The Guernsey Saga Box Set

by Diana Bachmann

  ‘What a good baby!’ everyone agreed.

  Suzanne was oblivious, sleeping off her bottle while the others filed in to collect their buffet-style lunch.

  ‘What’s the latest development in Pa’s boundary dispute?’ Sarah asked her brother John, as they ate together on a windowseat.

  ‘The colonel has dug up some ancient conveyance registered at the Greffe, which states that the boundary is X hundred yards west of the duckpond. But Pa says the pond was moved west when he was a boy, when they diverted the stream to stop the house flooding every winter.’ He nodded gravely as he spoke. ‘The new barns were built where it used to be.’

  ‘Well then, what’s the fuss?’

  ‘No proof. Only Pa’s word.’

  ‘Surely Mrs le Ray remembers . . .’

  ‘No. She was a Machon from St Peter’s. It happened before she married Nick le Ray.’

  Hubert came over to join the conversation and Sarah asked him, ‘There must be someone, Pa, who remembers the stream being diverted?’

  ‘I dare say. But finding them is the problem. The advocate is working on it. Now, when is Suzanne going to cut her cake?’

  *

  The sun shone that June. The wet earth steamed and dried and Greg continued the established routine of driving his wife and daughter out to St Saviour’s every two weeks to spend the day at Val du Douit. It was a great relief to Sarah to get away from Les Marettes regularly, relax amongst a normal family and play some tennis while adoring aunts vied for nursemaid duty.

  ‘Did you know that Victoria Harcourt-Waites has a sister?’ Ethel asked Sarah as they sat watching Aline and Filly on the court.

  ‘No. Really? Where does she live, London? Oh splendid shot Filly!’ Sarah was only half listening.

  ‘No. Here.’

  ‘Eh? Since when?’

  ‘Since just after the Laurences arrived.’

  ‘So . . .?’ Sarah prompted, suddenly interested. ‘Why haven’t we seen her?’

  ‘They seem to keep her under wraps. Mrs Queripel tells tales of some large black woman called Belle who guards her. The girl’s name is Polly and she’s . . . handicapped.’

  Sarah frowned, ‘In what way? Have you ever seen her?’

  ‘No. Nobody has. The Laurences keep her hidden.’ Ethel sighed. ‘It’s very sad.’

  ‘Who for? Polly or her parents?’

  ‘All of them, I suppose. I mean, how would you feel if Suzanne was . . . retarded?’

  It was a thought that had crossed Sarah’s mind several times during her pregnancy, but she still couldn’t find an answer. ‘I wish I could see her. Then it would be easier to say.’

  A wish granted only a fortnight later.

  Leaving the baby asleep in her pram by the magnolia on the front lawn, her mother sitting alongside in a deckchair, knitting, Sarah had taken her favourite walk up to the top fields after lunch. The day was warm, feathers of high cloud drifting up from the south, but there was no movement of air to rustle the leaves overhead, carry away the sound of bees or dilute the strong scent of dry grass and sweet vetch, as she lay on her side watching tiny butterflies dancing over a patch of Speedwell.

  Suddenly she had a strange feeling of being watched. She sat up, turned her head and saw eyes staring at her from behind the grass bank. There was no question who it was. ‘Hello. You must be Polly,’ she said. ‘Would you like to come and watch the butterflies with me?’

  ‘Yes,’ the girl mumbled, nodding. ‘I like butterflies,’ and eagerly she scrambled over the bank.

  Sarah recognised the problem immediately; Polly’s heavy brows and mongoloid features were very similar to her friend Gelly’s little sister, a sweet child, so very friendly and trusting. ‘Come and sit by me.’ She patted the grass, ‘My name is Sarah.’

  Polly gave an anxious glance over her shoulder, then sat. ‘Hallo Sarah. I be your friend?’

  ‘Yes, I’d like that Polly.’ Sarah had to concentrate to understand the awkward diction, but the girl’s wide smile said it all. ‘And can I be your friend?’

  The smile widened further. ‘Yes. My friend.’ She pulled up a piece of mallow and held out the stem of pink flowers. Sarah accepted it and together they found and named several other wild flowers around the edge of the field. Polly was fascinated when Sarah inverted bladder campions, turning them into tiny dancing ballerinas and tried hard to master the art of firing plantain heads.

