Daughter of Riches

by Janet Tanner

  Somehow, when they talked of the end of the war, it was always on the assumption that when it was all over things would go back to being the way they always had been. And they never for one moment considered the possibility that Germany might be the victor.

  One day in the middle of August Sophia was sent out by the chief receptionist to post some letters. It was a fine warm day when the sun sparkled on the blue water of the harbour and Sophia decided to take the long route back to the surgery.

  As she approached the pier she could see there was a great deal of activity. Her curiosity aroused, she went closer in an effort to find out what was going on.

  A ship, flying the German flag, was anchored at the end of the pier.

  As always the sight of that hated flag was enough to make Sophia boil inside with rage and frustration but when she caught sight of the human cargo streaming off the ship and on to the pier Sophia’s eyes widened in disbelief and horror. There were hundreds of them – bearded, unkempt men, women with matted hair and haunted staring eyes, children so thin that their bones jutted out. Their clothes were filthy and dropping off them, some had rags wrapped around their feet, others staggered barefoot. They lurched and clung together, swaying and stumbling because their poor weak legs had forgotten what dry land felt like.

  Sophia stared, trembling with outrage, not wanting to see yet quite unable to tear her eyes away. She knew they must be prisoners of war, sent to join those who had already arrived on the island in the spring. But Sophia had not encountered any of those other prisoners. She had heard talk of them, of course, but that was all and she had never, for one single second, imagined they might look like this.

  The procession came nearer, passing so close they could have reached out to touch her, and Sophia shrank back, ashamed of the revulsion that accompanied her pity and horror yet quite unable to help herself. One man, gaunt and lice-ridden, carried a child whose face was covered in sores, a bedraggled woman had a baby at her scrawny breast. All of them stared straight ahead, eyes dead and hopeless in their ravaged faces. And with them, crowing, strutting, pitiless, came the Nazi guards, jabbing at the stragglers with their rifles. Sophia wanted to scream at them, ask them how in God’s name they could behave in this inhuman fashion. But the words were nothing but bitter bile in her mouth.

  When the procession had passed she forced her trembling legs to move, first into a stumble as halting as the prisoners’, then, as the use returned to them, to a run. Sophia fled, breath rasping in her lungs, heart full to bursting. She did not stop until she was back at the surgery.

  On the following Sunday afternoon Bernard Langlois was working in the parish of St Peter when he happened to run into Charles.

  In the two years since the Germans had come to Jersey and Charles had been forced to close up the offices of Carteret Tours Bernard’s life had changed completely. It was not a change for the better, he sometimes thought ruefully, but it had been inevitable and since he had never been one to waste energy fretting about those things over which he had no control, he congratulated himself that under the circumstances, he had really done quite well for himself.

  The day after Charles had broken the news to him that the agency was to close he had taken a long walk along the beautiful St Clements coast road. He was still in a state of semi-shock as a result of the bombing on the previous afternoon and the fact that he was now out of a job had been made to seem unimportant by his brush with death. He could very easily have been killed, he realised. Had the bomb fallen on the offices instead of in the street the problem of what to do with his future would have been the least of his worries. At worse there would be no future, at best he could be lying in hospital, terribly injured, like the girl in the white dress. Bernard could not get her out of his mind. However much he tried not to think about her the images kept flashing back – her body, limp and broken, in the midst of the debris, the bloodstains on the white dress, the fluttering emerald headscarf. Several times during the night he had woken, his whole body bathed in perspiration, and lain staring into the darkness seeing it all again. But with daylight Bernard’s sound common sense had asserted itself – on a conscious level, at any rate. What had happened had happened. Going over and over it would not change a thing. He hadn’t been killed or injured but being grateful for the fact wouldn’t keep him or his family in food or keep a roof over their heads. Life had to go on, and he had to make plans for it.

  Bernard walked and walked, his chin bent to his chest, hands thrust into his pockets. The sky above the bay was clear blue and unbroken by so much as a single white vapour trail and after a while the stiff breeze off the sea began to clear his head and calm his jangling nerves. But the problem remained – what could he do to earn a living in an island occupied by the enemy?

