The Guernsey Saga Box Set

by Diana Bachmann

  ‘Can’t see what that’s got to do with politics. Why, that fool Prime Minister should rescind his trade pact with the Germans!’

  ‘Why?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘Because of the way he is ill-treating the Jews.’ He got up. ‘Time to get on with the milking,’ he concluded, and wandered off.

  Kiff suppressed a giggle. ‘Your brother’s in his usual jolly mood.’

  Greg’s head emerged through the neck of his pullover. ‘He has a point, I mean Hitler is proving to be a nasty bit of work. Still, I don’t see what we can do about it.’ He picked up the tennis bag he shared with Sarah. ‘I’m parched. Has your mother made any elderflower fizz yet this year?’ After all, whatever happened in Europe really couldn’t affect life in the Channel Islands, could it?

  *

  John did not go to his brother’s wedding. In the end only Sarah and Greg were in Cherbourg to represent the family, which proved an embarrassment all round. Sarah tried to make excuses. Mother hated sea travel. Father wouldn’t come without her. Aline? Er . . . Flu? Broken leg? Er . . . she’s looking after our little girl so we could come . . . A lie, as Suzanne was actually with Maureen; but only a white one.

  Annemarie was very beautiful in layers of white lace. Sarah thought it a pity the bouquet was quite so huge, too big for the chief bridal attendant to cope with during the ceremony. William looked white and anxious having tried desperately to learn the language of his adoption and aware of his repeated linguistic gaffes. He had asked Greg to be his best man, and Greg had reluctantly agreed, despite the fact that his own French was limited to bonjour and merci beaucoup.

  The Rosenburgs were not practicing Jews and the ceremony was Catholic . . . which didn’t help Greg and Sarah at all, and their social intercourse at the reception was restricted almost entirely to sign language. However the wine flowed quite liberally and after a while the problem ceased to matter much. They relaxed and laughed, hopefully in the right places, and Sarah made herself popular flirting coyly with the bride’s father.

  ‘Thanks very much for coming,’ William whispered, moments before he and his wife were whisked away in a beribboned carriage. ‘It would have been awful without you. Am I forgiven yet?’

  Sarah, high heels adding to her already superior height, bent to kiss him. ‘Of course. Don’t worry. Just bring Annemarie over to stay with us one day.’

  ‘Bless you, dear Sis. ’Bye bye!’

  Several bags of rice later, the happy couple were out of sight and Greg and Sarah returned to their hotel for the night.

  ‘I’m glad you two have made it up,’ Greg said, climbing into the weirdly sagging bed.

  ‘I could hardly stay angry when I see dear old Filly enjoying herself so much with the new man in her life. I suspect that in the end William has done them both a favour.’

  ‘I hope you’re right. And I also hope we’ll get some sleep. This bed is atrocious.’

  *

  William and Annemarie didn’t come over to visit Guernsey that year, or next. They were too busy starting their family. News of Josette’s arrival came in the same post as a letter from Ethel, saying she too was pregnant again.

  Then Filly announced her engagement.

  Sarah hugged her excitedly. ‘Oh I’m so thrilled. When is the wedding to be? When you have found a house, I suppose.’

  ‘We already have one. Gus has bought a lovely old farmhouse just inland from L’Ancresse Common. The invitations are going out at the end of May and we marry in July.’ Filly was as bouncy and bubbly as ever.

  ‘Crumbs, that’s quick,’ Sarah was astounded. ‘Doesn’t give you time to put your bottom drawer together.’

  ‘I’ve got all I need, I think. And anyway I can’t wait to start a family. You’ve got a five year start on me!’

  The summer of 1934 was wonderful. Every Sunday was spent on the beach with Suzanne, and most other members of the Ozanne family. Sarah and Greg took turns with their daughter, shrimping, building sandcastles or playing ball, and two or three times each Sunday they would all swim together, the little one laughing happily as waves surged her up and down in her rubber ring.

  She was a lively child, full of fun, always eager to involve uncles, aunts and friends in new games of her own invention. Serious Uncle John, sitting under his newspaper for an after-lunch nap would be surprised to find himself building a playhouse with dining chairs and rugs. Grandma was inveigled into helping Suzanne make fancy cakes and Grandpa would take her down to the stableyard for a ride on old Woolly, the donkey.

