The Guernsey Saga Box Set

by Diana Bachmann

  ‘You’re not sure! Don’t you know your way round here, yet?’

  Sarah could only nod and smile sweetly.

  ‘You going in with Father?’

  ‘When I’ve changed my dress,’ Sarah yelled again.

  ‘I could have told you that,’ Alice replied and went back to join her friend.

  At first Sarah had found these conversations hysterical, struggling frantically to contain her laughter. After living with them for three months they were no longer funny. Only exasperating.

  Old Edward wanted to play cards. The game was always the same—a mixture of bridge, whist and rummy, the rules being adapted by Edward as they progressed, invariably in his favour. Put a run of four Kings down on the table, and with a roar of triumph he would throw a five of diamonds on top and scoop up the cards, placing them neatly in front of him like a bridge trick.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Father?’ she suggested after a while. She was hot and thirsty.

  ‘When we’ve finished our rubber. Don’t want to lose concentration,’ he mumbled through a snuff-stained moustache.

  Fortunately he nodded off in the middle of the next hand and she was able to escape to the kitchen where a teapot sat on the hob. She poured a cup and slipped upstairs with it to their sitting-room . . . where Greg found her an hour later.

  It was the moment they waited for each day: to spend a while together before going downstairs for another communal high tea. They exchanged greetings and gossip, kissed, related incidents of their day, planned how to spend his day off together. And kissed again.

  ‘One would think you would have had enough of that by now,’ Alice said from the doorway behind them.

  ‘Oh darn it, she’s back again!’ Sarah sat up, heart thumping with fury. ‘Can’t we stop her walking in on us like this, Greg?’ At least one could talk without the old girl hearing.

  ‘How, without hurting her feelings?’ He dragged himself off the settee and took hold of the ear-trumpet. ‘What is it, Mother? What do you want?’

  ‘Much better, thank you. You coming down now to see your father? He’s waiting for you.’

  ‘We’ll be down for tea.’

  ‘What, at this time of an evening? A bit late, isn’t it?’

  Greg frowned. ‘What for?’

  Alice stared at the clock on the mantlepiece. ‘Rubbish! It’s nearly six!’ And she stomped off in deep offence.

  They stared at each other, trying to keep straight faces. And failed, hopelessly. Well, it was easier to laugh when they were together.

  *

  ‘Please, darling, could we have a phone installed in our sitting room. Our own private number?’ They were savouring the last few moments curled in each others arms under the bedclothes, next morning before getting up.

  ‘Can’t you use the one in the hall?’

  ‘With Mina as a constant audience?’

  ‘Still missing Ethel?’ he asked, breathing into her hair.

  ‘Mmm. And that was something else I wondered about. Would you mind if I started visiting Val du Douit regularly, once a week?’

  ‘My love, of course I don’t mind. I know things are pretty grim for you round here. Very different from your laughing family.’

  Sarah was grateful; but she realised that he was indulging what he saw as her foibles—not truly understanding how difficult the old people were. What a strain it was living here.

  *

  Greg carried the filled chip baskets of tomatoes, one under each arm and one in each hand, down the full length of the greenhouse path to the handcart outside the door, placed them crosswise on the chips already stacked there, and then took his penknife from his pocket to cut the twine round the new bundle of wooden baskets. His hands were caked black from the tomatoes, his shirt and trousers stained green and black, as were the old tennis plimsolls he wore in hot weather. Fortunately the tomato vines either side of the paths, having grown past the wires, were arched overhead, giving plenty of shade, and the outside of the glass had been sprayed with whitewash to prevent the sun scorching the plants, but even with all the greenhouse lights open on both sides it was still stifling, and a relief to get out into the fresh air for a few minutes.

  ‘The picking not finished yet?’ his brother called from the shed. Andrew was the antithesis of his younger brother: small, thin—‘narrow of mind and body’ was George Schmit’s description. Born with an acid mind and stomach, the latter plagued his life as the former plagued everyone else’s.

  ‘Two more paths to do,’ Greg told him. ‘Then I’ll start the watering. I should get numbers one and two finished before lunch.’

  ‘Good. You can do three and four this afternoon. I won’t be here.’

  ‘Well they’ll have to wait till you get back. I’m taking Sarah up to St Saviour’s this afternoon.’

