The Guernsey Saga Box Set

by Diana Bachmann

  THE GUERNSEY SAGA

  Diana Bachmann

  © Diana Bachmann 2019

  Diana Bachmann has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  A SOUND LIKE THUNDER

  AN ELUSIVE FREEDOM

  WINDS OF CHANGE

  A SOUND LIKE THUNDER

  Table of Contents

  Part One

  Chapter One – THE BRIDE

  Chapter Two – NEIGHBOURS

  Chapter Three – SINNERS

  Chapter Four – THE TRAITOR

  Chapter Five – DISTANT THUNDER

  Chapter Six – LES CANONS DES ISLES

  Part Two

  Chapter Seven – EVACUEES

  Chapter Eight – CAPTIVES

  Chapter Nine – EXILES

  Chapter Ten – PRIVATION

  Chapter Eleven – STARVATION

  Chapter Twelve – LIBERATION

  Part One

  ‘. . . Breathless with adoration; the broad sun

  Is sinking down in its tranquillity;

  The gentleness of heaven is on the sea: Listen! The mighty being is awake,

  And doth with his eternal motion make a sound like thunder—everlastingly . . .’

  from By The Sea by William Wordsworth

  Chapter One – THE BRIDE

  March, 1929.

  Sarah Ozanne heard the car rattling down the lane long before the elderly and much abused Morris Drophead rounded the corner into sight.

  Its owner, Greg Gaudion, waved, and by joint application of foot and hand brake managed to draw up alongside her. ‘Is this a happy coincidence or deliberate intent?’

  Sarah stepped back, eyes narrowed, tilting her chin. ‘You surely don’t imagine for one minute that I meant to . . .’

  ‘Lying hussy!’ Greg leapt over the door and grabbed her, pinning her arms as he held her against his tweed jacket. He stared down, unsmiling.

  She stared back, face solemn . . . but it didn’t last. Gradually the corners of her mouth began to twitch and he could feel her chest shaking with laughter. ‘Beast!’ she squealed before he smothered her mouth with kisses.

  ‘Wretched female,’ he mumbled, and continued kissing. ‘Want a spin before tea?’

  ‘Thought you’d never ask,’ she replied and attempted to open the passenger door. It refused to budge so she stood on the running board and stepped over. ‘Ugh! The seat’s wet.’

  ‘Afraid the roof’s got more holes than a fishing net,’ Greg replied. ‘There’s a duster in the glove compartment.’ He reversed into a gateway and turned back up the lane. ‘Where do you want to go?’

  ‘One guess.’

  ‘Top fields, I suppose. Not much of a spin . . . we could have walked up.’ He smiled at his dark-haired, hazel-eyed bride-to-be; she was a creature of habit and, whether she was happy or sad, worried or bursting with excitement, she invariably wanted to walk in the fields at the top of the hill.

  Gregory Oswald Gaudion was tall, and broad to match—yet walked with the feline grace of an athlete. Black-haired and green-eyed, he was devastatingly good-looking, yet despite his strong, almost aggressive jaw, he was a peaceable young man, loathe to see fault in others. He had a high tolerance threshold for personal aggravation although, as his fiancée of four years had learned ages ago, he was capable of intense anger if sufficiently roused.

  Sarah had also discovered he was as passionate as he was romantic; maintaining a chaste betrothal had not been easy.

  Having parked the car in an open gateway, they followed a rough path up through the trees—and as soon as the lane was out of sight Greg halted to take Sarah into his arms. Their kisses were long and hungry; he held her hard against him, constantly fearful of her fragility . . . wanting to consume her, terrified of crushing her.

  Not that she resisted. Together their knees buckled and they sank onto a bank of wet grass, tightly clutching each other, yet effectively separated by their thick overcoats . . . until his hand strayed inside the front of hers and she could feel his fingers wrestling with the buttons of her blouse. ‘No, Greg. You mustn’t.’ She pulled his hand away, not daring to admit even to herself how desperately she wanted to continue . . . into the compelling unknown. ‘We must wait. Only five days to go.’

