The Guernsey Saga Box Set

by Diana Bachmann

  Alterations and additions had been made over the years. Instead of the door at the rear of the hall giving onto the backyard, it now led into a large, modern kitchen and scullery, with lean-to conservatories either side. And above, Marie had insisted on installing a bathroom and two separate lavatories . . . which Gran’mere Florence frequently declared to be a ridiculous and unnecessary extravagance. A landing ran the full length of the upper floor, narrowing the bedrooms which were divided by wood plank walls.

  Greg drove down the path under the archway. ‘I think I’ll park in the old coach house,’ he said. ‘Those black clouds up there are looking pretty ominous.’

  They went in through the scullery door from the backyard.

  ‘You got some nice primos there, Miss,’ Emmy remarked to Sarah, while giving Greg a shy smile. ‘From by them old elms was they?’

  ‘That’s right. You noticed them up there, did you?’ Sarah put down the flowers to tug off her muddy Wellington boots.

  ‘Yes. Passed by that way this morning. Cor,’ the girl looked out of the window, ‘you just beat the rain, eh?’

  Sarah took a vase out of the cupboard and joined the girl at the window. ‘Crumbs, yes. Weren’t we lucky. Who’s in for tea?’

  ‘Miss Ethel and your young brothers are here but Miss Aline ain’t come yet. And the missus, she’ve just asked Mr John’s wife for them to come with the boy.’

  ‘Your friend Joseph,’ Sarah teased. ‘Let’s hope he’s in a good mood.’

  ‘Huh!’ Emmy thumped a saucepan into the sink. ‘Whining to his mother, he was, but the missus, she wouldn’t stand for it.’

  ‘I’ll take my flowers up to my room and put on some shoes,’ Sarah told Greg. ‘You go and join the others.’

  *

  The family was converging on the dining-room from various parts of the house. Hubert junior (nicknamed Bertie to avoid confusion), and William came down together from their bedroom. Aline arrived home and went into the sitting-room to talk to Marie, Mary and the boy. Hubert senior emerged from his office, collected his mother from her sitting-room and escorted her across the hall. Not that she needed escorting: although she enveloped herself in floor-length black gowns, wore a lace cap on her wispy white hair, and walked with a stoop over her amber-topped cane, Florence was quite capable of stalking the garden boy and issuing instructions about carrots and cabbages in the kitchen garden. Hubert was well aware of this, but continued to offer his mother this courtesy every evening.

  Florence knew his intentions were kind, but every evening the ritual irritated her. She endeavoured to hide the fact, but it did make her feel so decrepid. She enjoyed the role of family matriarch but hated being treated like an old woman.

  Hubert took his customary place at the head of the table. He was a tall, thin, pleasant-faced man, long of moustache, short on words. His children reckoned him to be strict to the point of intolerance, but he had the reputation of being a fair businessman and employer. He had inherited Val du Douit from his father ten years ago, maintaining the herd of sixty pure-bred Guernsey cows, a breed world famous for their rich, yellow milk. Though continuing an active interest in the farm, Hubert left most of the work now to his eldest son, John, and Jean Quevatre their foreman. Jean’s wife, Mabel, helped Timmy Batiste the dairyman churn the butter, and their son, Marcel, followed Marie’s and Gran’mere’s instructions in the garden. Sometimes. When he wasn’t trying to distract Emmy from her work. Timmy’s twin brother Freddie was a general farmhand and handyman, though his heart wasn’t in it: he preferred fishing. Fortunately his shortcomings were tolerated for the sake of the fish he provided for the Val du Douit table.

  Much to their parents’ regret, the three Ozanne sons had inherited their mother’s stature, while their sisters towered over them like their father. The girls didn’t mind, it gave them a welcome sense of superiority, but the boys tended to feel particularly uncomfortable in the presence of Sarah’s huge fiancé. William and Bertie laughed it off with quips about Charles Atlas. But John, of course, never joined in. He seldom found anything in life to laugh about; a fact attributed by his siblings to his po-faced wife. He would sit quietly brooding.

  ‘Mr le Page came in today and said mine was the best handwriting he’d ever seen,’ Aline announced.

  ‘Smashed his glasses, had he?’ William asked.

  Aline’s mouth formed a thin angry line. Sarah caught Ethel’s eye and her chest began to shake.

