The Guernsey Saga Box Set

by Diana Bachmann

  “When it’s not raining, you mean?” his heavy jowls managed a smile. “Now look here, Stevie,” he was the only person to abbreviate the name since Stephen had left school, “I’ve got my son and his wife coming over for a week at the end of next month, and I want you to meet them. We had hoped, when he booked the date, that we would be in the house. As it is he’ll have to use hotel accommodation. Thought we might all get together. Will you have family over?”

  “Yes, indeed. The two at university should be home by then. The other two live here, anyway.” While he was talking, Stephen was doing some quick thinking. Would Sue kill him if he asked the Blaydon’s down to La Rocquette de Bas? But Blaydon had so worded his desire to get together, that he really had no option. “Why don’t you all come down to our place?”

  “Splendid idea! Let’s make a date.”

  “I’ll have a word with my wife when I get home, and ask her to phone you. Nearer the time, perhaps.” Who knows, something might crop up to delay the arrangement . . . indefinitely? Chance would be a fine thing, though he had to admit that apart from the times when Cy Blaydon was losing his rag, he was quite good, entertaining company. Pity about the wife and daughters, though.

  After dropping his client back at the hotel, Stephen drove down to the office wondering how he was going to broach the subject with Sue. Darling Sue. She really was his most precious and prized possession, but no one could deny she had a spirited temper when roused. Would she really be mad as hell at him? And there was something else on his mind which he felt a need to discuss with her. Roddy.

  Strictly speaking, Roddy was his second cousin as well as his stepson. Jonathan, the boy’s father, had been his first cousin, and although Stephen had known Sue when they were still at school and had adored her even then from a distance, Jonathan, the dashing ex-RAF wartime pilot had been any girl’s obvious choice of mate. Their marriage had nearly broken Stephen’s heart. Roddy, with his very blond hair and blue eyes, looked so like his father, was so unlike himself, that after Jonathan’s death, when Sue had finally turned to him for love and marriage, it had been difficult to see the boy as a son, though he was very fond of him. So not unnaturally, he was rather worried that Roddy was not showing quite the interest he, Stephen, felt he should in his chosen career as an architect. Up to a year ago, or even more recently, Roddy had seemed so enthusiastic about the subject, studied hard and gone on to university to read the subject before coming back to the island to work in the firm which bore his family name. But during the Easter vacation there had been a subtle change in the boy’s attitude. He still worked hard, paid attention . . . and gave the subject due lip service? For that was the way he was beginning to sound.

  *

  “You are joking, of course,” was Sue’s immediate reaction to the suggestion of entertaining the Blaydons. “Who on earth could we dilute them with? Uhtred and Tilly?”

  Stephen looked bashful and took her in his arms. “No! Definitely not Uhtred and Tilly. Nor Frank and Christine. But I tell who would cope with them beautifully – Sir Gordon and Lady Sybil!”

  Sue giggled. “Yes. Gordon would sort him out in no uncertain terms!”

  “And Sybil would make the wife look like a decorated carthorse, ready for the North Show!”

  “You realise we are being horrid?”

  “Yes. And you realise I cannot possibly turn them down without causing deep offence?”

  Sue hugged him. “I know you can’t, my darling. So you want me to ring that awful woman and make a date?”

  “Yes.” Stephen kissed her nose. The crisis point had passed without injury, but he elected to say nothing at the moment about Roddy.

  Which seemed, later, to have been a wise decision. In fact when Roderick, as he now preferred to be called, returned for the summer vacation having completed his second year at university, and settled down to some seriously hard draught work which he completed with precision and care, Stephen decided he had dreamed up the doubts he had felt at Easter.

  “Sir? Do you think that by facing this corner and the archway at the side in granite we tend to marry the extension into the theme of the old building, here, or does it make it look pseud?” Roderick stood back from the elevation on the drawing board, waiting for Stephen’s comments.

  “Pseud, as it stands. But once you’ve added the odd tree or Virginia creeper to this stretch of blank wall I think it will all blend in as though it had been there for a hundred years or more.” The work that the twenty-year-old had done was exquisite. Perfect in every detail. “That is a splendid job. Our clients will be delighted. But, Roderick, old man, do stop calling me sir, or Uncle. I think the time has come for you to call me Stephen, don’t you?”