  ‘All the less reason to stop. Sarah, my darling, I’m nearly going mad!’ His hand burrowed back into forbidden territory, creating delicious, terrifying sensations.

  But she hesitated only a few seconds before sitting up. ‘We did agree to wait, my love.’ She caressed his face, soft fingers tracing the line of his lips.

  He sighed. ‘Sorry.’ And reluctantly got back to his feet, adding, ‘Wait, wait wait. Seems we’ve been waiting for ever.’

  They walked in single file up the narrow path to the stile at the top and climbed over into the first field.

  Wait. A word they had heard so many times in the past four years. Sarah could understand his impatience: wait to get engaged; wait till you have filled your bottom drawer; wait till you have saved up for a house before getting married. That particular wait had been a complete waste of time. No sooner had they filled the ‘bottom drawer’ and saved sufficient money to begin looking seriously at cottages and bungalows currently for sale, than Andrew, Greg’s elder brother, had bought a place for himself and his family, and moved out of the Gaudion family house at Bordeaux leaving Greg living alone with the old folk.

  Greg had been an ‘after-thought’, born when his mother was forty-four and thought she was past it. Now, with his seventy-five-year-old father Edward suffering from senile dementia, and mother Alice, five years younger, cursed with arthritis and stone deaf, there was no way Greg could leave them alone to fend for themselves. Admittedly Mina was there, the maid who had lived-in since before he was born, but she couldn’t cope with the old man when he was having one of his bad do’s. Greg had to be on hand, as he had been ever since leaving school nine years ago. So he and Sarah had abandoned the idea of their own place, had been allotted a bedroom and sitting-room in the Gaudion house, and would have to share the kitchen with Mina. But so what? They would have each other . . .

  Fingers twined in his, wind tearing at her hair, Sarah closed her eyes for a moment, trying to control her excitement and her nerves. Waiting. It was almost as though the whole world was waiting . . . poised, straining to hear through the strong nor’westerly some summons, a signal, a cue for action to commence.

  The island of Guernsey lay like a wedge of green cheese on a dark blue plate, the fields sloping in soft folds from above the southern cliffs, across the higher parishes, down to the rocky headlands and wide sandy beaches edging the rich blue waters of the west coast. Not that there was much sand exposed at the moment: exuberant breakers were rolling in from the Atlantic leaving vast white plumes bursting over distant rocks before pounding up the shore, churning huge pebbles and masses of dark seaweed, called vraic, in each wake. Shire horses were waiting for the big, spring tide to recede so they could pull their carts down over the cobbled slipways to the shore, for men with pitchforks to load the mounds of vraic to be carried inland and spread over the ploughed fields. Gulls waited, too, screaming with excitement overhead as they sped down the turbulent, salt-laden wind like children on a rollercoaster.

  Even where the young couple stood, well inland, one could smell the salt in the air, hear the thunderous roar of the surf and rhythmic crackle of pebbles being rolled, smooth and round, by the surge and ebb of each massive wave.

  Greg squeezed Sarah’s hand, understanding. This was her home, just as much as Val du Douit, the
farmhouse down in the valley was home. She had lived here all of her twenty-five years . . . and now she was committed to abandoning it all, and her family, to live way off in the north of the island. Not that Bordeaux was so very far, maybe only six miles as the crow flies, but in island terms it could be on another planet.

  Circling back towards the lane through two more fields, Sarah stooped to pick a bunch of primos from under the elms by the five-bar gate; the clusters of white florets with round, yellow eyes would be so pretty on the dressing table of the bedroom she shared with her sister Ethel, and would scent the whole room.

  It might have seemed more logical to be sharing with Aline who was only three years Sarah’s senior, but despite the additional two-year age difference, she and Ethel were kindred spirits.