  ‘Not till the watering’s finished. It can’t be left,’ Andrew insisted.

  Greg, the sweet-natured, malleable, gentle giant, had often felt the urge to pick his brother up by the front of his shirt and shake him, but never had. Raised in the belief that ‘a soft word turneth away wrath’ he had acquiesced to Andrew’s orders all his life . . . until recently. Until Sarah began urging him to make a stand. ‘Ask yourself if he is being fair. If he is, go along with him. If not, don’t!’ she’d say. Which wasn’t easy, because ever since Andrew had taken over Pa’s affairs he had held the purse strings . . . tight. ‘Well then you do it. I’ve done all the picking this morning and I’ll do my half of the watering. What have you done?’ he challenged.

  ‘I had the bookwork to do, in the office. I haven’t stopped.’

  ‘Evening’s the time for bookwork, not in the day when there’s fruit to pick and watering to do.’

  ‘You just mind who you’re talking to, my lad. I’m running things round here and if you don’t watch yourself . . .’ but Andrew was talking to thin air. Greg had gone back into the greenhouse with his chip baskets. He shook his head. That Sarah was having a bad influence on the boy, he concluded.

  *

  ‘Sorry we’re late, folks,’ Sarah called across the field. Carrying a basket loaded with fancy cakes she had made that morning and a rug to sit on, she and Greg wove through the haycocks to join the party. More than thirty family and friends were wielding pitchforks, laying out tea or simply rolling about in the well-dried hay. Everyone was in party mood, the women and girls wearing cotton frocks, sandals and wide-brimmed hats, the men in shirtsleeves and trilbys.

  ‘What kept you?’ Marie asked, casting a professional eye over the fancies. Sarah was not noted for her culinary skills . . . she’d always spent far more time on the tennis court than in the kitchen. They passed muster, however, and were laid out on plates.

  ‘There was some work Greg had to finish in the greenhouses,’ she explained. She would have liked to take a turn with a pitchfork herself, but decided against—she still had a bit of a stomach upset. Maybe she could ask Mother what to take for it if she got a chance later; there were too many people around at the moment. As she drifted away towards the workers Ethel joined her. ‘I think I must have eaten something that was off,’ Sarah told her. ‘I haven’t actually been sick but I’ve been feeling horrible. Have you got anything at home I could take?’

  ‘Depends. Do you just feel sick when you eat?’

  ‘No, not particularly, though the colours of the dinner service at Les Marettes are enough to turn anyone’s stomach.’ She took her sister’s arm. ‘Urgh! I feel awful right now. What should I do?’

  ‘I shouldn’t imagine you need to do anything, yet. Except maybe start planning a nursery.’

  Sarah frowned. ‘You don’t think . . .?’

  Ethel gave a sly grin. ‘When was your last curse?’

  ‘Er . . . Well, I am a couple of weeks late . . .’

  Filly and Kiff joined them. ‘What are you two whispering about?’

  Sarah took a deep breath. ‘I er . . . might be in an interesting condition . . .’

 
‘Expecting! Whee . . .’ Filly jumped up and down.

  ‘Ssh,’ Ethel said. ‘Nobody knows yet. Not even Sarah.’

  Kiff put her arms round her and hugged her. ‘Clever girl!’

  ‘What’s going on, Sarah?’ Gelly hurried to join them, and asked, ‘What about your tennis?’ as soon as she was told the news. ‘I’ve brought my things, hoping for a game. We haven’t played for ages.’

  ‘Ethel will stand in for me if you want a ladies doubles.’ This of course would be the price of pregnancy, if that’s what it was, but she wasn’t convinced yet.

  All the women took a hand with laying out the food on big, white tablecloths. Marie clapped her hands and called, ‘Come on everyone. Tea’s ready. There’s piles of sandwiches filled with home-made brawn, home-cured ham and my special duck paté. Help yourselves.’

  There were heaps of Guernsey biscuits thickly spread with butter from the Ozanne’s dairy, several gaches still warm from the oven, slabs of fruit cake, ginger cake and a big Victoria sponge filled with jam and cream.

  ‘There, Joseph. You can have a piece of Granma’s gache,’ Ethel said, passing a piece to him.

  ‘No,’ he said, brushing it off the plate onto the grass. ‘I don’t like it,’ and grabbed one of Sarah’s fancies instead.

