The Guernsey Saga Box Set

by Diana Bachmann

  The colonel fumbled for his monocle, realising he had made a tactical error.

  Paul and Ethel stared at each other in amazement, then back at ‘Hubert’ and ‘Old Chap.’

  ‘Yes. Yes. Well I suppose it might . . . er . . . May I top you up, my dear fellow?’

  *

  Left to the men, the outcome might have been a very happy one, considering all things. Unfortunately Ceylon tea had a less mellowing effect and the mothers remained furiously unforgiving.

  Sarah returned home to tell Greg all the details of the drama, confident that Ethel had escaped very lightly, while Paul and Ethel returned to the library to make some hasty plans, unaware of the angry demands being made by Arabella and Marie on their respective husbands, in their respective homes.

  ‘They are not staying here on the island, making an exhibition of themselves. Bringing shame on the family!’ Marie announced.

  Hubert argued that if Paul and Ethel were married, no one would be any the wiser.

  ‘Rubbish!’ Marie snorted, wisps of hair escaping from her bun. ‘You think people can’t count? They’ll know it was a shotgun wedding. They’ll know your daughter for a loose woman.’

  Arabella’s attitude was similar, though from a social rather than a moral aspect. ‘I’ve decided,’ she announced, standing facing her husband across his desk. ‘As Paul has been asking to do farming for some time . . . we’ll help him. In New Zealand.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Tell him you’ll put up the money for him to farm out there, but nowhere else.’ She smiled at her own ingenuity. ‘He’ll have no choice but to accept. Then no one here or in London need know that he has been cornered into marrying this . . . country wench.’

  ‘You mean you want us to wash our hands of them?’

  ‘Absolutely!’

  For once, Marie thought Arabella had had a brilliant idea. As soon as she heard, she made her way up the hill to call on Paul’s mother and congratulate her. ‘They must pay the penalty for their sins!’ she declared. A far more affable tea ritual followed, during which detailed arrangements for the marriage were listed and agreed.

  Neither Paul nor Ethel were consulted.

  *

  ‘May I come down tomorrow morning and see you?’ Ethel asked.

  Sarah frowned at the phone. ‘Yes, of course. But what’s the matter?’

  There was a brief silence. ‘I’ll tell you when I see you,’ Ethel replied, and hung up.

  Sarah was hanging out the washing when Ethel arrived driving their father’s car, and was horrified at how ill her sister looked. ‘What’s happened? Something wrong with the baby?’

  Ethel shivered and hugged her coat tightly across her chest.

  ‘Can we go inside?’ She waited while Sarah put on the kettle and made them a Horlicks each, put out a plate of biscuits, and carried them up to the sitting-room. ‘Where’s Suzanne?’

  ‘With Greg in the greenhouses. You sounded as though you needed to talk uninterrupted.’

  ‘We have to go to New Zealand.’

  Sarah’s hand jerked up, tipping the biscuits onto the floor. ‘What?’

  Ethel launched into the explanation, adding, ‘It’s what Paul has always wanted.’

  ‘To farm New Zealand?’

  ‘No. He wanted to farm over here, but his people wanted him to do something smart in the City. Now, they just want to be rid of us.’ She spread her hands over the front of her dress.

  ‘But . . . you don’t want to go off to the other side of the world . . .’

  ‘No. Nor does Paul. But there doesn’t seem to be an alternative. Both mothers are adamant.’

  ‘But—Oh God! I don’t believe this!’ Sarah raked fingers through her hair. ‘They can’t do this to you!’ She watched Ethel warming her hands round her hot mug. The attractive sprinkling of summer freckles had long faded, the normally lively hazel eyes were red-rimmed and listless. ‘Surely there is some way to change their minds?’

  ‘Not unless we simply refuse to go.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Then Paul would be obliged to give up the idea of ever farming, and pick up any sort of work he can find. And both our families would refuse to see us,’ she added, smudging away tears she couldn’t control.

  Sarah realised it was useless. The best chance the couple had of building a life for themselves undoubtedly lay on the other side of the globe, but the thought of Ethel, her dearest sister and friend, going off to live so far away was too painful to think about. It was so unnecessary! Pa could easily give Paul a job at Val du Douit until they found their feet . . . If Ma would let him. But oh no! She couldn’t do that! Think what the friends and neighbours would be saying! She ground her teeth. ‘Do you know, for the first time in my life I actually, actively hate my mother!’

  And for the first time in her life her big sister didn’t scold her for an ungodly outburst.

  *

  The wedding was to be a private affair attended only by the parents of the shameful pair. Marie’s excuse to the rector was that the young couple had made up their minds at the last minute to take passage on the Empress of India to New Zealand, leaving no time to arrange a proper wedding. The rector kept his knowing smile to himself, but on the day was surprised to see far more people at the service than he had been led to expect.

  Arabella and Marie were surprised, too, and absolutely livid. But they couldn’t throw Greg, Sarah and Suzanne, Filly, Kiff and Gelly, and George and Margery Schmit out of the church. Nor Victoria and Piers.