  The eldest daughter of the Ozanne family, tallest of the siblings, attractive rather than beautiful, Ethel had an hilarious sense of fun, the crazy ability to turn the most mundane incident into a source of laughter. Too often Sarah had to turn her face away to avoid catching Ethel’s eye, or be reduced to helpess silent hysteria . . . and a parental rebuke. Ethel had an infinite capacity to love, understand and excuse even the most unlovable. She had left school at the age of fifteen to help Mother with the four younger ones, diluting their parents’ strict Victorian discipline with laughter and cuddles, her warmth, effervescence and soft words as effective a balm to bruised pride as her ointment to grazed knees. It was a source of constant amazement that she could have turned thirty and remained unmarried.

  Sarah’s lips puckered, thinking how different Ethel was from poor Aline, who had never been a kindred spirit with anyone, and had certainly never gone steady with a boy despite her lovely figure, immaculate hair and classic features; maybe because her charming smiles too often hid a bitter tongue. She was forever digging up old resentments; like a dog with a bone she would unearth a long-buried argument and gnaw at it, work herself up, voice rising with rekindled anger. John, the serious first-born, would ignore her while Mary, his solemn wife, nodded agreement in the hope of evading some future sarcasm. So it was invariably left to Ethel to lighten the atmosphere with a joke. Of course, Aline seldom chewed-the-cud in front of Ma and Pa; she was too clever for that. Yes, Aline was undoubtedly the member of the family Sarah would miss least.

  A steep, muddy slope waited to take them back onto the lane, but Sarah was reluctant to leave. Years ago Gran’pere had planted this field with daffodils. It had borne many other crops since: cabbages, potatoes, swedes and other roots. Now it was purely grazing land but despite the passing years, daffodils continued to appear each spring, nodding sagely in the wind, close to the high, grassy banks; a perpetual memorial to the old man. He was long gone, but Gran’mere still lived with them, a lovely, wise old dear, well into her eighties, often teasing Mother with acid comments on the new-fangled gadgets in the kitchen and her way of doing things.

  ‘Come on, sweetheart. Better be getting back or your family will wonder where you are.’ Greg put a steadying hand under Sarah’s elbow as she slid down to firmer ground.

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘It is getting late.’ Back to the family, she thought.

  Family. Much as she longed for marriage, to be with Greg forever and eternity, there remained in a remote corner of her mind a dread of this imminent parting from her family, and from the farm, built centuries ago in beautiful solid granite, home of generations of Ozannes before her. It was hard to erase the picture of their cosy family group round the big open hearth of smouldering logs, Pa winding up the gramophone for a scratchy recording of Beethoven’s Fifth; Ma’s fingers flying over the twenty knitting needles as she made yet another Guernsey, or commanding Pa to hold out a skein of the navy-blue oiled wool while she transformed it rapidly into a firm ball. Younger brother William usually had his nose in a book, and Bertie, the youngest, would be busy at the table with homework. She pictured Ethel toasting marshmallows for everyone on the end of a long fork, seldom taking one for herself, while Aline flicked over the pages of fashion magazines.

  *

  While Sarah and Greg were up in the fields, Ethel and her mother were in the kitchen preparing tea. Ethel stirred the soup, while Marie held a large loaf against her chest, spreading fresh butter evenly on the cut top, and slicing through with the bread knife towards her bosom. She had always cut bread and butter this way and she always would, causing endless criticisms and warnings from anyone who might be watching. Anyone other than the family, that is; they no longer watched. Marie was small, round, grey-haired, indefatigable and indomitable. Hubert might rule the farm and be titular head of the family, but no one had any doubt who ruled the home. Gran’mere Florence had reigned supreme at Val du Douit as long as Gran’pere was alive, but when he had passed on and Hubert inherited the farm, Florence had found herself politely but positively sidelined by her diminutive daughter-in-law. Though she did not go without a fight. But Marie had all the stubbornness of a true Guernsey donkey. Florence was allotted her own small sitting-room, where she was waited on and treated with great respect . . . but her opinions no longer mattered; her ways of going about things were swept aside. After a while she had accepted the situation, and now, she positively enjoyed it . . . a fact she kept strictly to herself.

  ‘Is the table laid in the dining-room, Emmy?’ Marie asked.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ the maid replied through the scullery door.

  ‘You put on the clean cloth as I told you?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Surely that soup is done, Ethel. It’s time to take the gache out of the oven.’ Marie arranged the last slice of bread. ‘There. That should be enough to start.’