  ‘When are Filly, Kiff and Gelly coming over for tennis?’ William asked, pointedly changing the subject away from Aline’s admirers.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Sarah replied. ‘They’re coming over for the final fitting of their bridesmaids dresses. But what you really mean is: when will you have a good excuse to see Filly again?’ she teased.

  ‘It’s all right for you, sitting there making a meal of that giant,’ her brother retorted. ‘We lesser mortals—’

  ‘Aa ah,’ Ethel pushed back her chair. ‘Shall I fetch my violin?’

  ‘A good idea,’ William retorted. ‘You might play better tennis with it than with your racquet.’

  It was too much for Bertie who exploded laughter into his soup, splashing both his face and the tablecloth.

  It was Mary’s expression of humourless horror at this, that caused their final undoing. Marie covered her face in her serviette before succumbing; Hubert smiled indulgently while William, Sarah, Greg and Ethel hooted, and even Aline fell back in her chair, helpless.

  ‘Why are they laughing?’ from Joseph made matters worse, and the sight of his parents’ mystified response put the cap on it.

  ‘You must think we’re all crackers,’ Sarah apologised later to Greg. ‘It’s all such puerile rubbish.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it. I love every minute of every meal I eat in this house.’

  ‘You can’t be serious.’

  ‘Never more so,’ he sighed. And meant it. The joyful banter in the Ozanne home was so refreshing, such a contrast with the sombre atmosphere in the Gaudion household. He adored seeing his darling Sarah laugh . . . and prayed she would go on laughing once she was living under the same roof with his family.

  *

  There were to be five bridesmaids: Sarah’s two sisters, and her three best friends; Felicity Carre—known as Filly; Kathleen Drew—known as Kiff and Geraldine Sommers—known as Gelly. Gregory’s niece Sybil was to be flower girl, and, after considerable prompting from their mother, Sarah and Ethel had agreed it would be diplomatic to ask young Joseph to be pageboy. Unfortunately, Mary had accepted on his behalf, as a consequence of which poor Mrs Tostevin the harrassed dressmaker, had suffered a kicked shin and several stabbed fingers while attempting to pin up his satin pantaloons!

  The bridesmaids dresses were of pale, coffee-coloured silk; Sybil had a long milk-chocolate coloured dress with lots of cream lace, which showed off her pale complexion and long, blonde pigtails, and Joseph’s pantaloons were of a darker chocolate, worn with long, cream stockings and a cream, frilled shirt.

  It was dusk the following day when William arrived home from the bank. Shrieks of laughter were still coming from the tennis court so he followed the noise through the back garden, to watch by the wire gate, eyes constantly drawn towards the plump girl with blonde curls who was making more noise than all the rest. He grinned secretly to himself: crikey she was cute. Although she had been a regular visitor to the farm for years since schooldays shared with Sarah, he had only noticed quite recently how attractive Filly had become: from the time of the last New Years’ Eve Party at the Royal, to be precise. Maybe it had been the wine and the waltzing, but from then on he couldn’t see enough of her. He doubted if she felt the same, after all she was a couple of years older than himself . . . but that didn’t stop him dreaming.

  ‘Ahh! That went right through my racquet!’ Filly exclaimed. ‘It’s no good, I cannot see a thing.’

  ‘Nor can I,’ Sarah agreed. ‘Shall we pack it in?’

  They collected the balls, rolled do
wn the net and greeted William at the gate. Somehow he contrived to walk back up the path with Filly, dawdling behind the others.

  ‘You and I should take on Sarah and Greg sometime,’ he suggested.

  ‘Really! Oh, I’m not nearly good enough for that,’ she giggled.

  ‘We could get in some practice, first,’ he went on hopefully, and held his breath.

  The big, blue eyes found his in the gloom. ‘Oh, do you think so?’

  He nodded. ‘We must make a date,’ he said, heart pounding with excitement.

  *

  Sarah did not sleep well on Friday night and was up early next morning, looking out of the bedroom window at the swaying trees. ‘Let’s hope the marquee stays up,’ she mumbled gloomily.

  Ethel turned over in bed and groaned. ‘What’s the time?’

  ‘Half-past six.’

  ‘There’s no need to get up yet.’

  ‘I’m going down to make a pot of tea. Want some?’