  They had picked a big handful of flowers, and Sarah was beginning to worry that Polly’s absence might cause alarm in the Laurence household when a voice hailed them from the lane.

  ‘What you t’ink you’re doin’ Miss Polly? You know you’re not allowed out here!’

  Sarah had never seen a black person in her life—not in the flesh, only in books. She stared nervously, trying to think of something to say.

  ‘I sure hope she’s not bin troublin’ you, ma’am,’ the large nursemaid said apologetically.

  ‘Of course not! I was so pleased to meet Polly. I’m Sarah Gaudion, Mr Ozanne’s daughter,’ she held out her hand, ‘and you must be Belle.’

  Belle took her hand, cocking her head to one side. ‘How come you know my name, ma’am?’

  ‘Some of the staff at Colonel Laurence’s house are related to staff down at my father’s farm. I’m only surprised we haven’t seen you before now. Have you been over in England?’

  ‘No, I ain’t bin anywhere but here, ma’am.’ Belle shot a glance at her charge who was engrossed with her flowers. ‘The family don’t like her to be seen out, so it’s my business to keep her home.’

  ‘What a shame! She’s so sweet.’

  Belle grimaced. ‘Not all folks t’ink dat way. Now I gotta get her home, or I gonna get in trouble for letting her escape.’

  ‘Well do bring her up here to the fields yourself, any time. You both need to get out occasionally.’

  ‘T’ank you, ma’am. You’re very kind.’

  Sarah waited till the older woman had collected her charge and led her, reluctantly, up the lane to Les Blanches Pierres, before she walked back across the fields down to Val du Douit. She was laughing at herself, at the subconscious fear she had felt at the sight of Belle’s black face. But that fear had vanished rapidly; the woman was so likeable . . . as was Polly. Come to think of it, they were probably the nicest people in the Laurence household.

  Possibly as a result of that chance meeting, restrictions on Polly were subsequently relaxed a little and she was seen out and about occasionally with Belle in attendance.

  But never with her family.

  *

  ‘Do you know if William has proposed to Filly yet?’ Kiff asked. She and Gelly were sitting on the beach at Cobo with Sarah, each trying in vain to prevent Suzanne from stuffing sand into her mouth.

  ‘No. No idea.’ Sarah wrestled another gritty load from her daughter.

  ‘I don’t think he has, Kiff.’ Gelly stretched long, tanned legs over her towel and lay back with eyes closed, sunworshipping. ‘Filly could never have kept it secret.’

  ‘He’s probably too shy,’ Sarah suggested. Her middle brother had always been the quietest and most sensitive.

  ‘Is Aline still keen on Piers Laurence?’

  ‘She doesn’t get a chance to see him, now that the Laurences aren’t allowed near the farm. Ma throws a fit if their name is even mentioned.’

  ‘Really, Sarah? Why? The on-going boundary feud?’

  ‘Yes. It’s apparently going to court.’

  ‘No!’ Her friends both sat up in horror.

  ‘Why?’ Kiff demanded, adjusting her sun hat over her bony features. ‘I thought the Batiste twins were prepared to swear the stream had been diverted.’

  Sarah snorted angrily. ‘They were. Still are. But the colonel says Pa has put them up to it and refuses to accept their word. Well it is only what they remember their father telling them. They would have been too young to remember it themselves.’

  ‘So it really has blown up into a full-scal
e war.’

  ‘Yes, Gelly, it has. No, Suzanne!’ Sarah grabbed at another handful and then tried to divert the baby’s attention to bucket sandcastles which were enthusiastically demolished. ‘Not that it’s much loss. They really are a family of pompous asses.’

  ‘Piers is devastatingly good-looking,’ Gelly remarked, casually . . . Then screamed, ‘No, Nelson!’ but it was too late. Having enjoyed a long and exciting swim with some holiday makers, the dog had rolled himself luxuriously in the sand and returned to the party to dislodge excess water and sand with a good shake.

  Though be-spattered herself, Kiff’s mind was not to be distracted from the subject matter. ‘I think Paul is the most interesting of the bunch. He seems such a nice person,’ she mused. ‘And the feud is nothing to do with our generation. It’s between the colonel and your father. There’s no reason to stop their families socialising.’

