The Guernsey Saga Box Set

by Diana Bachmann

  Despite the blustering, showery weather, they enjoyed the journey across the island as though it was a huge adventure. Polly became a little withdrawn as they entered the house, but she soon settled down, particularly when Sarah asked her to help keep an eye on Richard. From then on she became his self-appointed nursemaid-cum-playmate. As for Belle, Sarah was to wonder many times in the coming months why she hadn’t sought to establish this situation long ago . . . for her own benefit, for the black woman was to prove a tower of strength and a genius at inventing new ways of cooking and serving meals concocted from virtually nothing.

  Greg and Sarah had both attempted to forewarn his mother of the peculiarities of the new lodgers and actually believed they had succeeded until Alice walked into the kitchen, saw Belle for the first time, screamed and fainted. Far from being offended Belle thought the episode was hilarious, but even when the old lady recovered and accepted her, she was never able to understand Belle’s accent, even with the ear-trumpet stuck firmly in place.

  *

  By the end of October the weather had become very cold and to conserve fuel everyone at Les Marettes except Greg, stayed in bed as late as possible, likewise retiring early—unless a good bridge session was in progress. Sarah had just got up and put on her dressing-gown and slippers one morning when Daisy ran upstairs. ‘Missus! Mr Ozanne is in the kitchen with a lady. Can you come down?’

  Mr Ozanne? That would have to be John. ‘Yes, of course. Ask him . . . them to wait in the sitting-room.’ What did he want at this hour, and why hadn’t he phoned before coming? Sarah dragged a brush through her hair and hurried down. ‘John! Edna! To what do I owe this . . .’ she was going to say ‘honour’, but her attempt at early morning humour was stopped by the grave expression on John’s face. ‘What on earth’s the matter?’

  ‘You’d better sit down. I’ve asked Daisy to fetch Greg from the vinery, so we’ll wait till he comes in.’

  She was overwhelmed by a sudden panic. ‘What is it? Not . . . not Suzanne . . .?’

  ‘No. Nothing to do with Suzanne. Ah, I think I hear Greg coming in, now.’

  Greg entered in stockinged feet, having hurriedly left his boots by the back door. ‘John! Nice to see you, but you’re a bit early aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sorry about that but I didn’t want to phone that we were coming as Sarah would be sure to ask the purpose of our visit.’ He took out his wallet and withdrew the familiar paper of a Red Cross message. ‘I’ve just received this. It’s from Ma. Pa passed away on the fifteenth of August.’

  Sarah gasped. ‘Oh no, John!’ She left her chair to go to her brother, put her arms round him and bowed her head onto his shoulder. ‘Pa! Dear God, why? How?’

  ‘A stroke, apparently.’ He patted her back, trying to offer some form of comfort and feeling totally useless, totally devastated himself.

  Sarah took a step back. ‘So the party we celebrated on his birthday last month . . .’

  John nodded slowly. ‘Yes. We were drinking his health a month after he had died.’ He drew a hand over his face.

  Greg and Edna both moved to comfort their partners.

  After a few minutes Sarah asked, ‘What do we do now, if anything?’

  ‘I’ll put a notice in the paper. Apart from that I don’t know what happens. I have been using farm money to run things, but I don’t know if that is legal any more.’

  ‘You’ll have to see Advocate Mahy and the bank manager,’ Greg said. ‘But there is no point in rushing things. Take your time. Presumably he has left the farm to you, anyway.’

  John shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know. He has six children, remember.’

  ‘I suppose Ma and Aline will let Ethel know what has happened. And I wonder where Bertie is?’ Sarah tightened the girdle of her dressing-gown. ‘I’d better go and get dressed. Do you two want to stay to lunch?’

  ‘I brought a little piece of belly pork I cooked with some beans yesterday, just in case you asked us,’ Edna said. ‘There won’t be enough for a big helping for everyone but we can all have a taste.’

  ‘Marvellous. I’ll do some vegetables to go with it. I won’t be long,’ and she hurried up to her room for the long suppressed weep that was fighting to spill over.

  There was a family photo on the bedroom wall, taken when Bertie was still a baby. Pa looked so proud, sitting alongside Ma with the children around them. Under his quiet, strict exterior, he was such a staunch family man; proud of his heritage, of the farm and his management of it. He loved the island, St Saviour’s, and Val du Douit—passionately. It had been such a wrench to leave it . . . but how much worse to die in exile, never having seen it all again. No doubt it was his exile that killed him.