  Aline was the odd one out. She adored the child and sought adoration in return. The trouble was that she never did anything with the little girl, never played games or went up into the fields to pick wild flowers. Instead she relied on extravagant presents to earn Suzanne’s love . . . and was hurt and annoyed when the child was unimpressed. Sarah tried to explain the problem to Aline, once, with a spectacular lack of success. And Aline didn’t speak to her afterwards for a whole month.

  Christmas 1934 was a happy affair, partly due to Bertie’s leave after returning from a spell of duty in Egypt. Footloose and fancy free, he had had a marvellous time in the colonial atmosphere of Ismailia, only wishing it had been more than a temporary posting.

  ‘What is the attitude out there towards Mussolini?’ John asked him.

  ‘Everyone is getting fed up with the fat Itie. Too puffed up with his own importance. He is going to create big trouble.’

  ‘He appears to hero worship Hitler!’ Hubert said.

  ‘Ha! You should hear what they are saying about that in the bar at Shepheard’s.’

  ‘And what about the rearmament of Germany? What is the British Army’s reaction to that?’ John asked.

  Bertie scratched his head. ‘That’s a jolly big question. What part of the army. I am not in the confidence of generals, colonels or even a humble major. Nor do I hobnob with the other ranks. The fellows I know don’t seem much bothered, actually.’

  John gave his young sibling a contemptuous glare and dropped the subject.

  *

  Having celebrated her fifth birthday in January of 1935, Suzanne started attending a small, private school near Delancey, run by a Miss Jacques. There were only five other children and the individual attention meant that the child was soon able to read. Greg and Sarah were thrilled to bits. Every evening the story books came out to be read aloud.

  *

  And later that year Ethel sent photos of their newly born twin sons, Roger and Timothy. Her letters were full of happy details of family and farming life, glowing with love for her darling Paul and their four sons. Even Marie had to admit, grudgingly, that the Sinners, as she still referred to them, seemed to have a perfect marriage. As did the Traitor, when Josette was presented with a little sister called Marivonne. Filly was quick to produce a little girl, just nine months after wedding her Gus, which Marie thought was disgusting, and not long afterwards the Prince of Wales came to the island to open the new road south of Town called Les Val des Terres, just as rumours were circulating about his affair with an American married woman.

  ‘That’s lies and nonsense!’ Marie declared. ‘Royalty don’t carry on like that!’

  No one dared attempt to disillusion her.

  *

  The Laurences had gradually become integrated into island life, though Victoria spent long periods in London with friends, mainly men, as did her brother Aubrey. His preferences in that direction seemed to escape the attention of his superiors as he steadily rose in rank, and Piers had repeated resource to his father to bail him out of one shady deal after another.

  It could not be claimed that Marie and Arabella were bosom pals; they tolerated each other on church committees and exchanged pleasantries when required on social occasions, but Hubert and Peregrine had become firm friends. At least once a week one of them would knock on the other’s study door, to be admitted for a session with cigar box and decanter for the purpose of putting the world to rights, and moral issues came
to the fore again when Edward VIII succeeded to the throne early in January 1936. ‘What about this Simpson woman?’ was on everyone’s lips. Peregrine couldn’t see why the young idiot didn’t keep her as his mistress, as every predecessor had done, but of course Hubert, after years of living under Marie’s influence, could not agree. In fact the gossip about the royal carryings-on completely overshadowed the ominous happenings in Germany and Italy, until the abdication in December.

  Nazi invasions and pogroms, the Spanish Civil War, all seemed remote from the blissful contentment in the tennis and bridge clubs, on the beaches and golf course. The Guernsey airport at the Villiaze was opened purely to enable civil aircraft to carry holiday makers and business men more quickly and conveniently across the English Channel.

  Sarah only wished it could have been possible for Ethel to fly all the way from New Zealand to Guernsey. The reason her sister had never returned was simply that the round boat trip took too long and it would be unfair of her to be away from Paul all that time. And anyway, she was too busy in 1937 giving birth to her fifth son.

