“I wonder what the Laurences are doing for Christmas?” Greg said one day at breakfast. Colonel and Mrs Laurence had been deported to an internment camp in Germany during the war where the Colonel had died. Greg and Sarah had offered to look after their younger daughter Polly, sadly born disabled, and her black nursemaid, Belle, till the end of the war, a hugely successful arrangement all round.
“Nothing much, I imagine. They seldom go out. Let’s ask them,” Sarah suggested.
“Aren’t they related to us, somehow?” Sue asked.
“Yes. Paul Laurence married your aunt, Ethel.”
“You mean your sister in New Zealand?”
“That’s right.”
“I remember playing with Polly before the war. She was sweet, but I was scared stiff of Belle. There were other brothers and sisters, weren’t there? Wasn’t the eldest one a nancy boy? What’s happened to him?”
Sarah studiously avoided catching Greg’s eye. Their daughter was even more worldly-wise than they’d reckoned. “Aubry was killed during the war,” she said with a straight face. “And Piers and Victoria live in London, I believe.”
“Yes. I remember Auntie Aline saying they both ‘had bad blood’. Her lovely, old-fashioned way of saying they were rotters. Grandma Alice will be with us, won’t she?”
“Of course. And Uncle Andrew and Aunt Maureen.”
“And Sybil?” Sue asked hopefully. She had always hero-worshipped her beautiful, blonde cousin.
“I doubt it. You know she married that brigadier she was driving for during the war? They have a vast mansion in Wiltshire and a flat in London. Maureen says she is committed to entertaining his family over there.”
“What a shame. I’d so love to see her again.”
“You will, but not this Christmas thank goodness,” Greg laughed. “Your mother has twelve to cook for on the day without them.”
*
Christmas was a huge success, for everyone, or so it seemed. Marie Ozanne was delighted to announce the sale of Val du Douit to some company represented by an advocate, unaware that the surprisingly happy smiles they had encountered from John, denoted the fact that he and Edna owned the said company. A fact which would have ruined her Christmas, had she known.
Sarah had never been noted for her cooking: pre-war, her enthusiasm for sport had precluded any interest in culinary skills and the past five years of desperately trying to concoct meals from seaweed and horse carrots, cooked over pieces of timber burnt in the sitting room fireplace, had done little to improve matters. However, everyone congratulated her on producing a splendid Christmas dinner, especially the pudding. She lacked the courage to admit that her friend, Gelly, had made it and given it to her as a present.
Greg was happy with the repairs to the greenhouses, and had bought an agency for special pots for tomato plants. Andrew considered it a waste of good money, but realising that Greg did an immense amount more physical work than himself in their greenhouses, had wisely refrained from pressing the point.
Richard was very excited with his second-hand Meccano set and all the books from Santa Claus, and Sue gave him a wooden garage with cars in. Her mother was so pleased with her present of glass bowl and matching sundae dishes, that she insisted on washing them out and using them for lunch. Greg thanked her very much for the book of rude limericks, although some of them raised his eyebrows.
Quite apart from the lovely evening dress, her parents gave Sue a new bike to replace the rattly and rusty old James. But her best present came at teatime. The family was in the sitting room, balancing cups and saucers on the arms of their chairs and plates of Christmas cake on their knees, when the telephone rang in the hall.
Sue hurried out to answer and nearly wept with excitement as David Morgan’s voice wished her happy Christmas.
“David! Where are you?”
“Denbigh. Where did you expect?”
“You sound so close.”
“I wish I was.”
“Same here. When are we going to see each other? It’s been five months . . .”
“Well, it’ll be a bit longer yet. But I think I might be able to come to Guernsey in the summer.”
“Ooh! Super!”
They talked about their respective Christmases and presents, mutual friends, and how much they missed each other. Then blew kisses goodbye.
“Who was it?” Sarah wanted to know.
“David,” was the gleeful reply.