  Sarah, determined to make it as happy an occasion as possible, had taken it upon herself to brief the unexpected guests, who all turned up wearing lovely outfits and beautiful corsages. Having phoned Victoria, swearing her to secrecy, she had suggested the glamorous blonde wear something . . . suitable, and was rewarded with a vision which would have graced a Royal marriage at St Paul’s: Victoria thought the whole thing an absolute hoot, my dear!

  Hubert had talked Marie into agreeing to the two families returning to Val du Douit for a token glass of wine, but it was Sarah who had secretly and very hurriedly made a wedding cake—a first attempt lacking a certain finesse, but filling the obvious void.

  Which worried Ethel. ‘Ma will never forgive you!’ she hissed in Sarah’s ear.

  ‘And I’ll never forgive her,’ Sarah hissed back. ‘So we’ll be quits.’

  Greg had brought a couple of extra bottles of wine, and smiled sweetly at everyone as he refilled the glasses, ignoring the savage glares shot at him by his mother-in-law, who finally walked out of the room when he proposed a toast to the bride and groom.

  The Laurences went home, and Marie stomped about her house fuming, muttering dreadful threats about divine retribution, when the bridal couple were escorted down to the White Rock by their siblings and friends.

  Sarah thought her heart would break. ‘Don’t stay away too long,’ she sobbed. ‘And write every week.’ She hugged Ethel, reluctant to let her climb the gangway. ‘Look after her, Paul.’

  Waving from the ship’s rail as the mailboat went astern to turn in the harbour pool, the bride tried not to betray the terror and misery with which she faced the future.

  The Sarnia Sheep Station

  July, 1933.

  Dearest Sarah,

  This is to announce the arrival of Michael, a fine little brother for David. He is going to be fair, like his father. Paul is well and happy. We have expanded to ten thousand acres of grazing land for the sheep and barring a few hiccups the whole project is going very well. You would love our new house. It is very convenient with lovely big, airy rooms and plenty of space to extend when we want. I told you about the Robinsons who live only fifty miles down south of us, well we’ve met two more nice couples who live not too far away and we’ve all become good friends.

  So glad you’ve stayed on good terms with Ma and Pa since making it up last Christmas. And we are both very happy to hear that the old men have called off the row about the boundary. So what’s happenin
g there?

  Sorry I haven’t been able to write as often as we planned: there just are not enough hours in a day!

  Our love to you both,

  Ethel.

  William handed the letter back to Sarah. ‘She sounds happy enough, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, thank goodness. Does Ma get letters from her?’

  ‘I believe so. But the old girl never lets on. Never speaks of her. Bloody stupid woman!’

  ‘Thank heavens the rest of us have a more forgiving nature. Ma really makes me cross with her narrow-mindedness.’

  William sniffed. ‘It’s all right for you. You’re not living with it any more.’

  ‘Why do you say that? She doesn’t get on at you, does she?’

  ‘Yes. Always nattering about Filly.’

  ‘We . . . ell . . . It is about time you proposed to the poor girl and put her out of her misery.’

  ‘Mummy! Mummy! Sue-Sue want to play ball,’ Suzanne called from the lawn.

  ‘All right, darling. Uncle William’s coming.’

  ‘I am?’

  ‘Yes. My daughter isn’t interested in tossing a dainty ball to and fro. Her father teaches her serious football,’ Sarah explained. ‘You are far better at it than I am.’

  Thus William was spared the necessity of responding to his sister’s comments about Felicity Carre.

  *

  Hubert’s elderly mother had suffered calcification of the vertebrae for some years and been unable to sit at the family table for meals. Rather than be seen about the house as a helpless cripple, she elected to spend her days sitting in bed in regal splendour being waited on by nurses whom she declared incapable of doing anything right. But having been an active woman all her life, her self-imposed isolation had a stagnating effect on her mind and gradually, over the years since Sarah’s marriage, she had withdrawn into a semi-twilight world. ‘I am no longer of any use to anyone so I might just as well be gone,’ she repeated to family members who visited her daily. And to her nurse each morning she would say, ‘Oh dear, another day and I am still here. I wish the Lord would take me to his heaven.’

  And so it was. The day dawned when the nurse failed to rouse her; the family was called, and likewise the doctor, who confirmed she had had her wish granted.

  *

  ‘You really think we could do it?’ Sarah gasped with excitement.

  ‘If you can talk your father into a small loan. Added to this inheritance from Aunt Selina we could afford a really nice plot. It would make all the difference.’

  Sarah threw her arms round Greg’s neck. ‘Oh, how marvellous. If it could really happen!’ She had dreamed of them having a home of their own ever since they were first married and forced to live with Greg’s elderly parents. They had saved hard throughout their engagement and over the four years since the wedding.

  Now, since Greg had learned he had inherited five hundred pounds from his godmother, and his brother had agreed to the employing of a permanent nurse for his father, the possibility of having a home of their own in the foreseeable future was too exciting for words.