  Perhaps, Bernard thought, he should have gone off and joined the forces whilst he had had the chance instead of delaying out of loyalty to Charles. Thinking of what the German plane had done to the girl yesterday he certainly wished he had – he would like to have been able to personally dispose of the man who had dropped the bomb, and killing a few of his countrymen would have been the next best thing. But there was no point now wasting time regretting his inaction, no point going over what he should have done. What mattered now was what he was going to do.

  Almost as soon as he put the question to himself Bernard was aware of the answer, though at first he tried to avoid it because as a solution it did not appeal to him one iota. But after a few minutes of trying to dream up an acceptable alternative and failing miserably his common sense again took over.

  There was nothing for it, he would have to go back to the Electricity Company – if they would have him. Whatever his personal feelings it had a good deal to recommend it. No matter who was in charge in Jersey the basic amenities were still needed – water, electricity, gas and lines of communication – and would be however bad things might become. The Electricity Company could be the lifeline that would provide him with the income that was necessary to his family’s survival.

  One thing Bernard was determined on, however – he was not going to be trapped in the offices again. He had not the slightest intention of remaining with the utility once the war was over and he thought there were a great many skills that would be far more use to him than understanding the company’s filing system.

  The very next day Bernard had gone to see his old boss and spelled out what he had in mind – omitting to mention his plans for the day when the war would finally be over. To his immense relief he found himself offered a position as an apprentice engineer – subject, of course, to the approval of the German command.

  In practical matters Bernard was a quick learner – in many ways he found it came to him more easily than the academic studies he had sweated over in the classroom. There was an order and a method to the skills he was learning which seemed to him satisfyingly sensible. Now, two years later, he was as capable of doing the job as many men who had spent their lives at it and was certainly better qualified than his father – though he had the kindness and tact not to broadcast the fact. And he was grateful that for the duration of the war at least he was in an occupation that not only paid a reasonable wage but also gave him a certain amount of freedom to move about in an island choked by curfews and restrictions.

  On the afternoon when he happened to run into Charles, Bernard had been working on a cable fault in St Peter. He was about to pack up his equipment and head back for St Helier when he glanced up and saw his former employer walking on the opposite side of the road.

  Bernard was surprised – he had heard the Carterets had been turned out of their home, but he had no idea they were living in St Peter. He called out a greeting and Charles came across the road, beaming, and as taken by surprise by the chance encounter as Bernard was.

  ‘Bernard! Well, well, what are you doing over here?’

  Bernard explained, and Charles chuckled.

  ‘I might have known you wouldn’t be kicking your heels for long!
I hope this doesn’t mean I’ve lost you for good! I intend to get the agency up and running again as soon as this damned war is over and we’re back to normal, you know, and I shall need you to help me.’

  Bernard said nothing. This was not the time, he thought, to tell Charles that during the last two years he had given a good deal of thought to what he would do when the war was over and that he had made up his mind to try and set up in business on his own account. An electrical contracting business might fit the bill, he had thought, something that would make use of his newly acquired skills and also give him the chance to be his own boss. Whereas in the old days the job in the tourist agency had seemed an excellent starting point he now felt by the time things ‘returned to normal’ as Charles put it he would be past the stage where he could be satisfied with being a glorified office boy.

  ‘How are your family? Are they all well?’ he asked now.

  ‘As well as anyone can be with all the shortages. I’ve been out collecting nettles, as you can see. Lola does wonderful things with nettles.’ Charles indicated a large bag stuffed to the brim with greenery. ‘Look, why don’t you drop in and say hello since you’re over here? They’d be pleased to see you, I know, and you can try a glass of Lola’s excellent rose hip cordial.’

  ‘Well that’s very kind but I wouldn’t like to impose …’

  ‘Nonsense! We hardly ever have visitors these days and Lola does miss it!’ Charles shook his head sadly. ‘Besides, you look as if you could do with a cool drink. It’s a hot afternoon to be working.’