  Ethel groaned again. ‘I suppose so.’

  When Sarah returned with the tea tray, Ethel was blowing her nose. She put the tray on the table between the beds, frowned at her sister and asked, ‘Are you all right?’

  Ethel nodded, face turned away.

  ‘Ethel!’ Sarah exclaimed. ‘You’re crying!’

  ‘Sorry,’ Ethel sniffed. ‘I couldn’t help it. Just thinking that this is the last time we share this room . . . after so long.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘I’m going to miss you so much.’

  ‘Stop it, you lunatic or you’ll set me off. Then I’ll go up the aisle with red eyes and everyone will think I’m a reluctant bride.’

  Ethel started to giggle, more tears running down her face.

  *

  Sarah drummed her fingers on the newel post at the foot of the stairs. Mother hadn’t even got her hat on yet. She felt so impatient. So terrified. So happy! At last, after waiting for four years, the big moment was here. Within the hour she would be Mrs Gregory Gaudion. She hunched her shoulders, trembling with excitement and nerves.

  Her father came through the breakfast room from his study. ‘My word! You look wonderful. Turn around. Yes,’ he said, as she obliged. ‘Lovely. Can’t say your mother and I liked the idea of a short wedding dress, but I must say it looks splendid on you.’

  There was no doubt that the knee-length, low-waisted dress in soft, cream panne velvet, and velvet band across her forehead holding her veil, enhanced Sarah’s beauty. Hubert Ozanne certainly thought so. He had always been particularly fond of his youngest daughter, though he took great pains to conceal the fact; he was proud of all six of his children and had no wish to cause offence with obvious favouritism.

  ‘Shouldn’t we be getting into the taxi?’ Sarah stood by the open front door, fiddling with her lace veil.

  ‘We will have to wait till your mother and Mrs Tostevin are ready,’ he replied. ‘Ah! Here they are.’

  Despite her extreme lack of inches, standing only four foot ten in her stockinged feet, Marie Ozanne looked positively regal as she came down the stairs ahead of the dressmaker. She had chosen a soft, smokey-pink silk for her dress and edge-to-edge coat, and a hat in the same shade swathed in pearl grey net, held with dusty pink and grey roses. Pearl ropes hung to her waist and her fur stole was worn slightly askew to avoid damaging the orchids in her corsage.

  She marched straight up to her youngest daughter, smiling, lower lip quivering. ‘You look lovely,’ she said, her voice husky with emotion. Actually, Marie thought Sarah looked absolutely beautiful; not an adjective she would normally have applied to her youngest girl. Ethel was handsome, Aline was elegant, sometimes beautiful when she wasn’t in a sulk, but Sarah was usually described as the pretty one, with her heart-shaped face and daintier features.

  The grandfather clock struck quarter to eleven. ‘There now, everybody ready?’ Marie asked, adjusting Sarah’s veil. ‘We’ll help you into your car, but you’ll have to wait for us to leave first.’

  ‘And we’ll drive very slowly,’ Hubert added, ‘otherwise we’ll be far too early. Better for the congregation to wait a few extra minutes. Then we’ll be sure everyone’s there.’

  ‘Mind her veil, Hubert,’ Marie was saying. ‘There, Sarah, hold your bouquet carefully so it doesn’t crush your dress.’

  Mrs Tostevin had the door open the other side of the car, arranging yards of veil, and making sure the dress was smooth before the bride sat down.

  Then at last they were away.

  The car, white satin ribbons snapping in the wind, climbed slowly up the drive. Sarah closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  When she opened them her father was smiling at her. He took her hand and pressed it against his arm. She smiled back, squeezing his arm. How lucky she had been with the men in her life: her brothers full of fun and teasing, Father, stern but affectionate and generous. And Greg. Her dear, darling Greg who was waiting for her right now inside St Saviour’s Church. She had ached for this moment for so long, marked off the days on her calendar until none were left, only today, Easter Saturday, the twenty-third of March 1929.

  The car was drawing up to the low wall of the churchyard, and through the church door Sarah caught a glimpse of a bridesmaid’s dress.

