*
The war was obviously won, but the fighting continued. British, American and Russian troops surged across Europe towards each other, while bombers and Doodlebugs flew in opposite directions aiming to destroy cities and kill their inhabitants . . . and still the Channel Islands remained Occupied.
‘The pity is,’ George remarked, ‘that the German Commandant ousted from Brest has taken over command here, vowing to fight to the last man!’ The Inselkommandant, Graf von Schmettow, who had established himself in Guernsey as a comparative gentleman, had been replaced at the end of February, 1945, by Vizeadmiral Friedrich Huffmeier, an avowed Hitlerite hardliner.
‘When will he ever budge?’ Gelly asked, eyes filled with despair.
Sarah hunched her shoulders, sighing. ‘I cannot imagine why he is hanging on. What for, now France, Italy, all the European countries have been liberated? At this rate he could stay on forever.’
‘My Suzy has decided not to wait,’ George reported. ‘I think she must have elected to follow the escapees.’ Suzy was his elderly, moth-eaten tabby cat, noted for her lunatic adventures and anti-social behaviour. ‘What’s up?’ he asked, seeing Greg and Sarah glance significantly at each other.
‘Well . . . I suggest you keep her in, when she does eventually turn up,’ Greg said.
‘Why?’
‘A number of pets, chickens, and even a goat have gone missing round here, recently.’
George’s eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t mean . . .?’
Sarah spread her hands, a gesture of helplessness. ‘People are starving. Literally. We even keep Toby in our bedroom at night.’
‘That’s going a bit far, isn’t it?’ George laughed. ‘You’re not suggesting anyone would break into the house and snatch him from the kitchen?’
‘You might think it’s funny. But Mr Robin had his hens in his scullery, and two of them went in one night!’ Greg retorted.
‘It was one of old Annie Bishop’s goats that was pinched,’ Sarah added. ‘Now she keeps the other two in her house. The place stinks, but at least she still has some goat milk.’
George rubbed a hand over his chin. ‘Hell! I hope nothing has happened to poor Suzy. She was always a crabby old cat, even when she was young. But I’d hate to think she finished up in a pot.’
‘I’m told they taste quite like rabbit.’ Greg gave a sly grin.
‘A blooming tough rabbit, in Suzy’s case,’ her owner growled. ‘If they have got her, I hope she breaks every tooth they possess!’
Suzy never did return, and thereafter anyone who complained of toothache was suspect.
*
Islanders had been warned in the newspaper, that electricity would finally be cut off on February 25th, 1945, which meant long, dark evenings and no gramophone.
‘There’s a wind-up gramophone in the attic at Les Marettes,’ Greg told Sarah. ‘Shall I see if I can get it?’
‘Depends on who is at home at the time,’ she said dubiously. ‘If our Christmas friends are still there, they might agree to you fetching it. But I wouldn’t fancy your chances with the big, arrogant blond. He looks the sort to put the boot in on the least excuse.’
‘You should try to stop making these judgements about people,’ he scolded. ‘You don’t know he’s like that.’
Only two days later the officer in question arrived at the bungalow with three soldiers, knocked on the door and demanded to know whether they had an illegal radio.
Fortunately it was Sarah who answered the door: had it been Daisy or Belle they would have given the game away immediately, stammering, blushing and looking guilty as could be. ‘Radio?’ Sarah looked puzzled. ‘But we had to hand in our radios years ago. You don’t imagine we would break the law?’
Blondie, whose hair was totally concealed at the time under his peaked cap, slapped his boots with his swagger stick. ‘It vill be necessary to search ve premises.’
‘Certainly. Do come in,’ she invited.
‘Of course. I intend to.’ He swept past her into the living-room, directing his men to other rooms, and proceeded to peer behind pictures and the mirror over the mantelpiece, raising them from the wall with the tip of his stick.
Richard rushed in from his bedroom. ‘Hallo! Happy Christmas.’ And flung himself at the immaculate knees. The German frowned and disengaged himself. ‘What is in there?’ he asked, pointing his stick at the gramophone.
Sarah told him.
‘Hmm. Ve vill take a look. Corporal,’ he called.