  ‘Ha!’ Sarah gave a dry laugh. ‘Try telling Ma that.’

  *

  Ethel was waiting down on the main road for the bus early the following spring, when Paul drove past, screeched to a stop and reversed back to her. ‘Going into Town?’

  ‘Yes . . .’ she was hesitant.

  ‘Hop in. I’ll give you a lift.’ He leaned across to open the passenger door.

  The weather was cold, the heavens opening periodically with a real downpour; the offer was very tempting. She held the car door, uncertain. ‘I don’t know if it would be wise.’

  Paul frowned. ‘Why not! I promise you I won’t drive fast, if that’s what is worrying you.’

  ‘No, no. It’s not that. Just that . . .’

  ‘Oh! You mean the hoohah between the old folk? For heaven’s sake, don’t let that bother you. Terribly boring business. I won’t tell if you don’t! Come on. Get in.’

  Ethel settled into the bucket seat and slammed the door. ‘It is all so sad. Stupid.’

  ‘I honestly don’t know what my father wants with the extra bit of land,’ Paul commented. ‘It seems to be very rocky just there.’

  ‘The pity is that the boundary description wasn’t reworded years ago when the stream was diverted. There are hundreds if not thousands of properties over here inadequately described.’

  ‘Applies anywhere, I imagine. Whereabouts in Town would you like to be dropped?’

  Paul got out to open the door for her in Church Square. ‘Have you time for a coffee?’ he asked.

  ‘Er . . . I suppose so,’ Ethel replied, surprised, then added, ‘I mean, yes, thanks very much.’

  ‘Stop worrying! Come on, there’s a nice little teashop on the corner of the Arcade.’ He took her arm, guiding her through the other shoppers.

  She forgot to worry as the warmth of his arm reached through her sleeve. She was enjoying this. Very much! And later, over hot coffee and toasted Guernsey biscuits, when he suggested they should play tennis together as soon as the weather improved, she didn’t hesitate to say yes.

  They played singles three weeks later at Amherst Courts and of course, being a far stronger player, he offered her a handicap. She accepted, and promptly beat him.

  ‘You were far too generous, that’s why,’ Ethel laughed.

  ‘Your game improved dramatically, once the handicapping had been decided.’

  ‘Are you suggesting I deliberately—’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ he teased.

  *

  Three days later, at supper, Marie coughed significantly and everyone waited. ‘I find it hard to believe there is a traitor at our table, but a certain matter has been drawn to my attention.’ Her small chin jutted as her eyes travelled round the table. ‘Well? Is the person going to own up, or not?’

  A heavy silence descended on the room. Everyone turned to look at everyone else, excepting Hubert and Marie who continued their meal, forkfuls of mackerel being conveyed from their plates in dramatic pantomine, while their children pondered their consciences and actions of the past week.

  It was several moments before it dawned on Ethel that the ‘traitor’ might be herself. But surely not! Even if Ma had discovered she’d played tennis with Paul, she could scarcely use the term ‘traitor’ for such a minor transgression!

  Unfortunately Marie considered consorting with the enemy to be a very major transgression. ‘Well, Ethel? Do you deny it?’ she demanded.

  Ethel stared at her mother in amazement. ‘Me? Deny what?’

  ‘Having clandestine meetings with one of those people,’ Marie tilted her head in the direction of Les Blanches Pierres, ‘from up there.’

  Ethel felt winded, blood rushing up her neck and cheeks into her hair. ‘I’ve played tennis with Paul, if that’s what you mean. But there was nothing clandestine about it.’

  ‘No? Then why did you go off and play at Amherst, when there’s a perfectly good court here?’

  Aline sat back thoroughly enjoying herself, having relayed to her mother the information given her by Molly Cann that morning at work, knowing full well the ructions it would cause.

  Ethel immediately sensed her sister’s involvement. Bitch, she thought angrily. But, typically, she controlled herself and replied softly to her mother’s question. ‘I am perfectly well aware that you don’t wish to entertain any of the Laurence family here, at the moment. But the dispute over the boundary between the two properties has nothing whatever to do with Paul or myself, or any of our generation—’

  ‘Well really!’ Marie slammed her fork down on her plate.