  Hats. When she entered the church on Father’s arm all Sarah could see were hats . . . of every colour and description. Huge affairs decked with net and ribbons, flowers and feathers for the older generations—fashionable, head-hugging cloches for the moderns with an enormous rose over one ear or a feather curled under the chin. Even Gran’mere, sitting with Mother in the front pew, had been persuaded to abandon her widow’s weeds for pale grey silk. The bridesmaids, who had been sheltering inside the church door from the wind, lined up behind her with Sybil leading and Ethel holding Joseph firmly by the hand. They all looked gorgeous; the older girls elegant and charming, while the flower girl’s hair had been freed from its pigtails and curled in platinum cascades over her shoulders, a circlet of stephanotis crowning her head. As for her nephew—Joseph looked positively adorable, as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Long may it last, she thought as she clung nervously to her father’s arm. The verger had pumped up the blowers so when Mr Thoumine the organist struck the keys the church filled with Purcell’s Trumpet Voluntary and the rector and choir led them down the aisle.

  Greg stood waiting for her looking fantastically handsome in his morning suit . . . and white as a sheet, with his best man, George, beside him, sweating profusely and in obvious danger of strangulation from his collar, two sizes too small.

  The newlyweds were told afterwards that everyone could hear their responses quite clearly—but neither could remember much about the ceremony before the moment they were in the vestry signing the register.

  With a fortissimo fanfare, they were being summoned from the vestry by Mendelssohn’s Wedding March. Greg handed Sarah her huge bouquet of arum lilies and together they led the procession out through the rows of smiling faces towards the door. William and Filly ‘just happened’ to find themselves linking up for the procession.

  The congregation waited inside while the wedding party stood in the church doorway, clutching their hats, and the local photographer Mr Grut hurried round them, pushing and pulling the group into shape, before diving under the black cloth over his camera.

  ‘I wish he’d buck up,’ Aline hissed to anyone who would listen. ‘My feet are killing me!’ She wished she hadn’t bought these shoes, but they were the only ones that went with the dress, which she didn’t like, either. She would have looked far better in the cream velvet Sarah was wearing . . . and been a far more beautiful bride, for that matter. She’d always thought Gregory very attractive and had no doubt he felt the same about her. She could have had him if she’d wanted, if she’d thrown herself at him like Sarah had, but that would have been too lowering for words. Cheap. Anyway, she didn’t intend giving up her independence for the privilege of washing socks and cooking meals for some penniless young man. When she finally
decided to marry, if she decided, it would be to someone mature . . . with money.

  The landau, all freshly painted and tied with white ribbons and white rosettes pinned both sides of Luke’s bridle, was waiting in the road by the gate. Aline watched the pair of them running along the path, being showered with handfuls of rice, and climb in, assisted by Timmy and Freddie who were resplendent in their best Sunday blue. She almost convinced herself she wasn’t the least bit envious.

  *

  ‘Where are you going for your honeymoon?’

  ‘Jersey.’

  ‘Your dress is gorgeous. So fashionable.’

  ‘Thank you. You are kind. And thank you so much for the lovely fruit bowl.’

  Someone else said, ‘Wonderful idea, having a marquee.’

  ‘If it stays up.’ Sarah eyed the roof in alarm as the canvas lifted, snapping against the guys. ‘We could have done without this wind.’

  ‘At least it’s stayed dry.’

  They stood in line greeting the guests, saying the same things over and over.

  ‘Do you think the queue will ever end?’ Greg whispered in Sarah’s ear. ‘It’s so embarrassing listening to people having to yell down my mother’s ear trumpet.’ He wanted the meal to start . . . and finish, so he could get his speech over with and begin to enjoy himself. It was a marvellous wedding, of course; the Ozannes had surpassed themselves. The marquee had been decked up with tubs of plants from the nurseries, and the wedding breakfast waiting for them looked fantastic. Nevertheless, he longed for it all to be over, and to have Sarah to himself at last.

  ‘The presents are all on display in the dining-room,’ she was saying for the umpteenth time. ‘Do go in later and see them.’ She hoped she wasn’t blushing: she would always associate wedding presents with that embarrassing session with mother . . .

  She had been hoping the girls would give her a hand after lunch yesterday, but both Ethel and Aline were dispatched to tasks in the marquee. She had been alone, setting out all the presents, plates and cutlery, Pyrex dishes and saucepans, on the dining-table when her mother came in, closing the door firmly behind her.