The Guernsey Saga Box Set

by Diana Bachmann

  ‘Seeing you’ll be married tomorrow, it’s time we had a little chat,’ Marie began.

  With her head bent over a greetings card, Sarah had screwed up her face in horror. She’d hoped to get away without this. ‘Yes, Ma?’ she said innocently.

  ‘Do you know what to expect?’

  How did one reply? It was the one aspect of marriage that continued to disturb her. Best to let Mother have her say. ‘Er . . . what do you mean, Ma?’

  Marie stood with her back to the room, staring out of the window at the marquee. ‘In bed. Gregory will want . . . well, to touch you. Under your nightdress.’

  Sarah couldn’t think what to say.

  ‘I don’t want to shock you, or put you off. But it’s only right you should know beforehand that he’s only being quite normal. Men are just made that way and we have to put up with it.’ Marie had waited for a response but Sarah remained silent. ‘You hear me? You understand what I’m saying?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Gregory’s a nice boy. He’ll try not to hurt you. The thing is, try to keep your nightdress on and the light out. Otherwise he’ll get too worked up.’

  Sarah gasped. ‘Is that what you did?’

  ‘Of course. Like my mother told me,’ Marie said, proudly adding, ‘Your father has never seen me undressed in all our married life.’

  They’d all heard this boast before, and William had laughed irreverently, saying that Father must have been a jolly good shot to have had six children. Of course she had grasped the basic facts; you couldn’t help it living on a farm even if you were hurried away when ‘something’ was happening, but she had no idea how it was technically achieved.

  It had been a great relief to both Marie and her daughter when Emmy came in to say that Greg was on the phone. Sarah had hurried away to speak to him, praying that Mother wouldn’t start up again when she got back.

  *

  One look at the length of the guest list, months ago, and Marie Ozanne had decided the Wedding Breakfast should be handled by outside caterers. She could not possibly mingle with everyone, playing the hostess, if she was worrying about feeding a hundred or more people. A good decision; she was pleased to sit back and enjoy the speeches. Her brother Bernard had proposed the toast to the bride and groom, adequately. But Gregory’s reply had been very good indeed; he was a natural born speaker. His friend and best man, George, was very shy and nervous when he responded on behalf of the bridesmaids to the groom’s toast . . . and then they had only to cut the cake to complete the ceremonial part of the proceedings.

  Much, much later, Sarah was able to catch Ethel’s eye and together they slipped away unnoticed to their bedroom. All the bridal attendants should have been with them to help her change into her going-away outfit. She hoped she wasn’t causing any offence, but it was so much nicer, after all the nervous tension and excitement, to have a few minutes quietly alone with her sister.

  ‘Well, the marquee is still standing,’ Ethel said.

  ‘Thank heavens! I really had my doubts it would survive when I saw the wind first thing this morning.’

  Ethel took charge of the headband and veil, while Sarah kicked off her shoes and unfastened her suspenders. She had chosen a pale blue wool suit for going away. The cloche hat was trimmed with a navy blue rose which matched her handbag, gloves and shoes.

  ‘Greg spoke well, didn’t he?’ Ethel said.

  ‘I thought so, but then I could be biased,’ Sarah laughed. ‘There.’ She checked the mirror over her shoulder. ‘Are my seams straight?’

  ‘Yes. Perfect. Those stockings are lovely! Where did you get them?’

  ‘Ma bought them. Part of my trousseau.’ Sarah picked up her handbag. ‘Well, Ethel. I think I’m ready.’

  The sisters stared at each other for a moment.

  Ethel swallowed hard. ‘Hope it’s all good for you. The honeymoon and . . . ever after.’ She put an arm round Sarah’s shoulders, gave her a quick hug, then said, ‘Let’s go. And don’t forget your bouquet.’

  Sarah picked it up from the dressing stool and together they went down to the waiting well-wishers.

  Greg thought his new wife looked divine as they dashed to the car under a hail of congratulations and confetti. The driver had piled their cases into the car; no one except George knew they were spending the night at the Royal Hotel before catching the mailboat to Jersey in the morning: they wanted to avoid having a crazy bunch of friends tying up the legs of their pyjamas and shoving idiotic objects down the bed.