  Ethel eyed the heaped plate. ‘Ample, Mother. If not, Emmy can cut some more, later.’

  ‘Huh! Not likely, she’s hopeless. Can’t cut straight to save her life.’ Marie got up from the kitchen table, untied her apron and smoothed her hair. Once mid-brown, it was grey now, almost white, drawn back into a bun from which irritating wisps escaped to frame her face in soft waves. She held her head as high as her small frame allowed; the years had generously enveloped her in soft round curves on which her dressmaker fitted well-designed gowns, the skirts always reaching her ankles, just revealing tiny, size-two shoes, while her bosom was always well-decorated with brooches and necklaces.

  Ethel opened the Triplex door beside the open fire, filling the room with the mouthwatering smell of fresh-baked gache, a traditional Guernsey fruit loaf. ‘It looks done to me, Ma.’

  Marie came round to the oven. ‘Let me see.’ She put her hand in and pressed her fingers lightly into the centre of the tin. ‘Yes, that will do. Put it on the table and let it sit for a bit before we cut it.’

  ‘Better watch the boys don’t come in the back-door, or it will never reach the dining-room,’ Ethel laughed.

  Her mother’s soft brown eyes twinkled. ‘Then you’d better put it on a plate on the dining-room sideboard, where we can keep an eye on it!’ She moved over to the window to peer out into the yard. ‘Well, where’s your sister then? She’s been gone nearly two hours. What is she up to?’

  ‘Wandering round up in the top fields with Greg, looking at the view and thinking what she’s going to miss, I imagine.’

  ‘As though she’s nothing better to do! It would make more sense if she was down here getting on with their thank you letters.’

  Ethel smiled to herself as she slid a knife round the edge of the gache tin before tipping it out onto a plate, then looked up as the backdoor opened. ‘Hello Mary! Hello Joseph!’

  Years ago the barn adjacent to the house had been turned into The Wing, to accommodate a younger generation of Ozannes. Marie and Hubert had lived there until Gran’pere had died and they had moved into the main house with their expanding brood. Now, their eldest son John lived there with his wife Mary and their six-year-old son Joseph.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mother. Good afternoon, Ethel.’ Mary, long, thin and solemn, always addressed people very formally. ‘Josep
h! Say good afternoon to your grandmother and Auntie Ethel.’

  Joseph, as thin and unsmiling as his mother, ignored her. Seeing Marie bridle, Ethel smiled brightly and said, ‘Are you three joining us for tea?’

  ‘Are you sure you have enough to spare?’

  Marie sniffed. ‘You know perfectly well there’s always enough here to feed the family and all the Todevins into the bargain.’ Nobody had ever discovered who the Todevins were, but the expression had been used in the family for generations, for assuring hungry diners of plenty.

  ‘That would be very nice, if you’re quite certain . . .’

  ‘Then Joseph can have some of Grandma’s gache,’ Ethel added as she carried the plate off to the dining-room.

  The child scowled at her back. ‘I want some now!’ he whined.

  His grandmother clicked her tongue. ‘None of that, young man, or you’ll get none at all,’ she said severely. She had never tolerated whining from her own children and she wasn’t going to start now with a grandchild.

  *

  Although the sun had disappeared by the time Sarah and Greg neared the farm, the long, low, pink granite buildings still glowed in the evening light. The focal point of the house was an ancient stone arch over the front door, the keystone carved with the date 1730. Through fine summer days the door would stand open into a wide, flagstoned hallway where doors led left, right and directly ahead beside the staircase. Typically, the house was built just fifteen feet from front to back—the length of the tree trunks which formed overhead beams. Therefore, rather than reduce the depth of each room by the width of a corridor, on the ground floor one had to walk through from one room to the next. The left-hand door led from the hallway into the dining-room and thence into the sitting-room beyond; to the right lay the breakfast room with two doors in the far wall, one to Hubert Ozanne’s study with its French window opening into a small conservatory at the back, and the other into Gran’mere’s little sitting-room overlooking the front garden.