  Several appropriate tortures ran through Ethel’s mind as the little devil stared up at her, daring her to wallop him.

  Marie’s home-made ice-cream was the pièce de résistance, as ever. Wide shallow pans of milk had stood in turn on the gas ring in the scullery for hours, then allowed to cool forming a thick yellow skin of cream which Marie skimmed off. When she had finished the mixing, it was stored in the freezing compartment of Marie’s prize culinary possession, one of the first refrigerators shipped into the island. After fresh garden strawberries had been added it was scooped into wide-necked vacuum flasks for the journey up to the hayfield. Amazingly there was ample for everyone, and Joseph even managed to get two helpings, though not from Auntie Ethel.

  Still hoping for an opportunity to speak to her mother, Sarah lingered over the clearing up, but so did several others. When the last wainload of hay rumbled away, some people headed home, except for those interested in tennis.

  ‘Why don’t you ask Kiff to partner you against William and Filly?’ Sarah prompted her husband, as she sat on the bench seat beside the court to watch with Gelly and Bertie.

  Greg looked at her in amazement. ‘Why? Don’t you want to play?’

  ‘No thanks. I’ve eaten too much.’ She was dying to tell him about Ethel’s suspicions—he’d be so excited. But what if Ethel was wrong? Then he’d be so disappointed.

  The sun was setting as Greg drove her home. He turned the car off the main road and up the lane onto the L’Eree headland to watch the great orange orb sink behind Lihou Island, and they sat peacefully, heads together. Life was so good.

  *

  Sarah waited two more weeks before telling Greg, by which time the nausea every evening convinced her. She had planned her dramatic announcement in detail, but she’d left it too late.

  ‘What on earth’s the matter with you?’ Greg asked one evening at supper. ‘You’re white as a sheet and you haven’t eaten a thing.’

  She was feeling so rotten she wanted to cry. ‘I don’t know . . .’ she stalled, ‘Perhaps I haven’t been having enough exercise, lately.’

  ‘That wouldn’t stop you eating. You’ve normally got an appetite like a horse. Anyway, you’ve been quite odd for the past few weeks. Seems I can’t do anything right.’ He was looking unusually grumpy.

  It was too much. Sarah burst into tears.

  Greg was full of remorse. ‘I’m sorry, love. Didn’t mean to upset you.’ He got up and went round the table to give her a hug. ‘Blame it on Andrew, he’s been getting on my nerves recently.’

  Sarah blew her nose. ‘No. It’s my fault, I should have told you sooner.’

  ‘Told me what?’ Greg’s eyes widened in alarm.

  ‘You are going to be a father.’

  ‘Eh?’ He couldn’t take it in for a minute. ‘A . . . father? You mean . . .’

  Tears rolled down her cheeks but she was smiling as she nodded.

  Greg picked her up like a baby and swung her round in circles in his arms . . . which did nothing to help her nausea. ‘My own precious darling Sarah! Oh my sweetheart! You clever, clever girl!’ He smothered her face with kisses, and she realised he was in tears, too.

  *

  ‘I’ve never seen so much traffic along the top roads round here in all my life,’ Hubert announced at the tea table one evening in November. The family had watched in awe as they passed lorryloads of granite boulders, earth and timber, cartloads of trees and plants from the nurseries, tradesmen to hang curtains and lay carpets, and finally pantechnicons full of furniture, all for the house and gardens of Les Grandes Pierres.

  ‘Mrs Queripel says the granite was for down by the duckpond,’ Marie told him.

  ‘Tch, tch!’ Hubert wagged a finger at her. ‘Mustn’t call it a duckpond any more. According to Mabel’s brother-in-law it has been promoted to a lake.’

  ‘Lake!’ Ethel, William and Bertie collapsed with laughter.

  ‘Poppycock!’ Marie muttered.

  But of course when the Laurences finally moved in she was one of the first to greet them emerging from church on their first Sunday, and invite the ladies to afternoon tea.

  *

  ‘A funny little woman approached me outside the church door,’ Arabella Laurence’s voice boomed across the luncheon table an hour later. ‘Did you see her, wearing long, old-fashioned clothes and a simply terrible swathed hat?’

  Peregrine Laurence looked up from his soup and raised an eyebrow, causing his monocle to drop down his waistcoat front. ‘Really! What did she want?’