One of the soldiers came running, and opened up the cabinet, searching every corner. ‘Nein, Herr Lieutenant.’
Alice was sitting in her chair, placidly watching it all happening, but she looked very alarmed when the swagger stick was directed at her knitting-bag. She snatched it up, holding it against her chest. ‘No! You can’t have it!’ she shouted.
Blondie nodded at the corporal, who held out his hand to Alice.
Greg came in from the scullery. ‘What’s happening?’
‘They want to search your mother’s bag and she’s not having any!’ Sarah explained.
He crossed the room and shouted at his mother. ‘Come on, Ma! They only want to look inside!’
‘No, I have nothing to hide!’ Then she hung her head. ‘Well only a little.’
Greg frowned, took the bag from her and handed it over, terrified they might demand to take up the carpet next, disclosing not only the radio, but also the illicit food they had hidden with it. At least he could only be sent to prison here; they could no longer deport people.
The corporal emptied the contents of the bag onto the coffee table . . . and Alice began to weep, the evidence of her guilt plain to see. She had been hiding a secret cache of chocolate . . . four little squares from a bar which Sarah had distributed round the family.
Greg and Sarah stared, unsmiling, at the German officer.
He had the grace to look uncomfortable, but said, ‘Ve haf to do vis, you understand. It iss our duty.’
One of the other soldiers had made a cursory and unsuccessful search of the upholstered furniture.
Blondie clicked his heels, gave the briefest bow of his head, and led his troops out onto the drive.
Belle’s head peeped round the door, eyes rolling in alarm. ‘They gone?’
‘Yes! Come on in,’ Sarah called. ‘You needn’t worry.’
‘No?’ Belle came in, checked the room was cleared of the enemy, then whipped up her jumper, shoved a hand down between her once ample bosoms . . . withdrawing the crystal set and headphones.
Sarah gaped, open-mouthed.
Greg let out a bellow of laughter. ‘There was I, praying they wouldn’t roll back the carpet, and all the time the perishing thing was concealed in your corsetry!’
*
William and Annemarie decided, after much soul searching, that they should invite Marie and Aline to spend the remaining months of the war with them, in their house in Cornwall. It was a decision they were to regret many times, due almost entirely to Aline’s persistent agitating.
Aline was always sweet smiles, charming and affectionate towards the three girls, and eager to demonstrate her willingness to assist in the house in every way . . . when Marie was present to witness her performances. Alone with her mother she criticised endlessly. ‘What a pity the children are so badly brought up.’ ‘You would think Annemarie would have made more effort to speak proper English.’ ‘Now William has fallen in the honeypot, you’d think he could pay a maid to help in the house and not expect me to do so much.’
Alone with Annemarie, Aline placed the onus of criticism with Marie. ‘Mother complains she cannot understand your accent. Can’t you do something about it?’ ‘Mother finds it impossible to nap in the afternoons because of the noise from the children.’ And to William, ‘It’s a pity you don’t get a maid for poor Annemarie. I know she would never complain but Mother thinks she is having to do far too much.’
Petty tensions arose, like which day what items of t
he weekly wash should be done; the suitability of children’s menus for their grandmother. Even who should occupy which armchairs in the drawing-room.
When Suzanne arrived for the Easter holidays she was immediately aware of an uncomfortable atmosphere. Fortunately, during the number of holidays spent living in close proximity to her grandmother and aunt, she had become wise to Aline’s little ways. Some girls of fifteen might still be regarded as children, but Suzanne had had to grow up quickly; of necessity she was emotionally toughened, her eyes were opened to see the true thinking behind charming smiles. She was streetwise. Finding Annemarie in tears in the kitchen one morning, she didn’t mince words. ‘Aunt Aline been busy with her wooden spoon again?’
The Frenchwoman stared at her in speechless amazement.
‘You mustn’t let her upset you. She does it with everyone. That’s why they’ve had to move so often.’
Annemarie blew her nose. ‘I’m sure she means well . . .’
‘Hah! Don’t you believe it!’ Suzanne shook her head. ‘You should just hear her stirring things up with Gran! I’ve sat through lots of evenings with them when they’ve had people in for a coffee and a chat. All smiles and sympathy, and telling the visitors how clever or how brave they were. Huh! No sooner had they left than the criticisms began, and whoever it was, they were torn to bits across the fireplace.’