  Sarah flung her bouquet of lilies out of the window. It landed in Ethel’s arms and everyone said, ‘Oooh’. Ma was waving and Pa was wiping his eyes; the girls were blowing kisses.

  The newlyweds waved goodbye, smiling at the sea of faces. And at each other. Sarah realised her heart was thumping: it was hard to believe what she had done, becoming Mrs Gaudion, committing herself to Greg and his family for ever more. Oh Lord, she was so scared. Life would never be the same ever again.

  As the car pulled away they realised that William and Bertie had tied a string of tin cans to the bumper.

  *

  The following morning the Ozanne family attended church together as they did every Sunday. The Ozanne pew, three from the front, wasn’t big enough to hold all of them, so as usual John, Mary and Joseph sat in the pew behind. Mary wasn’t too happy about this arrangement, but her son was delighted: Grandma couldn’t see him playing with his new train.

  Ethel and Aline might have stepped out of Vogue, their cloche hats, daring, knee-length skirts and patent shoes with lavatory heels all in the very latest fashion. Marie thought their skirt lengths were little short of disgusting and their hats quite silly: she preferred more traditional styles herself and was wearing a creation which Ethel had described previously as a three-tiered chocolate sponge. Just as well Sarah wasn’t there, Ethel thought: they wouldn’t dare look at either the hat or one another for fear of another attack of hysteria. She was trying to think happy thoughts, not to feel weepy like she had when she lay in bed early this morning in her lonely room . . . wondering how Sarah had got on.

  Marie was feeling quite deflated after all the intense work and organising she had done for the wedding. She had slept only fitfully, between periods of worrying about Sarah. She hadn’t explained nearly enough to the girl, about what marriage entailed. She had tried while Sarah was laying out the wedding presents, in the dining room, but that subject had always made her feel so tongue-tied.

  While the rector was delivering his Easter Sunday sermon, Marie’s mind wandered back to her own honeymoon: she had grown up on a farm, so in a manner of speaking she should have known what to expect, yet her first night had been a miserable, embarrassing experience. She found herself repeating her nightly petition: ‘Oh God, please, please don’t let it be like that for Sarah.’ But it was a bit late now.

  She could only pray she hadn’t failed her youngest daughter.

  Chapter Two – NEIGHBOURS

  Marie rang the bell again, and waited.

  At last the dining-room door opened and Emmy scurried in, starched mob-cap askew. ‘Yes, ma’am?’

  ‘In heaven’s name where have you been? I’ve had to ring three times.’

  Emmy looked like a scared rabbit. ‘I was in the scullery, ma’am,’ she said, red as a beetroot.

  ‘Passing your time at the backdoor with Marcel, eh?’

  Emmy made a serious examination of the carpet.

  ‘If you don’t buck up your ideas and get another rack of toast in here in five minutes there’s going to be trouble. Understand?’ Marie spoke severely.

  Emmy nodded furiously, biting her lip. Then fled.

  Bertie laughed. ‘At least she and Marcel aren’t wasting any time. Not like some we know.’ His comment was loaded. William and Filly had been partnered on the tennis court and at various dances, ever since Sarah’s wedding, three months ago, and were meeting regularly in Town, but nothing positive had transpired, yet.

  ‘The
y most certainly have been wasting time,’ Marie argued angrily. ‘Mine! If she wants to make familiar with the boy then she does it on her half-day.’

  ‘Sshh!’ Ethel hissed as the door opened again and Emmy placed a rack of hot toast on the table.

  ‘Met the rector up the road, yesterday,’ Hubert told Marie. ‘He’d been talking to Nick le Ray’s widow. Apparently she’s sold les Blanches Pierres to some Englishman called Laurence.’

  ‘Really!’ Everyone was listening. ‘Go on, Pa. Is he a farmer?’

  ‘No. A retired army colonel.’

  Aline cleared her throat for attention. ‘I could have told you that. He and his family had lunch in the hotel, yesterday.’ She had been doing secretarial work for Uncle Bernie at his Fort Grey Hotel for the past two months, and frequently regaled the family with descriptions of the residents and diners.

  ‘Well tell us, then. What are they like?’ Her family were all ears.

