISBN: 9781525831546
Format: Trade Paperback
Publisher: Harlequin Trade Publishing / Graydon House
Price $18.99
Buy Links:
HarperCollins: https://www.harpercollins.com/products/beyond
BookShop.org: https://bookshop.org/p/books/beyond-summerland-
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Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/beyond
-summerland-jenny-lecoat/1144022096
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Beyond-Summerland
1
Jersey, Channel Islands
June 1945
Excitement billowed down the street. It poured out of every doorway and
crackled in the air, tickling the back of people’s necks, beckoning everyone into this
thrilling, historic morning. And what a morning! Yesterday’s storm had vanished north
over the English
Channel, leaving bright sunshine and a powder blue sky. Now the whole of St Helier was
waiting, rinsed and gleaming, impatient with anticipation. A stiff southwesterly gusted through
the streets of the town, carrying on it the faint murmur of a distant, chattering crowd, and
standing on her front path to breathe it all in, Jean felt a surge of genuine optimism.
She ran her fingers through her mousy hair to revive its sagging shape, tugged at
her jacket to make sure that the moth hole in her blouse was hidden, then called
back into the house:
“Mum! Hurry up, or we’ll get stuck at the back.”
Violet Parris shuffled out, her ancient leather handbag perched carefully on her arm.
Jean watched as she turned, methodically, to lock the Chubb. It was a habit that recent
years had ingrained, and with pilfering still rife around the parish, it made sense to be
cautious, though everyone missed the days of open front doors. “Things will settle
down by Christmas,” people kept saying. And perhaps they would. Jean took in the
pallid face beneath the battered felt hat and considered what a frail, brittle figure her
mother cut these days, the anxious, darting eyes and slight stoop of constant burden more
pronounced in sunlight than in the gloom of the house. Certainly, most people would have guessed
her to be older than forty-six. But then, Jean supposed, every living soul on this island
had aged a lifetime in the last five years. She felt a sudden urge to reach out and hug
her mum tightly but, knowing Violet would balk at such a display, offered her arm instead.
They set off at a pace that Jean calculated her mother could maintain for the half-mile walk.
The street was filled with the sound of garden gates clanging as women shooed husbands and
children onto the pavement, reknotting ties and smoothing errant hairs before scuttling toward the
town center. One or two of them carried folded Union Jacks ready to unfurl at the crucial moment,
and Jean felt a pang of envy; their own flag had been used for kindling back in the winter, and no replacements could be bought now. But then, it would be inappropriate
or the family to appear in any way frivolous. Jersey was a small island. People
liked to talk.
By the time they reached the end of Bath Street, the roads were already thick
with people heading for the Royal Square. At the corner of the covered market on
Halkett Place, two streams of moving bodies became a human river, pushing the two
of them along like paper boats, and Jean wished again that they had set off earlier. As a
woman behind stumbled slightly, forcing them both forward, she felt her mother’s fingers
tighten on her arm; quickly, Jean tugged her away from the melee toward a quiet side street
and leaned her mother against the concrete wall, supplying a handkerchief, which Violet
immediately dabbed across her forehead.
“All right?”
Violet shook her head. “So many people. Why didn’t we go down the Albert Pier,
see the SS Jamaica coming in, or find a place along the Esplanade?” Jean, who had
suggested
these exact choices last night, merely took the dampened handkerchief back and tucked it into
her sleeve. As she did so, her eyes fell on the shop front, a small bakery set halfway down the
turning.
The display window had been boarded up to replace the shattered glass, but evidently the vandals
had returned for a second visit, because now a huge swastika was painted on the plywood in black pitch. She glanced at her mother and saw that she too had become transfixed by it.
Violet jerked her chin a little. “Collaborators.” Jean nodded. What had the proprietors done to
earn such a reputation? Had they served German soldiers their bread? Fraternized with them?
She imagined the angry faces of men rushing toward the shop in the dead of night, bricks and
rocks in their hands. What had happened to this island in such a few short weeks?
Liberation Day, less than a month earlier, had been the most significant, emotional
event that any islander, young or old, had ever experienced. The most longed-for day in their
history had come at last, and, with the arrival of a British task force in the harbor and the official
surrender of the German military, five brutal years of Nazi occupation had finally come to an end.