  ‘Invited Victoria and me to tea.’

  ‘Great Scott! Did you accept?’

  ‘Thought one should, you know. Must try to be friendly with the natives.’

  ‘What a fearful bore,’ her daughter drawled. ‘Do we really have to go?’

  ‘Why not? Might be amusing.’

  ‘We . . . ell, if you are quite sure it will be afternoon tea and not one of those meals at which the peasantry eat rabbit pie or sardines on toast,’ Victoria quipped, neighing like a horse at her joke.

  ‘Darling, don’t!’ her mother grimaced. ‘I couldn’t bear it,’ then inclining her head towards the butler standing to attention at the sideboard, ordered, ‘Wine, Littlejohn.’

  ‘Yes, I noticed the family,’ Piers said, flicking a lock of blond hair from his forehead. ‘Seem to have bred a stable of spirited fillies. Any chance they might be taking tea with you? If so, I may join you.’

  ‘Absolutely not, Piers. None of your lechery with the local gels,’ his mother admonished. ‘Anyway, you were not included in the invitation. Only Victoria and myself.’

  *

  Three days later a gleaming Rolls Royce bounced down the lane and stopped short of the granite archway, mercifully sparing the lady passengers the odious sight of a backyard. Thomas, immaculate in green livery, stepped out to open the door and hand Mrs Laurence down onto the paving stones, closely followed by her daughter. Marie Ozanne, having watched their progress with some amusement from an upstairs window, emerged from the front door to greet her guests, her daughter Ethel close behind. She noted the long sable worn casually over her guest’s tweed suit, and the mannish hat, almost trilby in style, pressed down over her cropped hair.

  ‘My deah Mrs Ozanne, how simply charming of you to invite us.’ Arabella advanced on her hostess, hand outstretched, waiting to be shaken.

  ‘So delighted you were able to come.’ Marie took the fingers, applying only the minimum pressure before releasing them. ‘May I present my eldest daughter, Ethel.’

  Ethel stepped forward, thanking God Sarah wasn’t with them: there was no chance, with their combined sense of the ridiculous, that the family honour could have survived their mot
her’s classic act.

  When appropriate eulogies had been delivered over the garden, and the ladies were seated in the ‘drawing-room’, Emmy staggered in with the silver tea service loaded onto the huge silver tray, which was used only when Marie felt called upon to pull out all the stops.

  ‘Has all the work at Les Blanches Pierres been completed to your satisfaction?’ Marie inquired.

  ‘My deah Mrs Ozanne, don’t talk about it. It really has been too, too awful. Only today we had to call the curtain people back again. Would you believe they had hung the dressing-room curtains at least two inches too long. Absolutely hopeless!’ Arabella’s complaint resounded around the room.

  ‘So terribly tedious for poor mother,’ Victoria murmured.

  ‘Do you plan many changes in the grounds?’ Ethel asked the young woman.

  ‘Absolutely.’ Mrs Laurence replied on Victoria’s behalf. ‘We sent a firm of landscape architects on ahead to draw up plans. The work is well in hand. And of course we will be putting in a tennis court. Won’t we, darling?’

  ‘Can’t wait. So little to do here, one finds,’ her daughter confirmed.

  ‘You’ll find plenty of excitement, once you’ve settled in,’ Ethel promised. ‘And before the weather gets too cold you would be so welcome to come over here for tennis. We could easily make up a four.’

  Victoria’s eyes widened. ‘You have a court?’

  ‘Indeed. Our problem is only having one, with so many tennis friends to accommodate. But my sister, who plays more than the rest of us, was married earlier this year, relieving the congestion somewhat.’

  ‘I see,’ said Victoria. ‘And tell me, what else does one do for amusement in the winter months?’

  ‘There are always parties, dances, dinners and balls. There are also some interesting rides if you have brought horses over.’

  ‘Really!’ Victoria was impressed. She was dying to report back to Piers. He would be vastly amused.

  Marie was listening to the young women’s conversation, while appearing attentive to Arabella’s criticisms of local builders. She nodded sympathetically before interrupting: ‘I couldn’t help hearing our daughters discussing the season’s festivities. We will be throwing our usual Christmas party again this year. Have you decided yet if you will be spending the holiday in Guernsey? If so we would love you to join us.’