  A flood of red climbed up Roderick’s neck. “If that’s all right with you . . . Stephen?”

  “Fine. Now shall we go out to the Blaydon place and see how the carpenters and decorators are getting on?”

  “You mean you want me to come with you?”

  “Yes. I’d like to get your angle on the interior design.”

  “I’m not much into decor and furnishings, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Have you touched on the subject at university?”

  “Not really. It’s been far more a matter of calculating loadbearing strengths for wall and girders, and making buildings blend into local environments. We’ve also covered a lot of detail on soil and subsoil in relation to foundations, and aspects regarding sunlight and the quality of plaster facings. But we’ve yet to open the book on interiors.”

  “That’s understandable, I suppose,” Stephen nodded, though personally he thought interiors of prime importance in regard to dwellings. People lived inside their houses, not outside, and sat looking at the four walls of their living space.

  They left the office together and went out to Stephen’s car.

  *

  Sue was pleased to have Bobbie with her at home: with Roderick and Stephanie away at their respective universities and now Debbie doing the junior tennis circuit in England, the house seemed so quiet and empty, even when Stephen was at home. The latter tended to spend too much time in his study doing extra work brought home from the office.

  “Can’t get the drawings out on time when one has to spend so many hours a day on site,” he’d explain.

  “Then why don’t you take on extra draughtsmen?” Sue kept asking.

  “Simply a matter of economics, darling,” he would reply.

  But at least he was there, in the house and not out every evening following some sport or hobby. So she didn’t complain too much. And Bobbie filled the vacancy very well. Now nine years old, he was an intelligent kid, good at modelling aircraft and warships and increasingly keen on tennis. Sue spent at least an hour a day on the court with him throughout the summer and already she felt he should have more professional coaching. Plus, with Stephen’s encouragement, he was learning to play the piano. However, not even Bobbie could distract Sue’s mind from the other three – not completely. She missed them so much: found herself listening for Stephanie to rock the house with pop music, or for the pluck! of tennis balls out on the court. Throughout her middle childhood and teenage years she had longed for the family life she had been denied by the war. She had married young to fullfil that need and found herself trapped in an almost macabre shell of wedlock, tied to a man who, after his disabling car accident, gave every indication of despising her. Fortunately, before her mother died the two women had repaired their relationship, severed by the war, and when Sarah succumbed to cancer aged only fifty-six, no one could ever replace her in Sue’s affections. Aunt Filly was a wonderful confidante, as was Sybil, but that wasn’t quite the same as the mother and daughter intimacy Sue and Sarah shared in the latter’s final years. It still hurt so dreadfully that Sarah was not around to watch her grandchildren growing up. Families were so important.

  Sue often thought, now, how marvellous it would be to have Debbie lean on the kitchen counter, chatting, while she prepared dinn
er, though she hadn’t recovered yet from the shock of the girl’s request for the pill. That had come right out of the blue, leaving Sue speechless, helpless to think of the right words to say, how to stall this turn of events.

  Of course she had had to accede: Debbie had said quite plainly that she and Justin were going to sleep together anyway, with or without the pill, so it had seemed the lesser of the two evils. And now, with her parents’ blessing, Debbie was off on tour with her beloved Justin, gloriously happy and contented and enjoying phoning home whenever she had the chance for a cosy chat with her mother.

  Right at this moment, Bobbie was at his piano lesson; he and Stephen and Roderick would not be in for another hour and a half and the family house was full of oppressive silence. Even Stephanie’s aggressive glares would have been welcome.

  The phone startled Sue out of her misery. “Hallo?”

  “Mum! It’s me.” Stephanie’s voice.

  “Hallo, darling. I was just thinking how much I was missing you. How are you? When are you getting back here?”

  “Fine. Look, don’t expect me back yet awhile. A crowd of us are planning to go to a Rock Festival next weekend. It’s going to be a total wow and I couldn’t possibly bear to miss it. The only thing is, I’m running a bit low on funds at the moment. Do you think you could spare me a bit of housekeeping?”