  ‘Hard to say. They didn’t talk to anyone except to order their meal. The two ladies were smart. They all smoked cigarettes.’

  ‘All? How many were there?’ Ethel wanted to know.

  ‘Four. The colonel is very tall and thin and wears a monocle. His wife is a big woman with a voice like a trumpet.’

  ‘What was she wearing?’ Marie asked.

  ‘County clothes. A hairy skirt and lisle stockings.’

  ‘In this weather!’ Marie swept an arm towards the windows which were wide open; already, at only eight o’clock, the smell of hot, dry grass drifted in, while bees and bluebottles buzzed round the flower beds. ‘Huh! Hairy skirts in June. Maybe she thinks she’s coming to live at the North Pole.’

  ‘Who were the other two?’ Ethel wanted to know.

  ‘A blond young man and a rather bored-looking young woman. She was blonde, too.’

  ‘Who do you reckon they were?’ William asked.

  ‘He was a son, I’d say. Very like the father. She could have been a daughter. Her voice was as loud as Mrs Laurence’s.’

  ‘They’re doing no end of work up there on the house,’ Hubert commented. ‘Jean says they’re going to add on a whole new wing, as well as turning the big barn into staff quarters. ‘They’re bringing their butler, and a cook.’

  ‘Butler! Cook!’ Marie was not impressed. ‘Huh! What do they want with all that, over here?’

  ‘How else to stun the local peasantry?’ Ethel asked. ‘I don’t suppose they are staying at the hotel.’

  ‘No. I overheard them talk about going back to the Royal.’ Aline was delighted with the family’s reception of her news. They didn’t always show that much interest.

  William wiped his mouth on his serviette. ‘By the way, anyone know why Sarah hasn’t been up for tennis for a couple of weeks?’

  ‘Pass the marmalade, please.’ Ethel held out her hand to take it, grinning as she added, ‘I suspect what you really want to know is when she is bringing the girls up again. Filly in particular?’

  ‘We . . . ell . . .’ William stuck his tongue in his cheek.

  When the men drove off and Aline left to cycle down to the hotel, Marie went into the garden with a basket and scissors to dead-head the roses.

  Upstairs, Ethel tidied her room and began making the bed. The room was hot, so she pushed up the lower halves of both sash windows hoping to catch a morning breeze . . . but there was none. Only the noise of sparrows squabbling in the eaves, and a distant gull drifted through the room. Rearranging the posy of marguerites and roses she’d picked yesterday in the garden reminded her of the primos Sarah had brought in from the top field just before her wedding. She found herself staring at the smooth counterpane on Sarah’s bed, wondering, for the umpteenth time, how she was getting on in her new life. They had seen each other a number of times since her marriage but never had an opportunity for a private chat. In fact it was almost as though Sarah was deliberately avoiding it. Why? Was she truly happy? Did she feel fulfilled, now she had her Greg? Oh Lord, how she missed her. Yet was it entirely Sarah who was responsible for the vacuum in her life? Long before Sarah’s wedding Ethel had felt a growing restlessness . . . an inexplicable emptiness. Oh, her days and weeks were still full of fun and activity; yet there didn’t seem to be the carefree laughter that had once filled her life. If only she could call Sarah for a chat. But there was little chance of a private conversation with Sarah now she was living in her in-laws’ house: apparently, as soon as the phone rang, Mina, the housemaid, would come and stand in the hall, quite openly, to listen.

  Ethel tucked in the sheets and blankets, and spread her counterpane over the top. If things had worked out differently ten years ago, between Louis and herself . . . But he’d been transferred to a branch of the bank in England and somehow their relationship had fizzled out . . .

  ‘Ethel! Are you up there?’ Marie’s voice came from the nether regions; she was planning a hay picnic for next Thursday and there was a lot to be done.

  ‘Yes, Ma. Just coming.’ Ethel took a last look at the room before closing the door.

  *

  Sarah looked at her watch again, not so much to see the time, but rather to judge how much longer she dared stay out, away from the house. She felt guilty for being here at all; knew she should have returned long ago . . . Just five more minutes. She was lying on the ground above the shore, around to the north from Bordeaux Bay and Harbour, cogitating, trying to unravel the mysteries of life. Of her life in particular. Was she hoping for the impossible, that she and Greg should have some private time together, other than in bed? That what had been designated as their living quarters should be just that? Was she immature and selfish, not wanting to spend every evening with Greg’s parents?