So long and arduous had the Occupation been—Jean was a schoolgirl of just fourteen
when it began—
that for the first week of freedom she had found the transformation impossible to take in. To be able to
leave the house without curfew…to speak fearlessly on the street without fear of spies or listen
to the BBC news on a neighbor’s radio! But best of all was the joy of eating a proper meal again, as the British army unloaded crate after crate of supplies, and the Red Cross ship
Vega brought more relief parcels. Given the near starvation of the previous year,
extravagances such as tinned meat, lard for cooking, sugar and tea had moved them
to tears of relief as they unpacked their box. The taste of raspberry jam, spooned
straight from the jar in a moment of pure elation, would stay with her forever.
Yet those early days had also brought bewilderment. After years of inertia, with
entire months punctuated by nothing but the tedious struggle for food and fuel,
Liberation brought a tornado of welcome but exhausting developments. They had dutifully
exchanged their reichsmarks for sterling at the local bank and watched the mines being
cleared from the beaches; they had read public announcements that the non-native islanders
deported by the Germans in the autumn of 1942 had been flown back to England, and that
their return was imminent. They had even received, at long last, a letter from Jean’s older
brother, Harry, released from service and now back home with his own family in Chelmsford.
Horrified at the long-belated news of his father’s arrest, Harry spoke of his frustration at being
cut off from all island information for so long but, to Jean’s delight, promised that he would
visit as soon as regular transport services resumed. Encouraged by a sense of returning normality,
she and her mother would sit at the kitchen table of an evening, cutting out every significant
article from the Evening Post and pasting them all into a scrapbook for posterity. And as they
pasted, in a whispered voice too soft for the fickle fates to hear, Jean would dare to speak of the
coming weeks and the news from the continent that even now might be on its way. Violet would
nod and smile, but rarely responded. Hope, Jean calculated, was too heavy a burden for this
exhausted woman in the final length of a horrendous journey; better for Jean to button her lip
and direct her own dreams into the rhythmic movements of her pasting brush.
Not all the recent news was good. Among the celebratory headlines and the public
announcements had been other, troubling pieces. Dreadful photographs of murderous
Nazi camps where untold numbers had died. Accounts of local “jerrybags”—island women
who slept with German soldiers—chased through the streets by marauding gangs who shaved
their heads
and stripped them naked. Reports of the island’s insurmountable debts. And one terrifying
front-page report of a local father and son, deported eighteen months earlier, who had both
perished during their incarceration. After reading these, Jean would retire to her bed and lie
awake for hours in the grip of a dark, low-level panic, until falling into a fitful sleep
just as the sun rose.
She
told no one about this, especially not her mother. She could not pinpoint the exact moment
when she had assumed the maternal role in their relationship, and suspected it had crept up
on them over many months. But Jean now knew instinctively that her mother’s shaking fingers
indicated that Jean would need to peel the vegetables for dinner, or that Violet’s single, hot tear
on her book’s page in the quiet of the evening required a hot drink and an early night. There w
ould be time
enough for her own feelings, Jean told herself, when this nightmare came to an end,
which it
surely would soon. So today, despite the sight of the boarded-up bakery and the unsettling
feelings it brought, Jean squeezed out a comforting smile and placed a hand on her mother’s arm.
“We can just go home now, if you want.” Jean thought of their still, gray kitchen at the rear
of the still, gray house and dreaded her mother’s nod. But Violet just gave a little frown.
“No, we’ve come this far. Come on.”
The Royal Square was, as expected, heaving with people.
Men, women and children were squashed together like blades of grass and stewards
had placed barriers across the middle of the square to contain the crowd. Jean dragged
her mother through the jostling bodies and, instructing Violet to hang on to the back of her
jacket and not let go, began to slither her way through the crush, making the most of any tiny gap.
She smiled helplessly at any gentleman in her path until he retreated, and threw apologetic
backward
ooks when she trod on someone’s foot or dislodged their hat, until they found
themselves only two heads back from the barrier just as the official cars pulled into the square.
A huge cheer tore through the crowd, and by standing on her tiptoes and craning her neck
Jean managed to find a sliver of a clear view.