  The disappointment dropped into Sue’s stomach like a lump of lead. “How much longer will you be away?”

  “Another week or so, I imagine. I’ll phone again as soon as I know.”

  “Karen is back. I saw her in Town yesterday.”

  “Really? Well she had to get back to help out in their shop for the summer.” There was a pause. “So what about the lolly, Mum?”

  Sue put her hand over the mouthpiece as she sighed. Mustn’t upset the girl or she wouldn’t even bother to phone. “How much do you want?”

  Stephanie laughed. “How much can you spare?”

  “Thirty pounds?”

  Another pause. “Couldn’t you make it fifty?”

  “I suppose so. Where do I send the cheque? Are you still at college?”

  “No. I’m staying with my friend Margaret, in London. This is her address. Got a pen?”

  Sue wrote it down. “Where is this Festival?”

  “Look, Mum, I mustn’t chat. I’m running up Margaret’s phone bill. I’ll speak to you again soon.”

  “Oh, all right. But why don’t you reverse the charges next time so we have a chance to talk?”

  “Sure. As long as you don’t mind. Cheers. Bye!”

  “Bye, bye, darling. Take care of yourself . . .” But the line had already gone dead.

  *

  “How did she take it?”

  “Not with overwhelming enthusiasm,” Stephanie said with a laugh. She was sitting with a bunch of students, some of whom might be described as friends, in Margaret Sedgewicks’s flat. They were drinking coffee with powdered milk and eating their way through two packets of Digestive biscuits. “The money should arrive in a couple of days.”

  “Meanwhile, how do we eat?”

  “Isn’t your rich friend Caroline due to join us sometime soon?” asked Marcus, of the long sideboards and shoulder-length hair.

  “Yes!” Margaret brightened. “She’ll be good for a few Indian takeaways.”

  Anthony, his curls tied back by a strip of cloth, stood up. “I’m going to the park. Anyone coming?”

  One by one the crew drifted after him. They were a motley band, the boys sprouting beards, and wearing loose waistcoats and tabards over collarless shirts and jeans, the girls long-skirted and sandalled, their hair threaded with ribbons. Two people carried guitars and Melanie had a flute in her Mexican bag.

  *

  After much debate, Sue and Stephen decided that a Sunday lunch was best for entertaining the Blaydons, when they could be diluted with as many members of family as could be rallied.

  “Pity Debs and Stephanie can’t be here,” Stephen began as he and Sue arranged outdoor furniture on the lawn.

  “Just as well,” Sue countered, “Debs could find herself faced with the choice of playing patball with those girls or wiping them off the court completely. And one never knows what sort of impression Stephanie may elect to make on the spur of the moment. I find her so unpredictable nowadays.”

  “Well, it will be up to Roderick to amuse them, I fear.”

  “I think I must offer my apologies on the grounds of a previous engagement,” Roderick appeared on the verandah.

  “You dare! You’ll get no supper for a week,” his mother threatened.

  “Sounds as though it may be worth it,” he mused.

  Sue threw a raffia tablemat at his head, and missed.

  The Bankses were there, plus Richard and Anne with little Derek; Roderick was on the tennis court with young Bobbie, and the baked ham was dished up and ready to carve when the Blaydons turned up in their Rolls half an hour late, without apology.

  Sue was not amused and Stephen felt guilty for having invited them, but he put on his best smile as he welcomed the guests and made introductions. “Our sons are still on the court and I’m afraid our daughters are away in England,” he explained, “But meet Sue’s brother Richard and his wife Anne. That’s their boy, Derek, playing with the dogs.”

  “Oh, aren’t they sweet!” Coralie exclaimed, throwing herself onto the grass to stroke Troilus and Cressida, and ignoring the toddler.

  Amanda hung onto Richard’s hand far longer than necessary, mentally dissecting him. She was in a very tight cotton print, backless dress with not a lot more attempting to cover her front; her lipstick was drawn over her face far wider than the extent of her mouth and her mascara-laden lids made her look tired rather than sultry. “Hi!” she drawled, “Do you live here in little Guernsey?”