  When Sarah rejoined the others in the sitting-room, she said, ‘How about coming down here to spend Christmas Day with us, this year? Frankly, I don’t think I could face it at Val du Douit.’

  John shrugged. ‘We’ll talk about it nearer the time.’

  *

  Captain Hubert Ozanne was in North Africa when Aline’s letter arrived. Bertie sat on the bed in his tent reading and rereading it, garnering every detail, trying to picture his parents in exile, and failing. He had left home ten years ago to train for a military career, living in a variety of barracks and billets, comfortable officers’ quarters and impossibly uncomfortable tents—as now, where sand penetrated every dish and glass and every body orifice. And always, wherever he was, Val du Douit was a vivid beacon in his mind, the central constant of his life. It wasn’t just a house or a farm, it was comprised of people, family gathered round a blazing hearth on wet Sunday evenings; laughter round the dinner table, teasing insults shouted across the tennis net . . . and Pa had been an integral part of it. Though as a fledgling Bertie could hardly wait to fly the nest, his sole intent on each leave was to return to Val du Douit, his Valhalla. A castle in the air? And now that Pa, its cornerstone, was gone, would the castle still stand?

  He stared at the pen and writing materials on the upturned crate which served as table and desk. He knew he should write to his mother immediately, but decided that instead, it would be a good night to get quietly drunk.

  *

  March 1943 was cold, or at least it seemed so to islanders who had little food or fuel to warm them. It was automatic for Sarah to set a rug or blanket on each chair when preparing the bridge table so that everyone could wrap themselves up before the cards were dealt. Occasionally criticism of a partner’s bidding would start an argument which so heated the atmosphere that the rugs were discarded, but not for long. It was the evenings without cards that became tedious. Now that the radios had been confiscated, evenings listening to wireless entertainment were a thing of the past and they couldn’t even rely on books to occupy their minds, the electricity supply so bad that the poor light strained their eyes. Even the gramophone was sometimes useless, the turntable revolving irregularly, ruining every record. Greg and Sarah relied on George to pass on news from his illicit crystal set, which meant days would pass when they heard nothing, as the Germans intended.

  ‘I’m going to get a crystal radio,’ Greg announced at breakfast one day as he picked unidentifiable objects out of his one slice of grey bread. It seemed such a waste to shrink it under the toaster. ‘Bert will make one for me.’

  ‘Where will you keep it? It’s no use bringing it here until you have planned somewhere to hide it.’ Sarah had come downstairs early with him—breakfast being the only meal they could have alone.

  ‘There is a spot near the door in number three where old tomato boxes and grape trays have been piled up over the broken pipe. If I move a couple of boxes I can get the radio into the hole in the pipe. With the boxes replaced no one would dream there was anything there.’

  ‘Sounds all right but we will have to be jolly careful. Edna told me at Christmas about Mr le Boutillier.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He saw a bunch of Germans coming up the path and he quickly hid his crystal set. The Germans knocked
on his door and when he answered they asked if he had a radio. He said no, of course not, he knew it wasn’t allowed. So they asked him why he was wearing earphones.’

  ‘Silly ass! I hope you’re not suggesting I’d be that daft?’

  Three days after Greg brought home a crystal radio, he was listening in to the BBC when there was a knock on the door. He whipped off the earphones and said, ‘Quick, under your chair cushion,’ handing Sarah the set as well.

  When Greg re-entered the room with a German officer and three soldiers, together with a Guernsey official, Sarah was relaxing in her armchair, knitting, while the lumps of radio felt as though they were burning through to her bottom.

  Faces hidden behind expressionless masks, the Gaudions waited, hardly daring to breathe.

  The officer spoke and the official interpreted. ‘The German authorities wish to inspect this house.’ He gave an embarrassed smile. ‘With your permission I will escort them.’

  Greg swallowed. ‘Yes. Yes of course. I had better come with you as my elderly mother may be frightened by the uniforms.’

  The Guernseyman cast an enquiring look at the German officer who, having understood sufficiently, nodded agreement.