The cars lined up outside the library. A young, uniformed Tommy opened the door of the
shining black Ford. And suddenly there they were. Right there on the pavement in front
of the States of Jersey government buildings, not thirty feet away, all the way from
Buckingham Palace—the King and Queen! Jean gazed at King George, resplendent in
his uniform, as he was greeted by low-bowing Crown officials. The Queen, magnificent
in a feathered tam hat and draped decorously in a fox fur, accepted a huge bouquet of Jersey
carnations, waving graciously. The cheers around the square were thunderous now, with
snatches of patriotic songs breaking out here and there. Jean looked at her mother
and saw her own excitement reflected back. But at that moment a woman next to
them wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and grinned at Violet.
“Isn’t it marvelous? I can’t believe it!’
Jean felt her mother’s body stiffen beside her as she dredged up a suitable courtesy.
“Yes, wonderful.”
“It’s over, really over! We can start living again!”
Jean watched Violet’s mouth turn to a grim line of sandbagged wretchedness.
By the time her bottom lip began to tremble, Jean knew it was over—public tears were
a humiliation that could not be tolerated, and the window of fake composure was closing fast.
With one last reluctant look at the royal couple, Jean put her arm around her mother’s
waist and pushed out through the crowd until they were both back on the high street,
breathless and unsteady. In the doorway of a shop, shielding her from passersby,
Jean again offered her handkerchief, and this time Violet pressed it across her face
as she sobbed into it for several moments, emanating tiny stuttering sounds
like a wounded animal. Eventually the shaking eased, and she took a deep breath.
“Sorry. It was just what that woman said.”
Jean rubbed her arm. “I know. But it can’t be long now. For all we know Dad’s
already on his way home. Could be out there on a boat right this minute.”
Violet nodded and managed a small wet smile. Jean, working hard to hide her
disappointment at missing this once-in-a-lifetime spectacle, again offered her arm, and
the two of them began the slow walk back to the house, Jean’s mind whirring. Was it
right to offer such
optimism? No one knew if her father was actually on his way home. It was fifteen months
since he’d stepped onto that German prison boat, headed God knows where. Twelve months
since his last letter. And not a word from the authorities since Liberation. She told herself
they had no choice but to believe, but one thing was certain—the Occupation
was far from over. Not for them.
Excerpted from Beyond Summerland by Jenny Lecoat. Copyright © 2024 by
Jenny Lecoat. Published by Graydon House Books, an imprint of HarperCollins.
Book Summary:
Beatriz Williams meets Laura Spence-Ash in this fast-paced and tension-filled
novel about secrets and betrayal in a small community recovering from war, and
the two young women at the center of a volatile mystery.
In June of 1945, Jersey is in the midst of change as the German occupation of the
Channel Islands comes to an end. However, demands for punishment are rising for those
suspected of collaborating with the Nazis. Neighbor turns against neighbor as distrust flourishes
and accusations fly, especially towards women who had romantic relationships
with the German soldiers.
When Jean Parris learns that her father, who died in a German prison, was reported to the
Nazis by an anonymous woman, her rage hits a boiling point. The suspect, Hazel Le Tourneur,
denies the accusation but has a motive for wanting Jean's father gone. Then, when Hazel catches
Jean secretly meeting with a German soldier, the women form an unexpected bond in the face
of ruinous consequences. With tension running high and secrets at every turn, the truth behind
the accusations may be more complicated than anyone could imagine.
Social Links:
Author website: https://www.jennylecoat.com/
GoodReads: https://www.goodreads.com/author
/show/20096261.Jenny_Lecoat?from_search=true&from
Twitter: https://twitter.com/JennyLecoat
Jenny Lecoat was born in Jersey, Channel Islands, where her
parents were raised under German Occupation and were involved in resistance activity.
Lecoat moved to England at 18, where, after earning a drama degree, she spent a decade on
the alternative comedy circuit as a feminist stand-up. She also wrote for newspapers
and women's magazines (Cosmopolitan, Observer), worked as a TV and radio presenter,
before focusing on
screenwriting from sitcom to sketch shows. A love of history and factual stories and
a return to her island roots brought about her feature film Another Mother's Son (2017).
She is married to television writer Gary Lawson and now lives in East Sussex. Her debut novel,
The Girl from the Channel Islands, was an immediate New York Times bestseller.
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