The Guernsey Saga Box Set

by Diana Bachmann

  ‘Aren’t we lucky!’ Sarah cooed, clinging to Greg’s arm as they walked up the front path one evening. It was only a cinder track, costly gravel being low on the current priority list, but it could have been paved with gold.

  There was still a great deal to be done. They had invested all their money in big, airy rooms which meant tackling all the decorating themselves, and every day Sarah spent at least a couple of hours up a ladder, painting walls and ceilings. Suzanne slept in their bare bedroom with them, until the smell of paint cleared from her own room. The child had chosen the colour herself, with a little guidance, and also the pretty frieze of flowers which Sarah added. Maureen helped by making the nursery curtains, and they were all thrilled with the effect of their first completed room.

  The sitting-room quickly followed, and Sarah was in the act of hanging the curtains there one Thursday afternoon when she heard William’s voice, calling, ‘Are you there, Sarah? Can I come in?’

  ‘Mmmm!’ Sarah staggered down the ladder steps with a mouthful of curtain hooks. She eyed him suspiciously as she spat them out. ‘Yes, of course! What on earth are you doing here?’ He had always been a carefree, happy-go-lucky type, but today he was surpassing himself, beaming from ear to ear.

  ‘Just wanted to see my dear sister . . . the nice one as opposed to the one who lives with us.’

  ‘Come on. Poor Aline isn’t that bad.’

  ‘True. She’s considerably worse.’ He looked round the room. ‘Oh ho! This is looking good. That picture looks far better in here than in your room at Les Marettes.’

  ‘That’s because there is much more light in here. I am so bucked with the brightness of all our rooms.’

  ‘What are you going to call it?’

  ‘Les Mouettes. The seagulls. They are always circling overhead because we are just inshore from the fishermen’s moorings.’

  ‘Splendid name, I like it.’

  ‘So . . . out with it. You are nearly bursting your braces with excitement!’ Sarah laughed, watching her brother desperately trying to look casual and not succeeding at all.

  ‘Can we sit down? I have some rather important news to tell you.’

  While Sarah sat in an armchair, William perched himself on the settee. And took a deep breath. ‘I wanted you to be the first to know that I’m engaged to be married.’

  ‘Oh William!’ She flung herself at him to hug and kiss him. ‘At last! I thought you were never going to pop the question!’ She stood up. ‘This calls for a celebration. Do you want to start with a cup of tea or go straight into something stronger?’

  ‘Tea’ll do for now.’

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on. Come out and admire my kitchen.’

  They went down the corridor, their shoes drumming on the bare floorboards, and into the small, neat kitchen. ‘Why didn’t you bring Filly with you? She doesn’t work on Thursday afternoons.’ Sarah held the kettle under the tap until it was full, and struck a match to light the gas.

  ‘Filly?’

  Sarah turned to her brother who was looking somewhat bemused. ‘Yes, Filly! What’s up with you?’

  ‘But . . . you don’t understand . . .’ he blushed to the roots of his hair.

  She stared at him. Suddenly the kitchen felt terribly cold. ‘Then you’d better explain.’

  ‘I . . . thought you realised,’ he stammered. ‘I’m not . . . I mean it’s not Fill . . .’

  ‘Not Filly!’ she repeated. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m not marrying Filly! I’m going to marry Annemarie.’

  Sarah flopped onto a kitchen chair, speechless. Her mind flashed back to the hay picnic and she remembered the strange feeling she’d had when William had turned up with the French girl and her family. Annemarie! ‘Oh no!’ she groaned. ‘Oh my poor, poor Filly!’ she raised agonised eyes to William’s. ‘When did you and Filly break it off?’

  ‘Break what off?’ William was beginning to get annoyed. ‘There was never anything between us to be broken off!’

  ‘William! for Pete’s sake what’s the matter with you? Anyway, I didn’t know Annemarie was still on the island. I thought they were only here on holiday.’

  ‘They were. But she came over again last week.’

  She shook her head. ‘Everyone, but everyone has regarded you and Filly as a couple—for years! Especially Filly herself. She must be devastated!’ The kitchen was filling with steam and she reached across to turn off the gas tap with a savage twist.