  Sarah stayed where she was, paralysed, sweat trickling down her back. What to do? Stuff the radio equipment up her jumper and pray she wasn’t caught dashing out to the greenhouse to hide it, or remain stuck where she was, fingers crossed that they wouldn’t ask her to move while they searched under the cushions?

  She was still listening to the boots progressing through the house when Greg returned. He dropped into the opposite armchair, mopping his face with a handkerchief. ‘Relax. If you can,’ he hissed. ‘They’re not after radios. They want the house!’

  Sarah’s eyes widened. ‘The house! The whole house?’

  Greg nodded, still trying to get his breath back.

  ‘But where would we go?’

  His shoulders lifted in despair. ‘Back to Les Mouettes, I suppose.’

  ‘The bungalow! But there isn’t room . . .’ she rubbed fingers over her forehead, as though trying to erase the additional wrinkles developing there by the minute.

  ‘It’s not certain yet. But if they decide we have to go, that’s it. Do we have an alternative?’

  ‘Andrew’s place would be too small,’ Sarah mused, ‘What about Val du Douit?’

  Greg shook his head. ‘I’d never get my Ma out there. It’ll be hell trying to move her anywhere, but St Saviour’s might just as well be Timbuctoo, as far as she’s concerned.’

  ‘But how could we all possibly fit into the bungalow?’

  ‘Us in our room: Ma in Suzanne’s room: Richard in the box room . . .’

  ‘And Belle and Polly? And Daisy?’

  ‘Maybe Daisy can go back to her own home to sleep. And we’ll have to convert the garage into an extra room.’

  Which just happened to be in line with an idea Sarah had had in 1939, the moment she had discovered she was expecting Richard. The box room was too small for a bedroom and they would need a decent room for the baby, but when she had broached the idea to Greg he had said no, they couldn’t afford it and would have to leave things as they were for a few years . . . Now perhaps there was a chance of it materialising. ‘If you reckon we can, let’s do it!’ It was an exciting thought . . . but didn’t occupy her mind for long, not once the boots descended the stairs again and the lumpy radio sent waves of fear shooting up her spine.

  The soldiers waited in the hall while their officer came in to click his heels and nod politely, and the Guernsey official said he would be in touch.

  Greg saw them out, and returned to find Sarah still sitting rigid as a ramrod. ‘My darling, if only you could see your face,’ he laughed. ‘It’s a good thing those blighters can’t read you like I can! You look as guilty as if you’d committed murder!’

  A letter was delivered two days later. They were to vacate Les Marettes within two weeks.

  *

  ‘Impossible!’ Sarah had fumed.

  But here they were. With the help of Messrs Vaudin and Roberts, the garage conversion was achieved within ten days and the men immediately started on a conservatory on the other side of the bungalow, leading out from the sitting-room, which would give considerable extra living space.

  Sarah’s main problem had been packing up Les Marettes while fending off the hindrance of Alice’s ‘help’. Polly continued to be a marvellous nursemaid and playfellow for Richard and Belle was extremely strong and practical. Wilf Bougourd, the Gaudion’s packer who was injured on the White Rock during the bombing raid, was back on his feet though with a permanent limp. He brought a cartload of tea chests for the china and ornaments, and George offered to store much of the furniture in his boatsheds.

  Meals remained alfresco for weeks: bedrooms were swapped around so that Sarah and Greg slept in the conversion until the decorating was finished and some of the furniture from Les Marettes moved in. The garage had been built originally to accommodate a workshop and clothes boiler at one end, plus ample room for a car, bicycles and fishing paraphernalia. The latter items were relocated in the garden shed, the car had been commandeered and the space was soon transformed into a comfortable double bedroom with its own bathroom attached. Access from house to garage had been along an open, roofed verandah from the kitchen. This was now extended and enclosed.

  ‘Belle and Polly will have the best room in the house, now!’ Sarah exclaimed, admiring the combined handiwork. Edna had rummaged through packing cases from Les Blanches Pierres and found matching curtains, bedspreads and cushions in floral polished chintz for Polly, which looked lovely with the antique mahogany furniture from Les Marettes.

  Some of Suzanne’s furniture had been squeezed into the box room for Richard, making way for a few of Alice’s treasured pieces. The old lady appeared delighted with the whole move, but Greg was worried about her. ‘I have an idea she thinks we’ve asked her to come on holiday with us. I don’t believe she has grasped the fact that the Jerries are in her house.’

