Donkey's Ears Apart

Extracts from Donkey's Ears Apart.    Edited By Carrie Torode.  Click Here For Purchasing Details.

Marjorie Ozanne

"The story of Marjorie Ozanne's bird hospital on Guernsey, really began in 1940, when the Nazis occupied the island.  Many of those who escaped to the mainland left behind their pet birds, which Marjorie rescued and sheltered in her own home.  Aided by her friend Nell, she carried on her own secret 'war' with the Nazis, to save them from destruction and feed & protect those injured and helpless.

Against a fear-laden background, she dedicated herself to rescuing and protecting the birds, half starving herself and bartering clothes and shoes, in order to provide them with food.  Her concern was such, that eventually even the Germans helped her, including the dignified jackbooted Dr. Ortmann.

The storm of war passed, but the winds and seas continued to batter Guernsey and leave bird victims in their wake.  Marjorie's hospital also continued and today she is famous throughout Europe for her ornithological knowledge and experience in the treatment of sick birds.  It is a fame well justified, her hospital cares for hundreds of birds every year, ranging from toucans and seagulls to puffins and cormorants.  Some have been injured and marooned on cliff faces and rocks, others have become oil-clogged.

In the majority of cases, it is a matter of life and death.  Her patients overflow into her home, taking over the bedroom and bathroom, but her biggest headache are those who don't wish to leave her."             (Taken from the dust-jacket notes of "Birds of the Storm", a biography of Marjorie Ozanne written by E.V. Coltman.)

One lunchtime around the pot-bellied stove in the workshop, Ernie told us a lovely story about Marjorie.  He said that not long after the Germans had landed, an order was given that every pigeon on the island was to be killed.  This was to prevent messages getting to England.  Marjorie, who had just spent months bringing one back from the throes of death, was in no way going to kill it, so she got hold of some drummer dye, boiled it and then let it cool down.  When no-one else was around, she painstakingly painted every individual feather black.  This she touched up every six months and the pigeon happily saw the war out as a crow!!

Otto Le Gallez

In Donkey's Ears Ago, I referred to the Le Gallez Bros' barber shop in the Bordage.   I inferred that it was the kind of place your father sent you just to be spiteful, and all this just because Otto once shaved my head 'till it looked like a poodle that had lost a battle with a combine harvester!

Well, imagine my surprise many years later, when, following an article in the Guernsey Evening Press about my photograph album of local characters, I received a telephone call from a nurse at a private residential home, asking me if I could visit Mr Le Gallez, who was hoping to have a look through the album.

A couple of weeks later I spent an afternoon with Mr Le Gallez who, even at 86, was razor sharp.  As we looked through the album, he knew every face and every name - he even corrected me on one I got muddled on!  I had a great time with him and later on, when inside the home, he showed me his collection of walking race trophies, small cups, medals and certificates.  I was reminded of a story a mate had told me, that one year Otto had been so far in front in the church-to-church race, that he had gone into the 'Channel' (Channel Islands Hotel - now the Savoy) for a pint and a fag, before coming out to finish the race.   I asked him about it and he pointed to a medal which said second place.  This intrigued me even more, so I asked him to tell me the whole story.

"Well," said Otto, "it was the year I was in my best form ever.   I had trained really hard and was several minutes quicker than my nearest rival and so we set off on the church-to-church walk.   I was going like a steam train that day and when I knew I only had a hundred yards to go to finish, I went into the Channel for a pint and a smoke.  I was standing out by the door for quite a while, with my beer in one hand, my fag in the other, when my nearest rival finally went past.  I finished my drink and, still puffing on my ciggy, went down and over the line - second place!"

"But why?" I pleaded, "the one year you had the chance to be champion?"

"Well, it was like this," he said.  "The war was not long over, there was practically nothing in the shops, we hadn't been long married and my little wife had her heart set on a canteen of cutlery.   Now, just by co-incidence, the second prize was exactly that, so I went around the course as quick as I could, to prove to myself that I could have won and then …… she got her canteen of cutlery!

After all," he added, "if I'd won, I'd have only had the trophy!"

What a character, 'only had the trophy'!  I've seen men since, who pound the road 364 days a year in training, who would kill for that trophy.  But Otto let it all go for love!