‘Vis is true? But . . . you are very young. Perhaps you did not understand . . .’
‘I jolly well did! And one evening I blew up and said I thought they were wicked.’
Annemarie’s eyes flew wide. ‘What happened?’
‘Gran didn’t speak to me for a week. It was hilarious. We had this tiny dining-table and she would say to Auntie, “Aline, tell Suzanne to pass the jam.” Of course I made it much worse by laughing!’
Annemarie’s face lightened into smiles. ‘You naughty girl!’
Thereafter, when Aline started her tricks, Annemarie, William and Suzanne exchanged secret smiles, and one of them would make a slight, stirring motion with one hand. The irritations continued but were easier to bear.
*
The western world was preparing to celebrate. Despite the heavy Allied losses at Arnhem, Germany was utterly defeated, the Russians, advancing westwards, had met the American forces on the Elbe and soon the link up between all the Allies was continued south through Austria. All Europe was liberated.
But sadly, not all the news was good. William happened to be in the house when the telegram addressed to his mother was delivered, and he elected to open the ominous envelope himself. Half an hour later, when he had recovered his composure, he assembled the adult members of the family in the drawing-room.
Marie, sensing tragedy, sat on the settee clutching a handkerchief.
Aline’s hair was a mess and she made no attempt to hide her irritation at being summoned right in the middle of experimenting with a new hairstyle.
Annemarie had been forewarned.
William’s face was white, grave, as he held the telegram significantly to his chest. ‘Mother. This was addressed to you but I took the liberty of opening it. It’s tragic news, I’m afraid. It’s Bertie. “Lieutenant Colonel Herbert Ozanne was killed in action.” At Arnhem.’ He passed the telegram to Marie.
She took the paper, face crumpled with pain. ‘First my home, then my husband. Now Bertie. Why must I lose everything, everyone I love?’
Aline moved onto the settee to put an arm round her mother.
Annemarie got up. ‘I’ll put on ve kettle,’ she murmured, well aware of the English need for tea in a crisis.
Later they learned that Arnhem had claimed many lives. Aubrey Laurence was one, winning a posthumous V.C.; Mary Ozanne’s brother-in-law, Nancy’s husband, was another. Earlier, Joseph had survived the sinking of his ship, and spent the remainder of the war in a P.O.W. camp in Germany. R.S.M. Marcel Quevatre was decorated twice, with the M.M. and D.S.M., making his wife Emily, one-time maid at Val du Douit, and his parents Jean and Mabel, very proud. Augustus Warwick became a full colonel.
While personal news filtered through, exiles and captives alike listened impatiently to every news report, rejoicing at the announcement of Hitler’s death . . . irritated at the news that Admiral Doenitz was to succeed him as Führer.
Why? everyone asked at the beginning of May. Virtually all German forces had surrendered. What did he hope to achieve?
*
The signing of the unconditional surrender of Germany by General Jodl on May 7th, 1945 was greeted with unprecedented jubilation: church bells rang, blackout curtains were torn down, aggrieved neighbours hugged each other with joy. And on the following day the Victory in Europe celebrations were written into the history books.
*
‘But what about Guernsey?’ Marie had demanded furiously. ‘It’s all very fine everyone celebrating V.E. Day, but we have nothing to celebrate!’
‘It’s this old fool, Huffmeier, refusing to surrender,’ William repeated. ‘Until he does the British cannot go ashore.’
‘Poor Sarah. She must be fed up!’
Sarah was fed up, but for a different reason. Just when their attention was entirely fixed on the news bulletins, Alice had gone missing again. Greg had taken Richard out on his bike to St Sampson’s to see if they could see HMS Bulldog out in the Russel, so she had to go and hunt for the old lady herself. She went straight to Les Marettes, and sure enough, there was Alice in the kitchen, trying unsuccessfully to converse with one of the batmen.
‘You coming home, Ma?’ Sarah yelled.