  William pouted. ‘I don’t see why. I’ve never said anything to make her think we were more than friends.’

  ‘Oh do stop being so naive! After going out with her for years? After being partners at every dance, in every tennis game?’ Slowly she shook her head. ‘I don’t believe this! I cannot believe you could be so cruel!’

  ‘That’s it!’ William exclaimed. ‘I came down here with my exciting news expecting congratulations, and all you can do is harp on about a friendship I had with one of your old school friends years ago!’ He buttoned up his jacket. ‘I think I’d better leave.’

  Sarah covered her face with her hands. ‘Oh William! Oh God! What have you done?’ She looked up. ‘Have you told the family yet? Ma and Pa?’

  ‘No,’ he snapped. ‘I thought you’d be pleased to be first to hear the news.’

  ‘Does Filly know?’

  ‘No!’ William’s joy had faded into misery. ‘I don’t see what it’s got to do with her.’

  ‘Don’t you? Do you honestly not know?’

  ‘I thought everyone liked Annemarie,’ he almost pleaded. ‘She’s a lovely girl. Very clever. She’s a marvellous needle-woman and does wonderful embroidery.’

  ‘A fair description of Filly. Do you want me to tell her?’

  ‘Tell her what?’

  Sarah jumped to her feet. ‘William!’ she shouted. ‘Grow up. Whether you like it or not, meant it or not, you have let down one of the sweetest, gentlest girls in the world. You are about to ruin her life and you neither know nor care! Oooh! you make me so angry I could strangle you. You—you cad! You absolute bastard!’

  ‘Damn you, Sarah,’ he shouted back. ‘It’s my bloody life! I’ll marry the woman I love, not someone the family has lined up for me.’

  ‘No one lined Filly up for you. You came after her. You asked her to play tennis, and go out with you!’ Sarah stormed.

  ‘Hey! hey! What’s going on in here?’ Greg appeared in the doorway, looking from one furious face to the other.

  William glared at him, then at Sarah. ‘Ask her,’ he said and stamped out to his car.

  *

  Sarah was right. Filly was utterly devastated. And even Hubert and Marie were furious, disgusted that their son could let the girl down so badly. Marie sent him to Coventry, of course, but even Hubert could think of nothing to say to William. And when the young man asked if he could bring his fiancée to see them, Hubert said, ‘I suppose so, if you must.’

  It was not a happy occasion; Marie shook the French girl’s hand as though afraid of catching leprosy, gave her a bleak smile and excused herself to the kitchen.

  Hubert asked when she was going home, and failed to conceal his relief when told William had been granted a brief holiday from the bank to escort her back to Cherbourg next day.

  *

  Any hopes William might have had of an improvement in the atmosphere at home, and among the friends he and Filly shared, were soon dashed. Everyone rallied round the young woman, showered her with affectionate attention and invited her to every gathering and party . . . from which William invariably found himself excluded.

  Hurt and angry, he accepted the Rosenburgs’ invitation to spend Christmas with them.

  ‘How long will you be gone?’ Hubert asked. ‘You’ve only just had a holiday from the bank.’

  ‘I’ve given my notice,’ William snapped.

  ‘Great Scott! Are you mad?’

  ‘As in insane, no. As in fed up with everyone’s attitude, yes.’ And he left
the room.

  *

  Christmas Day 1933 was very quiet at Val du Douit. Bertie was unable to get leave, and as William was in France, Aline was the only member of the young generation left at home with Hubert and Marie. John and Mary and the children came in for Christmas lunch after church, which did little to help the spirit of Christmas, and Greg, Sarah and Suzanne were at Les Marettes for the day.

  Suzanne, now nearly four and old enough to follow the explanations about Santa Claus, woke in the early hours of Christmas morning and ran barefoot in her pink Viyella nightie, into her parent’s room, squealing with excitement, to tell them that Santa had taken the sugar lumps she had put out for him to give to the reindeers, and when he ate the cake they left for him, his hands were dirty and he’d left sooty finger marks on her dressing-table! Though pleased with the success of their subterfuge, her parents would have preferred to hear the news two or three hours further into the day. After church they collected the presents they had wrapped for the Gaudion family and carried them back to the house they had recently vacated, for a traditional turkey lunch with the old folk, and Andrew, Maureen and Sybil.