  *

  Two years later, Greg was loading deck chairs into the car, ready to leave for the beach on a gloriously fine Sunday morning in early September, when Sarah rushed out of the back door, brandishing a knife loaded with butter intended for the sandwiches. ‘Darling! I don’t think we ought to go!’

  ‘Oh Mummy! Why not?’ Suzanne shouted from her bedroom.

  ‘What’s up, sweetheart?’ Greg stared at her in amazement. He knew his Sarah wouldn’t give up a day on the beach lightly.

  ‘They’ve just announced on the wireless that Neville Chamberlain is going to speak.’

  Having invaded Poland two days ago, the Germans had been warned by England to get out . . . or else . . .

  War.

  Everyone was on the beach by lunchtime, the implications of Neville Chamberlain’s announcement the sole topic of conversation.

  ‘I hope John won’t have to join up.’ Mary’s voice was as dreary as her chicken sandwiches.

  ‘No chance,’ Sarah assured her. ‘He’s far too old. But I bet Greg will have to go.’

  ‘Bah!’ Marie exclaimed. ‘That’s all Tommy rot! Granted, Chamberlain said a state of war exists, but that’s not to say the British Army’s going off thousands of miles to fight someone else’s battles.’

  ‘Distance never put them off before,’ John pointed out.

  ‘Like when?’ Marie demanded.

  ‘The Crimea. South Africa. China.’

  ‘Bah!’ The cherries on Marie’s straw hat shook with the indignation of being proved wrong.

  Filly, Gus and their little girl Anne, were sitting with the Ozanne crowd. Gus, a perpetually cheerful character, laughed. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll soon have the Hun on the run. Doesn’t stand a chance against British grit!’

  John, who had been totting up the known strength of German forces, confined himself to an expressive ‘Hmmm!’

  ‘I don’t see how this State of War is going to make any difference to us at all. Father says Guernseymen don’t have to join up.’ Aline stood up, smoothing her slinky bathing suit over her hips. ‘Anyone for a swim?’

  And for a while it seemed she was right: their lives were unaffected.

  *

  A week later Sarah found her mother in the garden under a wide floppy hat from which irritating wisps of hair had escaped. Armed with secateurs, the wheelbarrow close at hand, Marie was attacking the wild tangle of geraniums and dahlias, asters and antirrhinums which had spent the late summer elbowing each other for prime space in the borders. ‘Hello Ma! I thought you might be out here.’

  Marie straightened, clutching her back. ‘Well! I didn’t expect to see you today!’

  ‘Suzanne is back at school after the holidays so I thought I’d come out to see you, and bring the news that you have another granddaughter.’

  Marie looked puzzled. ‘Who this time? Don’t say your sister has had a girl at last?’

  Sarah shook her head. ‘No, unfortunately. Poor Ethel would love to have had a girl.’ Ethel hadn’t said so, but little Sam’s arrival two years ago had finally ended their efforts to produce a daughter. ‘No, I’ve had a letter from Annemarie. She’s given birth to a little sister for Josette and Marivonne, two weeks ago. They’ve named her Sarah after me and asked me to be her godmother.’

  Marie pulled off her gardening gloves. ‘So, how many grandchildren is that, then?’

  ‘John and Mary’s three,’ they had had another boy, Charles, the previous year; ‘Paul and Ethel’s five makes eight; William’s three is eleven and Suzanne makes twelve,’ Sarah said, counting on her fingers.

  ‘That’s a good round number, as long as no one decides to make it unlucky thirteen.’

  Silence.

  Marie stared at her, quizzically.

  Sarah flushed.

  Marie cocked her head on one side. ‘You’re not, are you?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘Well! We’ll have to rely on Bertie for a fourteenth as soon as he can.’

  Greg was very excited. ‘You shouldn’t be doing that!’ he growled, finding her trimming back some of the bushes in their garden next day.

  ‘Why on earth not? I’m not ill!’ Sarah retorted. ‘Anyway, it all needs to be done before the weather breaks. I’ve cut down those dead delphinium stalks from the back, by the hedge. There should be a wonderful display there next year.’

  ‘Ever thought of entering them in the North Show?’