  Bernard had been looking forward to getting home, taking off his working clothes and having his tea, but Charles seemed so anxious to press his hospitality it seemed churlish to refuse. He was beginning, Bernard thought, to look a good deal older, with deep furrows forming on his face as if the skin was suddenly too large for the frame, and there was a stoop to his shoulders that had not been there in the days when they had worked together.

  Bernard completed packing away his gear and locked up his van and the two men walked together along the lane leading to the Carteret cottage.

  ‘Paul won’t be there, I’m afraid,’ Charles said, turning into a path which led between burgeoning hydrangeas and curved around the side of the small grey stone cottage. ‘ Quiet Sunday afternoons at home bore him. But I expect we shall find the others in the garden.’

  At the rear corner of the cottage the path passed beneath an archway of climbing roses which had shed their petals like white confetti on to the rough paving stones. Beyond it, a border filled with snapdragons, sweet-william and marigolds edged a small neat lawn where two dilapidated deckchairs had been set out. In one of them Lola was reclining, her skirt draped up rather inelegantly between her knees, in the other Catherine curled like a small plump cat. The moment she saw them Lola sat up, straightening her skirts in embarrassment.

  ‘Just look who I ran into!’ Charles called to her. ‘It’s Bernard. I told him we’d be highly offended if he didn’t drop in to say hello, and I promised him a glass of your rose hip cordial. There is some left, I hope?’

  Lola rose from the deckchair. Her cheeks were faintly pink.

  ‘The cordial is not all that wonderful, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘With no sugar it is not easy to make it taste right. But you are welcome to a glass, Bernard.’

  ‘Thank you. That would be lovely.’ But Bernard was not really listening to her and his reply was totally automatic. Although he smiled at her politely, in actual fact he was looking past her at Sophia and wondering in near disbelief if this lovely young woman could really be the chubby schoolgirl he had known.

  In the two years since he had last seen her Sophia had changed almost beyond recognition. Now she lay on her stomach on the lawn, propped up on her elbows as she split the stem of a daisy and threaded it lazily on to the chain she was making. Her hair, bobbed now to shoulder length, fell becomingly around her face, her legs, bent at the knees, kicked and crossed just above a deliciously curved rear with an almost childlike grace.

  Bernard felt almost weak suddenly and there was a kind of throbbing deep inside him that he had never experienced before.

  ‘Sophia – you could get the cordial for me,’ Lola said. ‘I put it on the marble slab to keep cool.’

  Sophia carefully put the daisy chain down on a book she had been reading and got up. Like everyone else on the island she had lost weight; unlike some it suited her. The puppy fat had gone leaving only flattering curves and mysteriously she looked taller. Because she was wearing shorts her legs were still in evidence – long and lissom, tanned a rich nutty brown by the sun.

  She glanced at Bernard as she passed and smiled, a small, almost coquettish twinkle as if she had somehow known what he was thinking. Bernard felt the beginnings of a blush and looked hastily away.

  ‘Come and sit down, Bernard,’ Lola said, indicating one of the deckchairs.

  ‘It’s all right – you have your chair. I can sit on the grass.’ Bernard threw himself down on the lawn, surreptitiously watching the kitchen door for Sophia’s return.

  A few minutes later she was back with the cordial in a jug covered with a little beaded cloth to keep out the flies. Lola did not miss the fact that she had used the opportunity to put on a bit of lipstick – too precious to use all the time now that it could not be replaced – but Bernard just thought how beautiful she looked. In something of a daze he answered Lola’s questions about what he was doing now and he was very relieved when she switched her attention away from him and turned to Charles.

  ‘Did you see anything of the prisoners of war whilst you were out?’

  ‘From the distance. They were down working on the railway again.’

  ‘In all this heat! Oh, is terrible – terrible! The Nazis will rot in hell! Did you know, Bernard, Sophia saw some of them arrive? She said they were treated worse than animals, isn’t that so, Sophia?’

  Sophia nodded. A shadow had fallen over her face. Bernard felt his heart twist again.