  Having placed himself in charge of liquid refreshment, and working on the ‘one-for-you-one-for-me’ basis, Andrew quickly mellowed. ‘We’ll give out the presents after lunch, and when Dad nods off we can have a game of rummy with the girls,’ he suggested.

  ‘Ooh, yes please!’ Sybil, now stretched into an attractive fourteen-year-old, was eager.

  ‘All right for you,’ Greg pointed out, ‘But it may require a certain bending of the rules for Suzanne.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ Alice shrieked.

  ‘That we’ll all need a nap this afternoon,’ Maureen yelled into the ear-trumpet. Adding quietly for the benefit of the others, ‘If she knows she’ll want to join in.’ She grinned. ‘You know what she is; she cheats like mad.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Andrew assured her. ‘I’ve been keeping her glass topped up. I doubt she’ll last through the gift ceremony!’

  It was the best Christmas Sarah had had with the Gaudions. The old folk duly nodded off, assisted by their eldest son, and Suzanne became wildly excited when the other five players allowed her to win a hand and scoop up the pennies, ha’pennies, farthings and doubles piled in the centre of the baize.

  Next day at Val du Douit, Sarah thought the atmosphere at Les Marettes had been infinitely preferable. She hadn’t entirely forgiven her mother for Ethel’s banishment; her parents hadn’t forgiven her for taking Ethel’s part, nor had anyone forgiven William for jilting Filly. John and Mary sat at table with expressions which might have indicated they were sucking lemons, while baby Margaret sat whining and puking in her high chair and her big brother grabbed greedily from the serving dishes, unrebuked by his parents. Meanwhile, Aline entertained everyone with snide remarks about absent family and friends, at which only she laughed.

  ‘Never mind, darling,’ Greg said, understanding Sarah’s sad silence as they drove home. ‘Give it all time. Things will improve.’

  They were using his father’s car. Andrew had agreed that Greg should have use of it as their father could no longer drive it, and now that they had moved, Greg would have to get to Les Marettes in all weathers to help with the old man when he had one of his turns in the night after the nurse had gone off duty . . . which were occurring with amazing regularity now Greg was no longer in the house, and mysteriously stopped whenever he arrived.

  The most expensive single addition to Greg and Sarah’s new home was the telephone, because they were so far from a main road and additional poles had to be erected. For Alice to be able to call Greg when his father needed him, it was a necessity rather than a luxury and reluctantly Andrew had agreed that their father should pay half the cost. Sarah was delighted, little realising how vitally she would rely on it in the not too distant future.

  *

  Sarah had never had more than a passing interest in gardens. She liked to walk through and admire other people’s efforts, but had never in her life felt the urge to actively participate in weeding and planting. However, as winter receded, spring sunshine brought her outdoors.

  Greg did help with the heavier work, when he could spare the time, but Sarah found herself doing far more than she had originally intended, and enjoyed it: loved the sense of achievement as her ideas took shape.

  There were lots of granite stones lying about the perimeter where they had fallen from the loose-stone walls; these she collected to form the edge of borders. She persuaded Greg to drive her to the Caledonia Nurseries to choose trees and shrubs and they both became quite excited planting them together.

  ‘Coming along nicely, Mrs Gaudion,’ the postman said, swinging his leg back over his bicycle saddle. ‘Who’d believe it was just a field, this time last year?’

  ‘You think I’m winning, then? It’s the couch grass that’s the worst. You can never get completely rid of it.’ Sarah took off her gardening gloves and stood beside him as he checked through the letters in his hand.

  ‘There you are. There’s your electricity bill, a letter from your sister in New Zealand, and another one from . . .’ he examined the postmark ‘. . . Cherbourg.’

  Sarah abandoned the garden to carry the letters inside and read them in the kitchen with a mid-morning cup of tea, leaving Suzanne and Nelson playing with a ball. The radio was on and she hummed along with the familiar Henry Hall dance music while she washed her hands and waited for the kettle to boil, debating which to open first.