  She sat up. June was hot and dry. The wild grass and flowers had long given up the struggle to survive in the parched soil above the shoreline. Oystercatchers and nodding sandpipers ambled lazily at the water’s edge as the tide crept up slowly over the fine shingle. Beyond the tiny islet of Houmet Paradis, small boats etched perfect vees on the glass-smooth Little Russel, the channel running north to south between Guernsey and the smaller islands of Herm and Jethou, both presently shrouded in heat haze. A cargo vessel, low in the water, was steaming slowly towards St Sampson’s Harbour.

  Sarah whistled, and a huge, shaggy dog bounded up off the beach, halting beside her to shake, smothering her in sandy seawater.

  ‘Nelson, stop it you great ape!’ she shouted, so he stopped and sat leaning companionably against her. ‘Pooh, don’t you smell! It’s a bath for you when we get home.’ Malodorous hound that he was, nevertheless he was her friend, so she put an arm round his neck and hugged him. Four years old and of totally unidentifiable parentage, Nelson was Greg’s worshipful shadow around the greenhouses, and his master . . .

  Poor Greg, she sighed, as waves of guilt washed over her again. She wasn’t a good wife, at least not in the matter of physical love. He had been so kind, assuring her over and over that it didn’t matter, that ‘things’ would work out eventually, but the honeymoon had undoubtedly been a disaster. She had thought she knew what to expect, more or less, and had been so amused at Mother’s confused attempt to prepare her on the day before the wedding. Well, yes, she had known the theory, but it was the terrifying size of the problem that had been her undoing. Night after night she had closed her eyes, gritted her teeth and tried desperately to stop herself sliding backwards up the brass bedstead . . . all the time remembering Ethel saying that some girls enjoyed it! She had wept with mortification in Greg’s arms so often, until after two long months of wedded life they despaired, relaxed and accepted that maybe Fate intended her to remain a virgin. Then, miraculously and almost accidently, it had happened . . .

  She looked at her watch again, gasped and jumped to her feet . . . swayed, and closed her eyes until the sudden wave of nausea subsided. Ugh! What had brought that on?

  *

  Les Marettes was a comparatively modern house built shortly before the 1914–18 War by Edward Gaudion’s f
ather. Old Edward, in his more lucid moments, was proud to remind anyone who cared to listen that it had been constructed in traditional style . . . which to Sarah’s way of thinking only meant that the builder had repeated all the mistakes of previous generations, omitting the more beautiful old features . . . and most modern conveniences. The house was a short way inland from the sea, and had been repainted especially for the wedding in a bilious shade of greenish yellow, with leaf green woodwork. Fortunately, due to Edward’s failing faculties, no entertaining took place at Les Marettes, so possible guests were spared this optical ordeal. The driveway round the side of the house led to the back, and the greenhouses and packing sheds of Les Marettes Vineries where Edward and his sons raised crops of tomatoes every year.

  Sarah averted her eyes from the offending decor as she and Nelson walked round to the back door. The front door, embellished with a bunch of moulded fruit and twined leaves all painted green, was never opened, the bolts rusted into their sockets long since.

  ‘Don’t let that dog on my floor, Miss.’ Mina’s greeting came from the wash house across the yard. ‘Where’ve you been? The missus has been asking for you for the past hour.’

  Sarah’s heart sank. ‘Why? What does she want?’

  ‘She’s got Mrs Mahy for afternoon tea in the front parlour and wants you to sit with the old man.’

  Sarah stifled a groan and hurried inside. She didn’t blame her mother-in-law for wanting to entertain her friend in private—it was impossible to hold a normal conversation when old Edward was interrupting constantly with totally irrelevant comments and complaints. Not that one could hold a normal conversation with Alice, for that matter—shrieking at the top of one’s voice down her ear trumpet, and having to repeat the same thing over and over.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Alice appeared in the hallway.

  Sarah grasped the end of the trumpet and yelled, ‘Down on the shore.’