  ‘The trouble is we see so much of them over here,’ Lola went on. ‘ The railway they have been set to build is so close by and they march them over from their camp at St Brelade. Some of them are Russians, you know that? My countrymen, used for slave labour! It breaks my heart!’

  ‘Have you heard about the hospital they are building over in St Lawrence?’ Charles asked. ‘They have the poor sods tunnelling into solid rock so the whole hospital will be completely underground and safe from any air raid attack. I’d like to put a bomb inside and blow the whole thing to smithereens.’ He, too, spoke with an anger that was totally out of character and Bernard paused in his contemplation of Sophia to wonder at the effect the occupation was having on people, changing their whole outlook on life and bringing hitherto deeply buried aggressions to the surface.

  When he had finished his glass of cordial Bernard rose reluctantly. His mother had always impressed on him that it was most rude to overstay one’s welcome and the last thing he wanted to do was make a bad impression on the Carterets. But even as he thanked them for their hospitality and said his goodbyes his mind was busy. Sometime, somehow, he had to get to see Sophia again. But would she want to see him?

  He stole another look at her. She, too, had got up and was following him to the gate. For one wild moment he almost asked her there and then, right in front of her parents, if she would go out with him. But of course he did not do it. Bernard had no wish to make a fool of himself. Something so important had to be thought about and planned carefully.

  At the gate Sophia suddenly reached up on tiptoe and placed the daisy chain around his neck.

  ‘Something to remind you of the country when you get back to town,’ she said mischievously.

  Bernard felt the blush begin again, not just in his face this time but all over his body. But as he walked back to where he had left his van her words sounded like music in his ears and the daisy chain had become to him a laurel wreath.

  When Sophia left the dental surgery after w
ork the next evening she was surprised to find Bernard waiting for her.

  She had, of course, noticed his interest in her in the garden. Each time she had glanced up she had found him staring at her though he looked quickly away the moment their eyes met and the blush that had spread up his neck when she placed the daisy chain around his neck had not escaped her notice either. But it had been a game to her, a new game, testing out a power she had not known she had and when he had left she had felt a little ashamed of herself for flirting so brazenly though she was still exhilarated by the experience.

  The trouble was, Sophia thought, she found it impossible to think of herself as an attractive young woman. As a child she had been painfully aware that she was too plump to be beautiful and even her relationship with Dieter had done nothing to change her opinion of herself. What they had shared had somehow, she felt, been in spite of the way she looked, some sort of sweet chaste friendship with romantic overtones, not about sexual attraction at all. And of course Dieter had left her. She had never heard from him again and she had eventually allowed herself to come to the painful conclusion that he had forgotten her.

  Not, of course, that she had forgotten him. Somehow Sophia doubted that she would ever again experience that total fierce love, the fragile bitter-sweet happiness, the tender dreaming, the way her whole body had seemed to sing and soar. There was only one Dieter – perhaps every woman has only one. First love, perfect, all-consuming and blind. It was over, she told herself, she must put it where it belonged, firmly in the past. But it wasn’t that easy, for measured against that love all other emotions seemed pale and tawdry, lacking, somehow, the magic she had once known.

  Sophia’s realisation that she had changed from a rather ordinary looking child into a desirable young woman came as a slow awakening. At first she did not even notice the appreciative looks and when she did she could hardly believe it. She tested them out; when a young man was walking towards her in the street she would hold her head high, pretending not to notice him and then glancing up at the last moment to see if he was looking at her. Invariably he was and the knowledge started a little spiral of excitement deep inside her. After a few times her confidence began to grow and she looked at herself critically and through new eyes, trying to see what it was they saw. But still alongside the confidence was a complementary uncertainty, two ends of the spectrum vying with one another, sending her differing messages. None of the boys ever did more than look; they were usually strangers and she never saw them again. And when it came to boys she knew, friends of Paul for instance, she was usually so afraid of being branded a flirt she behaved so coldly they never dared make an approach. In deep introspective moments Sophia was sure this was because boys did not really find her attractive, they just couldn’t help looking, and this made her behave more coolly than ever – she did not want them to think she had erroneous ideas about her own looks – that would be humiliating!