  Ethel’s. It was still hard not to feel anger and resentment at being deprived of her adored sister by Ethel’s banishment, but it was good to know that the couple seemed to be getting on very well, down under:

  . . . Paul went off to Auckland to buy another herd of sheep from a man who is retiring from farming. This is a new strain and will strengthen our stock. The wool prices have fallen a lot, but we get top prices for our meat.

  We had friends over to stay for a week. The weather was glorious and we were able to take them on a trip up into the mountains in our truck. You should have seen us: we women in the back under the shade of the tarpaulin on piles of rugs and cushions with our babies, picnic gear and fishing tackle piled round us, while the men took turns driving.

  David and Michael are very strong, healthy, easy babies, but we both hope that Fate may grant us a little girl next time. Not that there is any indication of another, yet!. . .

  Sarah finished the letter, made the tea and poured a cup before opening the envelope from France.

  William’s handwriting was bold but neat, each word far better formed than in Ethel’s hasty scrawl. Sarah read his news with far less pleasure than Ethel’s, and with intense irritation. She didn’t think she could ever forgive him, William the Traitor as her mother had dubbed him, but she felt obliged to continue her role as his only link with the family. Marie continued to burn his letters unread.

  . . . M. Rosenburg has now promoted me to the Dubois factory, where we make overalls and boiler suits for industry, and has told me that if I wish to remain in his employ, I have the prospect of becoming head accountant for the entire business—in due course. So you can imagine that Annemarie and I are delighted, and plan to marry soon.

  Naturally, we will be married here in Cherbourg, but I do hope you will persuade as many of the family as possible to come over for the ceremony. The invitations have been printed and will be posted off soon . . .

  He went on to describe the apartment they would rent for the start of their married life, and their plans to save up for a decent house of their own, later.

  Sarah laid the letter on the kitchen table and sat staring at it, brooding. Someone from the family would have to go over for the wedding, she supposed. But who? Who would want to? She was afraid she knew the answer to that only too well. Ma wouldn’t think of it, nor would she let Pa go. Bertie might be able to get leave and Ma need never know he’d been! Aline wouldn’t go, of course, which wouldn’t bother William.
What about John and Mary? And Greg and herself? She pushed back her chair and got up. Better discuss it with Greg tonight after supper.

  Chapter Five – DISTANT THUNDER

  ‘Brilliant shot!’ Kiff exclaimed as Sarah pumped a crosscourt forehand drive beyond Roger Harris’s reach. ‘Did you say you are going to the wedding?’ she turned back to her conversation with John who was sitting beside her on the bench, puffing at his pipe.

  He blew smoke through the chainlink fencing round the Val du Douit court. ‘No. Busy time on the farm.’

  Kiff laughed. ‘Pull the other one! You mean the family hasn’t forgiven William yet?’ She had known John since childhood and was not the least afraid to challenge him.

  John’s face stiffened. ‘Doubt we ever will. That poor girl . . .’

  ‘. . . is currently going out with a super new accountant in Town called Augustus. Didn’t you know?’

  His eyebrows shot up. ‘No, I didn’t. Glad to hear it. But I can’t say I would want to go, anyway.’ He took another drag at his pipe. ‘European politics are a mess.’

  ‘Really? But I didn’t know anything serious had happened in France recently except we won the Davis Cup last year, thanks to Fred Perry,’ Kiff muttered, head swivelling from one end of the court to the other, following the ball.

  John raised his eyes to heaven. ‘It’s what’s going on in Berlin at the moment that bothers me. This Hitler fellow and his Third Reich . . . all I can say is, it’s a good thing the Rosenburgs live in France and not Germany.’

  ‘Oh!’ She had wondered what possible connection there might be between Adolf Hitler and William’s wedding. ‘Ramsay MacDonald had better go and sort the man out, then, like he did with Mussolini.’

  ‘Oh yes? But according to Mr Churchill all the Prime Minister claimed to have achieved in Italy regarding European disarmament was a load of rubbish,’ John grunted.

  Greg overheard John’s comment as he came off court. ‘Never mind, John me lad. Manchester City won the FA Cup this year so it’s not all doom and gloom.’