  ‘I entirely agree with Pa that the colonel is being thoroughly unreasonable . . .’ Ethel attempted to pour a little honey on the wound . . .

  ‘Well! I should think you do, Miss—’

  ‘. . . and he is no gentleman, to be accusing Pa and the Batistes of lying—’

  ‘That’s enough!’ Marie exploded. ‘Hubert. Tell your daughter we don’t want any answering back from the likes of her!’

  ‘Oh Ma! Not that!’ Bertie and William groaned in unison. Their mother was well known for sending offenders to Coventry.

  Hubert coughed. He didn’t like Marie’s outbursts any more than anyone else, but felt it to be his duty to stand by her. ‘Ethel. Why don’t you apologise to your mother and put an end to this?’ he pleaded.

  Marie sniffed.

  ‘I am very sorry Mother has taken offence where none was intended,’ Ethel declared, pushing back her chair. ‘If anyone wants me I shall be upstairs.’ She got up and walked sedately from the room.

  ‘Well!’ Marie’s voice followed her. ‘I hope you’re not going to let her get away with that, Hubert!’

  *

  Ethel was feeling far from sedate. She sat at her dressing-table, shaking, staring at her glum reflection. It had to be ridiculous that at her age, thirty-one last birthday, she should be treated like an errant schoolchild. She lit a cigarette, fitted it into a long, amber holder, and blew a cloud at the mirror—a defiant gesture at her mother. So what to do now? Should she cancel the date she had with Paul for next week?

  Paul. Did it matter? she asked herself. Was it worth the hassle at home to go on seeing him—flying in the face of Ma’s silly obsession? She smiled down at the Swan Vestas he had given her after tennis at Amherst when her box was empty, conscious of not wanting to use the matches inside, wanting to keep them forever. Yes, there was no doubt she was keen on him. He was so gentle and natural, not a bit blasé like his family. If anything, he found them oppressive. They had tried to push him into careers he found terribly uninteresting, and were objecting strongly to his desire to take up farming. He would make a very good farmer.

  And yes again. It was worth the hassle at home, just to be with him; to touch his arm, take surreptitious peeks at the blond curls at his neck, look up to see those blue eyes watching her from under long, dark lashes.

  A smile lit her face wrinkling the freckles scattered across her nose as she drew smoke gently through her holder, savouring the flood of joyous feeling coursing through her body. She hadn’t felt like this since Louis wen
t away.

  Then suddenly she sat bolt upright, very straight and still, frowning. Raising one questioning eyebrow at herself in the mirror she stared, mouth open. Was she falling in love?

  *

  Sarah didn’t visit the farm next week, or the week after. First of all Suzanne had a bad cold and cough, and Sarah kept the infant in bed; then Greg caught it and finally Sarah herself succumbed. It was a miserable period. Andrew was being particularly obnoxious to Greg, leaving him to do all the night-time stoking of the boilers, seven nights a week. Mina had taken time off to look after her ailing sister, leaving Sarah to cook for the entire household—and consequently to Alice’s constant advice and criticism in the kitchen. The weather turned foul so the nappies had to be strewn round the Triplex to dry, where Alice, the old man and Andrew contrived to brush them onto the floor or onto the coal bucket.

  ‘Go and sit down and I’ll bring you a cup of tea,’ Maureen ordered when she dropped in with some primos. ‘You look all in.’

  ‘Bless you. You are the one ray of sunshine around here today, apart from Nelson,’ Sarah added, as the dog stuck a wet nose under her elbow, nudging for attention. She threw her sister-in-law an appreciative smile, and reached for the flowers. ‘I’ll just put those in a vase.’

  ‘No! I’ll do it while the tea is brewing. Off you go!’

  Sarah bolted for her sitting-room where Sybil was trying to amuse her little cousin, kneeling inside the playpen with her.

  ‘Why does Suzanne keep crying today?’ the girl asked.

  ‘Because she isn’t feeling well.’

  ‘I don’t cry when I’m not well.’

  ‘You are old enough to understand when your mummy explains what is happening. But Suzanne is too little to understand, yet.’

  When Maureen came in with the tea she asked, ‘When did you and Greg last have an evening out together?’

  ‘The Lord alone knows! Christmas, perhaps?’