  “And this is my boy, Neal,” Cy announced with pride, “and his wife, Annabel.” A totally mismatched pair, physically. Neal was a perfect replica of his father, round and bald, though happily considerably taller; happily, because Annabel was exceptionally tall. Even on this sultry day, and despite being on holiday, she arrived dressed for a boardroom meeting rather than an alfresco meal, and gave every appearance of tension and boredom.

  “Do you have any children?” Stephen asked.

  “No. I’m afraid we have both been so tied up in business so far that there doesn’t seem to have been time yet,” replied the prospective, loving mother.

  And you’d find them too tedious to have around, Stephen thought, imagining the effect of sticky fingers on her immaculate outfit.

  Lady Sybil, meanwhile, was gazing down at Cy with sympathy. The look rather indicated that he was suffering the ultimate family burden, with which, as far as his step-daughters were concerned, he would have agreed had he been able to interpret accurately. Unfortunately, his inability in that direction led him to believe he had made an immediate hit, a belief from which Sybil longed to disillusion him.

  Gordon, sitting on the arm of a chair, found himself on eye level with Carol’s impressive cleavage.

  “Everyone to table, please,” Sue called, “or lunch will be spoiled.”

  Fortunately the sun continued to shine, only a gentle breeze shaking the table parasols and scattering the pathway with cascades of Albertine rose petals from the west wall of the house. At this moment Sue was happy – she usually was when entertaining, when the guests were all smiling and conversation flowed freely over the table. Afterwards, Anne helped her to clear the dishes and glasses into the kitchen while everyone else played an argumentative game of croquet, excepting for Annabel who half sat on the verandah rail, watching, and Coralie who played ball with Cressida while Troilus eyed them with disdain.

  “Thank heavens for dishwashers,” Sue gasped as the last surface was cleared.

  “Yes, I envy you,” Anne said. “But I don’t see us getting one in the near future. A new washing machine is the next priority.”

  Through the kitchen window Sue could see th
e croquet game coming to an end. “I suppose we had better lay on some tea. They don’t look as though they intend leaving yet. Thank goodness you brought that fruit cake, Anne. My sponge won’t go far with this crowd.”

  When they manoeuvred the tea trolley outside, Richard and Roderick were partnering Amanda and Coralie on the tennis court, having borrowed sports shoes from the locker in the utility. Neither of the girls appeared to have played before, but Amanda was obviously enjoying being taught by Richard.

  “So what do you do over here to keep yourself amused, Gordon?” Cy spoke through his teeth which were clenched on a fat cigar.

  “Oh, I remain in touch with Whitehall, ye know, in an advisory capacity. Pop up to Town quite frequently.”

  “He runs a local cricket team,” Sybil cut in, “which takes up far too much of his time when I need him in the garden. What sports do you play?” guessing quite accurately that Cy gave sport little if any of his time.

  “Poker. Best sport there is. And most lucrative.”

  “Ha! Only if you have a poker face,” declared Gordon. “Knew a chappie years ago in Poona who looked permanently as miserable as a bloodhound and won two thousand pounds before shipping back to Blighty. He was known as Happy Carruthers in the regiment.”

  “If Cy could win that sorta money it would make his prolonged sessions worthwhile,” Carol groaned. “Goes off for days on end then says I can’t have another spending spree in Harrods. I love Harrods, don’t you Lady Sybil?” She couldn’t quite bring herself to drop the ‘Lady’.

  Cy ignored her. “Well, old chap, I reckon there will be fewer defence cuts now the Tories are back in government. Your lot must have had rather a thin time under Labour.”

  “Don’t you worry,” Gordon responded vigorously, “We soon showed ’em who was boss. Hadn’t got a clue, that lot. Only hope Edward Heath can do better. Tell me, how did the previous government affect your business?”

  They had affected Blaydon’s business very nicely, more cuts meaning more Army surplus to be disposed of, but somehow he felt it might not be wise to say so. “Same as they affected most businesses. Hadn’t a clue about money, financing. I only hope we’ve got rid of ’em in time.” A strange answer, one might think, coming from a lifelong, ardent Labour supporter . . . given the right company.