“David! You don’t mean the Welsh boy, phoning all the way from North Wales?”
“Yes!” Sue hugged herself with happiness. “Wasn’t that the most perfect present?”
Sarah raised her eyes to Heaven and nearly said, “A shocking waste of money,” but managed to stop herself in time. Better not upset Sue unnecessarily.
*
Gradually as the weeks and months passed, more and more time elapsed between the disagreements and arguments at Les Mouettes. Greg and Sarah were both relieved but Sue, pondering on their relationship, felt this was purely because she gave in to her parents demands all the time. She did it partly to earn their approval, something so obviously lacking from the moment of reunion. She wanted to love them, like she loved David, and for them to love her in return. But her obedience was also to stop Mum’s perpetual nagging. And when she elected to disobey, she invented magnificent fairy stories, especially to cover her dates with various boyfriends, even stopping her bike on the way home to run up and down a field, muddying her legs and developing a hot, sweaty look as though she had been playing hockey. Not that she was particularly keen on any of the boys: David was her real boyfriend.
*
They had met playing football in a cul-de-sac on a housing estate near the railway. At least he was playing with some boys including the one who lived next door to Fatty Hughes, Brian. Piles of coats marked the goalposts, a source of animated arguments about the score, frequent changes of end being demanded as the gradient definitely favoured those playing towards the coats at the bottom of the road.
Suzanne was feeling somewhat adrift, now that Meggie had left Denbigh to live with her parents in the south of England; plus the fact that, after four months of a sort of family life with her aunt and grandmother, she was back in the hostel while the billeting officer looked for an alternative billet after Mrs Hughes was removed from his list. She knew several of the girls at the hostel, though none were particular friends of hers; there was no one she could feel close to, chum up with. Having spent the first ten years of her life in a warm, demonstrative atmosphere where people touched, walked arm in arm or put a friendly arm round one’s shoulders, even hugged and kissed in a genuinely affectionate greeting or farewell, it was hard never to have anyone to touch or be touched by.
“Going to play, Sue?” Brian called, kicking the ball in her direction.
David, tall, blond, blue-eyed and devastatingly attractive, laughed. “Her! Girls don’t play football!”
Suzanne, hackles up immediately, stopped the ball with her left foot, dribbled it round two of the other boys and kicked hard with her right. By pure luck it sailed straight through between two piles of coats. She turned to face David, demanding “Who says?”
“Bet you couldn’t do that again!” he grinned.
“Could you? Show us.”
All the boys laughed. “Come on, Dave, might as well let her play.”
“In whose team?”
Thereafter Suzanne joined in quite regularly, making a fair contribution to the games and feeling generally accepted.
Despite David’s initial coolness, she was fascinated by him, though she wouldn’t have dreamt of showing it, matching his seeming indifference. So it was David who made the first move towards a casual, totally platonic friendship, unaware that a word from him, or a smile, quickened her pulse rate, made her heart thump. The group of teenagers met up most evenings and at weekends, occasionally setting out for picnics on their bikes or taking the short train journey up to the coast at Rhyl. There were other gi
rls in the group both from the County School and from Suzanne’s class, and inevitably there was a gradual pairing off, riding together, walking or sitting side by side. David often found his way to Suzanne, though much to her chagrin he sometimes deliberately moved to one of the other girls, invariably the beautiful Welsh girl, Marianne.
It took nearly a year before their relationship developed into something more than casual. Purely by chance the two were the only ones to arrive at the customary meeting point one Saturday, and after waiting awhile they set off on their bikes towards the river. David had heard it was flooding and they wanted to see it cascading under the stone bridge on the Bodfari road. The weather was cold and windy as they stood leaning over the lichen-covered parapet and Suzanne shivered, pulling her scarf tighter round her neck.
The next moment David’s arm was round her. “Too cold for you? Do you want to go home?”
That was the last thing she wanted! “I’m okay,” she whispered breathlessly, and snuggled closer against him.