  ‘That’s in August: too late, they’ll be finished by then. But I might enter my arums in the Spring Flower Show.’ They walked together into the bungalow. ‘Kiff phoned earlier. She wants us to be in the badminton team going down to Jersey . . .’

  ‘No!’ Greg stopped on the doormat. ‘I don’t want you playing badminton this winter. Tennis is one thing, but badminton is all overhead, reaching.’

  ‘Oh come on! It won’t do any harm this early!’

  ‘I just don’t want you to.’ Greg left his boots by the door and went to the sink to wash his hands. ‘Now. What’s for lunch?’

  So Greg played with other partners that winter, Sarah going with him on club evenings to sit knitting little garments.

  They played bridge with George and Margery every Tuesday, and it was with a long face that George arrived one October evening. ‘Have you heard about the Royal Oak?’ he asked. ‘A Jerry U-boat has got into Scapa Flow and sank her.’ The loss of any craft was a tragedy to George, but the Royal Oak!

  Greg and Sarah had not heard the news and were horrified, but all were slightly mollified the following month when, after it was damaged by the Royal Navy, the Germans scuttled their Graf Spee. But all these things seemed remote. Even when the enemy dropped a few bombs on London.

  ‘What’s the difference?’ Greg asked. ‘If it’s not the Jerries it’s the ruddy IRA. They didn’t manage to maim any kiddies in Picadilly Circus a couple of weeks ago, so now they’ve had a go at Victoria Station and King’s Cross. Managed to kill one person and mutilate a couple of dozen more.’

  Margery said, ‘Three no trumps,’ bringing him back to the matter in hand.

  *

  Hubert, Peregrine and John were all worried, casting a grey cloud of gloom over the Christmas festivities, but the New Year parties were as bright as ever.

  Suzanne spent that night at Val du Douit, staying up late to assist her mother and aunts to get ready. She longed to be grown up and wear a lovely long dress with a beautiful corsage pinned to her shoulder. Revellers at the Royal Hotel toasted the few British service uniforms on the dance floor and, conflicts forgotten, sang in the New Year as heartily as ever.

  *

  ‘What’s this?’ Greg eyed the plate of lunch Sarah put in front of him, with misgivings.

  ‘Risotto.’ Sarah heaved her expanding girth onto her chair and picked up her fork.

  ‘Made with what?’

  ‘Onions and vegetables, rice and sausagemeat.’
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  He sighed, but said nothing as he began to eat. He knew it was difficult trying to dream up interesting meals, now that food was rationed; with the war continuing at sea and German U-boats and mines creating a constant threat to shipping, there seemed little prospect of improvement in the near future.

  The whole family was feeling depressed at the moment. Dear old Nelson, who had been a very important member of the household since before Suzanne was born, had finally come to the end of his days. Seeing his shaggy friend blind, and wracked with painful arthritis, Greg had made the dreaded decision last week and called the vet. Nelson was buried under the elms where he had scratched lazily at his fleas, gnawed well-matured ox bones and dreamed of successful rabbit chases on L’Ancresse Common. All three were distraught, but especially Suzanne.

  ‘Why, Mummy? Why did he have to die?’

  ‘We all have to when our bodies get very old and wear out. Then we leave our bodies down here and go to heaven.’

  Suzanne knew all about heaven and how lovely it was up there, but it did not help the fact that Nelson was no longer there to share her lonesome, imaginary games, lying across the kitchen doorway or trying to sneak onto the settee when no one was looking. ‘But if everyone dies, then soon there’ll be no one left.’

  ‘There is always new life coming to replace the ones who go, darling.’ Sarah’s hand clutched instinctively at her swollen stomach as a tiny foot struck out from within.

  ‘You mean we are going to have a little puppy to take Nelson’s place?’ The tears were wiped away with a grin.

  No, that was not what Sarah had meant. However, she thought it might be something worth mentioning to Greg. ‘Perhaps. One day.’

  And it just so happened that Jean Quevatre’s half-breed sheep dog had got out of the barn while she was in season in January, resulting in a mismatched litter from which Suzanne was allowed to choose Nelson’s replacement as a special Easter present. She called him Toby and from the first sleepless night of howling for his mother, Suzanne insisted on sharing her bed with him.