At that moment Blondie, the arrogant officer, came in, saw her and began asking, ‘Vot iss ve problem?’ But he stopped short, staring at the top of her dress, face a mask of fury.
Automatically her hand went up . . . and she burst out laughing as she encountered the earphones, hanging round her neck. ‘Oopsy-daisy!’ she exclaimed, then asked, ‘Well, are you going to send me to prison in Germany?’
He gave her a cold glare. ‘Next time, perhaps?’
She shook her head. ‘Something tells me there won’t be a next time,’ and taking Alice by the hand she led her out of the house.
Greg was waiting when they arrived home. ‘Come on, quickly. Get on your bike, we’re going into Town.’
‘What for?’
‘What for! To see the British coming ashore at the harbour.’
‘So soon?’
‘Some are ashore already.’ Richard was waiting, strapped in his cycle-seat as they wheeled the bikes out onto the lane and pedalled away.
‘A pity we couldn’t bring Belle and Polly with us,’ Sarah puffed.
‘Polly would not enjoy the crowds. She’ll see the Tommies soon enough.’
Thousands of islanders lined the railings along the old harbour, and stood precariously close to the landties on the Albert Pier. A landing craft had coasted up into the harbour entrance and was still disgorging vehicles loaded with soldiers and equipment. People screamed with excitement, hugged the soldiers who were dishing out sweets, chocolate and cigarettes, and waved flags over their heads.
‘Where on earth did they get all those Union Jacks?’ Sarah was incredulous.
‘Someone had a stock of them hidden away. George says they have been selling them in Town for the past week, with Krauts looking on, helplessly. Like you and your headphones. I’d love to have seen Blondie’s face,’ he added. He had enjoyed her story as they cycled along the Banques.
The euphoria lasted for weeks but the emotional upheaval, added to advanced malnutrition, soon took its toll, and ecstasy gave way to total exhaustion.
As supplies flowed in from the mainland, warnings were issued publicly about not eating too much at first, and Sarah took them very seriously. She didn’t want a repetition of the incident Dr Walker told her about, when a ravenous young man had devoured everything in his first Red Cross parcel at one sitting . . . and his violently protesting stomach had had to be pumped out in hospital. Such a terrible waste.
*
‘I can’t imagine many people eating normally again for ages,’ Edna remarked to Sarah when she and John visited Les Mouettes for a joint celebration. ‘There are soldiers camped on the top field by Big Bertha, and I invite them down for meals. Well! You should see the amount they put away at one sitting! More than we’ve been eating in a month.’
‘There are some Tommies camping at Bordeaux, too, and Richard is absolutely fascinated,’ Greg told her. ‘They come here with their washbags to bath and shave, and the boy loves to go back with them to their tents. Not least to share their chocolate, I suspect.’
‘Have you heard from Suzanne, yet?’ John asked.
‘No. We’ve written, but heaven knows how long the letters will take to arrive.’ Greg smiled gently at Sarah: poor darling, she could scarcely wait to hear.
*
Suzanne had written on Guernsey’s Liberation Day. She found it extraordinarily difficult to know what to say, where to begin, what they might want to hear. In the end she decided to relate a condensed story of her time in Wales and the train journeys in the holidays to visit Gran and Auntie, and Aunt Filly. She remembered the photo that Filly had taken two or three summers ago at a picnic, and managed to unearth it to send in her letter. And she asked for them to send a photo of themselves—the locket Mummy had given her the night before she left the island was lost long ago and she honestly could not remember what either of her parents looked like. Now all she wanted was a reply.
*
‘I think I will have to go across to England as soon as possible and tell Mary what has happened,’ John told Edna. ‘Better that than have her arrive here to face the situation not knowing anything about it.’ He was quite adamant that nothing his wife could do or say would make him resume his marriage to her.
‘Perhaps I should be with you, staying in a hotel or somewhere in the background. Just to give you moral support.’ Edna was terribly concerned for him.
He patted her hand. ‘Don’t worry. She cannot change my mind, my love.’ He was feeling quite confident. Remembering how distant their relationship had always been, he couldn’t imagine Mary being anything but glad to end their marriage. She might even have formed another attachment herself. He hoped.
The Guernsey Saga Box Set Page 27