His arm tightened.
The pair stood in silence, the river roaring under their feet unnoticed, neither able to think what to say. Then Suzanne felt David’s breath on her forehead and the next minute he was kissing her cheek.
She was very late for supper at the hostel. “I punctured my back tyre,” she lied, red in the face, having let the tyre down before coming in, just in case anyone decided to check. That night, lying in bed in the dark, she relived every moment, every touch, every kiss, hardly daring to believe that the most handsome boy she had ever met should be interested in her.
David Morgan was interested in several girls, and several subjects; he worked hard and played hard, studied, was keen to become an architect and had no intention of becoming seriously involved with any particular girl for years. Suzanne, on the other hand, had at last found someone on whom to centre her affection, to care about and who apparently cared about her, and as the Allied armies swept the German forces back across Europe, she became increasingly concerned about her impending separation from David on her repatriation to the island.
In the event she had been caught up in the general euphoria. Denbigh celebrated VE day in much the same way as cities, towns and villages throughout Great Britain: with services of thanksgiving, parades and, most of all, singing.
Suzanne and David went up the hill to the town square that evening to join their friends and, it seemed, the entire population. Coloured lights lit the area from end to end and loudspeakers relayed patriotic music and hymns. It was a scene Suzanne would never, ever forget. Every detail was etched vividly on her memory, but it was the glorious sound of thousands of Welsh voices raised in harmony, with Guide me Oh Thou Great Redeemer and Rock of Ages, which brought tears running down her face as she joined in, arm-in-arm with David on one side and a complete stranger on the other.
As long as the euphoria lasted, David figured little in Sue’s mind. Letters arrived from her parents, with photographs; she felt guilty that her memory of them failed to match up with the new pictures. Was that long, thin man with a stoop really her father! And who could the white-haired old lady be, with the little boy on her lap? She found difficulty starting her replies – there was so much to tell it was hard to know where to begin – but once she began, her letters went on and on. So with her mind fully focused on getting ‘home’ again, David took a back seat.
*
Until now. There was no doubt the homecoming and reunion, however exciting it had been at the time, had not proved an unqualified success. The worst of the problems had been ironed out but Sue could not feel the degree of affection she wanted, between herself and her parents. Sometimes she felt guilt, that it was all her fault: she was certainly criticised enough. Then at other times she blamed Greg and Sarah for their old-fashioned attitudes. So the warmth and affection she had shared with David blossomed in her own mind, becoming the dominant factor in her life, her desire to be with him overriding her love of Guernsey, and her desire to remain in the island.
Therefore, when John Ozanne, her uncle, offered her a full-time job as stable hand at Val du Douit, starting at two pounds a week, she immediately accepted. The offer was more than she could hope to get from Mr Gallienne and was an opportunity to save up, so that within two years she could get a similar job in North Wales. Near David.
“Can I start at Easter?” They were having breakfast at the kitchen table.
“May I,” Sarah corrected. “And no, you may not. You must wait till the school year ends in July, and give Mr Gallienne ample notice.”
Sue bit back an irritable response. Her mother constantly interrupted conversations to correct her grammar – as if it mattered – and also invariably refused all Sue’s requests, or so it seemed.
“I agree,” Greg said. “What’s more, I think it would make more sense for you to study towards a career. Surely you don’t want to spend the rest of your life mucking out stables?”
“I don’t want a career! I just want to earn a nest egg for my bottom drawer and then get married.”
“But you may not find anyone who wants to marry you,” Sarah argued.
“I have! David!”
“Don’t be silly! You’re only sixteen. You can’t imagine what you feel for that Welsh boy is anything more than a childish infatuation!”
Sue banged her porridge spoon into her empty bowl and pushed back her chair. “I see there’s no point in discussing it. You have no idea what I feel, or what David feels either.” She strode out of the room.