  Two weeks later when the old lady disappeared, his point was proved. The whole household was in panic. Daisy had taken a tray of tea into Alice’s room and assumed from her absence the old lady had gone to the lavatory. When she returned to collect the tray and found it untouched, and Alice still missing, she reported it to Sarah, and the hunt was on. Greg was out, but the women all scoured the garden and lanes nearby. Then they moved farther afield . . . until Sarah remembered what Greg had said. ‘You all go back home and wait there for Mr Gaudion to return. I’m going to Les Marettes.’

  When she knocked, the door was opened by a German corporal who bowed his head politely, but with a big grin on his face. He said something unintelligible and disappeared, returning moments later to beckon her in. And there in the sitting-room surrounded by German officers was Alice, smiling happily and drinking real tea!

  All the men sprang to their feet and clicked heels as Sarah entered. One said in tolerable English, ‘You come for Frau Gaudion, yes?’

  ‘Yes. I’m very sorry if she has been a nuisance . . .’

  Alice looked up and saw her for the first time. ‘Sarah! Come and sit down. Would you like a cup of tea?’ on which she picked up the teapot and proceeded to pour—playing the perfect hostess in her own home.

  Before Sarah could reply, the English-speaking officer insisted she comply . . . which was how Greg found his wife and mother, ten minutes later.

  When they eventually arrived back at the bungalow, having been driven home in style by a German soldier in a commandeered ‘staff car’, the whole episode had developed hysterical proportions.

  ‘You should have seen the two of them,’ Greg told Belle, tears of laughter running down his face, ‘sitting there having a tea party with a battalion of Jerry officers!’

  ‘And real tea at that!’ Sarah added.

  ‘It was kind of them to bring you here,’ Alice remarked, getting up and fastening her cardigan buttons into the wrong
holes, ‘but I think I had better be getting home.’

  ‘You are home, Ma,’ Greg said, still grinning.

  ‘Yes, it was a nice car, but it wasn’t ours.’ She headed for the door, Daisy and Belle dashed off to the kitchen ahead of her, laughter exploding in their hankies.

  ‘No, Ma. But I’m trying to tell you that this is your home!’ he shrieked at the top of his voice, adding in normal decibels, ‘Where is her bally ear-trumpet? Don’t say she left it with the Krauts?’

  ‘There’s no need to shout, I can hear you perfectly well. Now,’ she looked around, frowning. ‘Where is my bally ear-trumpet.’

  It was Richard who saved the day. ‘Look, Gan Gan. Train!’ He tugged her arm for attention to his new toy.

  Alice adored him and was soon persuaded into his room to admire the trucks which went with the gleaming red engine . . . which had once belonged to his cousin Joseph, while the other members of the household collapsed in giggles.

  ‘Next time she goes there and I have to collect her, I’m taking a flask . . .’ Sarah began.

  ‘I thought they gave you tea,’ Greg interrupted. ‘You don’t have to take your own, do you?’

  ‘No, you ass! I want to tip their tea into my flask to bring home! Do you realise I hadn’t had a real cup of tea like that for nearly a year?’

  *

  It was old Mr Robin, Andrew’s next-door neighbour, who brought the news that Todt workers had moved into Andrew’s house. ‘They’ve cut holes in the walls for their stove pipes, and I’m afraid that every stick of wood they can tear out will go into that stove to cook their meals.’

  ‘Thank you for letting us know,’ Greg said, ‘but I don’t think there’s a darn thing we can do about it. One can’t blame the poor devils.’

  ‘Well that’s the way I see it, myself. They’re human beings, after all. Bill Mahy was telling me one of his cows on the Common was took bad. And while he was there one of these poor things came up and examined the animal. Well, Bill said, I didn’t know what to do but stand back and wait. And do you know, it turns out this bag of rags and bones was a qualified vet! Bill got chatting to him in French and the man said there was doctors and lawyers and all sorts of professions amongst them.’ He took off his cap to scratch his bald pate. ‘I dunno, but when one hears details about their original lives and all they’ve lost, one feels deep sympathy for them. The poor beggars don’t know what has happened to their wives and families, nor whether they’re alive or dead.’