Sarah and Greg stared at each other and sighed. “What are we going to do with her?” she asked.
Greg’s eyebrows drew together. “I wonder if Edna could use her in the kitchen, in August and September? She’s a jolly good cook and Sue could learn from her.”
“What a brilliant idea! I’ll phone Edna and see what she says.”
Edna was happy to comply, and, much to her parents surprise, Sue promptly agreed. As soon as she left school she would work part-time in the stables and the rest of the day in the farm kitchen, where Edna prepared the cakes, gache and scones for her tea house.
*
“So you’ve come,” Marie remarked, glancing up from her knitting as Sue walked in to the sitting room of the little town house her aunt and grandmother had bought.
“Yes, of course. I said I would.” The girl slumped into an armchair, hot and tired from bicycling up the hill. “What are you making?”
“A bed jacket. And what have you been doing, apart from working for that woman? We don’t want to hear about that!”
“I can’t think why not. It’s super fun and I’m learning to cook,” Sue responded, her square chin, a replica of her father’s, uptilted. “I thought you would be pleased.” This was a fib. She was well aware of the fury in this house against Aunt Edna and the fact that she and Uncle John had secretly bought the farm.
“What makes you think there is anything the woman can teach you? She can’t cook to save her life.”
Sue also realised that though Aline was saying nothing, it was she who had made such remarks to Gran in the first place, goading her to repeat them. Much as she enjoyed working for her uncle and new aunt and was angered by these spiteful comments, Sue was determined to keep cool. “If that’s what you want to think, that’s okay. But I don’t agree with you. Anyway, I’m going to see if Auntie needs any help in the kitchen with tea.”
Over the teacups and hot Guernsey biscuits, the two ladies were regaled with stories about David Morgan, and the fact that he was coming over to stay in two weeks’ time. It was obvious that he didn’t meet with their approval either, despite never having met him, but seeing the girl’s excitement they wisely resisted the temptation to make adverse comments.
*
Sue stood on the dockside waiting as the Isle of Sark was drawn gently towards the land ties by the huge hawsers being wound onto her capstans, fore and aft. The small, cross-channel ferry was loaded with holidaymakers and it took Sue several minutes be
fore she spotted David and his parents. She was suddenly feeling rather nervous: would they both feel the same about each other after more than a year of separation?
She need not have worried. After the first shy greetings, he took her hand in his to walk back down the White Rock, Guernsey’s main harbour, to Greg’s car, where both her parents were waiting, and it felt good as they kept turning to smile at each other adoringly.
Sarah had seen Sue’s photos of David, several times, but was still dismayed at the sight of the large, handsome boy: how could any normal girl resist him? In the privacy of their bedroom, she and Greg had often discussed Sue’s ‘infatuation’, and each had assured the other that it was ‘just a passing phase’. They considered their daughter far too young to form an attachment, and when she finally did they wanted it to be with a Guernsey boy, not one who lived hundreds of miles away. They had even hoped that this meeting would bring an end to the friendship, but seeing them walking together hand in hand, gazing lovingly into each others’ eyes, Sarah’s heart sank. Though the mother-daughter relationship had been virtually severed by the wartime separation, she was sure the worst problems were over and, given time, all would be well again . . . unless Sue was determined to return to Wales as soon as possible, for good. She turned to smile sweetly at Mrs Morgan.
Apart from their accent which was hard to follow, the Gaudions could not fault the Morgans or their son: the boy’s manners were perfect and his keenness to please earned their grudging admiration.
Their reunion was all Sue could have wished for, and more. Strolling along the shoreline at Bordeaux, arms round each others’ waists, she had no doubt in her mind that ‘this was it’. True love, in all its glory.
“Did you wonder how it would be, meeting again?” she asked.
“Yep. I was scared to death. Our parents seem to hit it off, thank goodness.” Then he added, “I thought you might have changed completely.”
“But I haven’t.”
The Guernsey Saga Box Set Page 34