  ‘I’ll work on Pa next Sunday on the beach,’ Sarah decided.

  ‘If the weather’s all right!’ Greg looked out of the bedroom window at the sky.

  ‘George said it was set to stay fine for the next few days, and he is always right.’ She was determined.

  *

  George, the ardent amateur fisherman, was correct, so the family duly congregated on Cobo beach with rugs, towels and biscuit tins of sandwiches and cake.

  Hubert and Marie arranged their deckchairs well above the advancing tide, and Aline, unbuttoning her dress to reveal a stunning new swimsuit, arranged herself gracefully on a rug at their feet. She had resigned her job ostensibly to replace Ethel as Marie’s right hand in the house, for which she had negotiated a princely sum far in excess of anything her older sister had ever received and for which she did little in return . . . other than ingratiate herself with her parents to the detriment of her siblings. It infuriated Sarah to hear Aline making snide remarks to her mother about Ethel, and bragging about how she herself had so often resisted the temptation to accept wonderful invitations from the most illustrious and glamorous of men. ‘Entirely figments of her imagination,’ Sarah would assure Greg.

  But at family beach picnics it was possible to forget the sibling rivalry, to relax in the sun, swim, play with the children and join in the statutory game of cricket before the tide came up too high.

  More from force of habit than for any other reason, William had fetched Filly in his car to join the picnic. Once, Victoria had accepted a casual invitation from Sarah, made in an unguarded moment, to join the family picnic. But only once. The London socialite did not enjoy the experience . . . mainly because her high heels stuck in the sand. But Sarah had invited Belle to bring Polly several times . . . They never did come.

  Sarah carefully positioned herself in the cricket outfield near her father, so that at the end of the match when the others all went for a bathe, she could walk him along the water’s edge and bring up the subject of money.

  ‘You say Greg’s Aunt Selina left him five hundred pounds!’ Hubert stopped in surprise. ‘Why would she do that when she had children of her own?’

  ‘He was her godson.’

  ‘Oh. Well that’s reasonable.’ He walked on for a while in silence. ‘Who will look after Greg’s parents?’

  ‘Andrew has finally agreed to the expense of a nurse. So you see we now have enough to build a really lovely home, but not enough to buy a really lovely plot of land as well.’

  Her father turned to smile at his favourite. ‘And you are wondering if some old fool will fork out a loan so you can lash out on a fairy-tale palace?’

  ‘No! Because I don’t believe in fairy-tales and I don’t know any old fools,’ Sarah grinned. ‘Though mind you, if my adored father were to come up with such a wonderful offer I would be bowled over!’

  ‘Wicked minx! I might have guessed you didn’t want to walk the sand with me purely for the pleasure of my company!’ He pretended to wallop her behind. ‘All right. How much?’

  ‘Seventy-five pounds,’ she said, and held her breath.

  ‘Seventy-five! Good heavens, what on earth are you buying? Sausmarez Park?’

  ‘Pa! The cost of land has gone up since your day!’

  ‘I’m still having my day, thank you very much,’ he retorted.

  But Sarah could tell from the twitching at the corner of his mouth that he would come up with the money.

  *

  A date was set for Marie’s annual hay picnic. Sarah had not enjoyed the last one, horribly conscious of missing Ethel throughout, but she wanted Suzanne to be there so this year she made a big conciliatory effort, and some more fancy cakes. As ever, Marie invited all and sundry, so that when William asked if he could bring a family of visitors he’d met recently, his mother had no objection.

  The weather was perfect, not a cloud to be seen and only sufficient breeze to cool the laughing workforce as they wielded their pitchforks. Jean Quevatre drove the haywain, while his son Marcel, now a full-grown young man and married to Emmy the maid, stood atop, arranging the hay thrown up to him by the Batiste twins.

  William arrived with his party when activities were in full swing, so not everyone noticed their arrival. But Sarah did, and wondered why her heart sank immediately. The visitors were a French family named Rosenburg: father was short and fat with a walrus moustache: mother equally short and fat; a fading blonde in a very tight dress. There was a son, Louis, thin and lanky with arms too long for his sleeves . . . and a daughter, Annemarie, petite and pretty in a flouncy, blue cotton dress, who bore a striking similarity to Filly. William was on his best behaviour, escorting the Rosenburgs round the field making introductions and explaining to the visitors, who came from Cherbourg and spoke very little English, the purpose of the annual hay picnic . . . in ghastly schoolboy French.

  Marie was charmingly helpful, ad
dressing them in their own language which they were able to understand despite her lapses into Guernsey patois, and soon Madame Rosenburg was handing out sandwiches and gossiping with her hostess as if they had known each other all their lives. Monsieur ambled off to watch the hay-loading operation with his son, and Annemarie was left with William, her head hung coyly to one side, listening to him and occasionally replying to a question in delightful, broken English. Sarah could see they had little difficulty in communicating and wondered what was going through Filly’s mind as her bubbly friend gathered hay into long heaps, ready for the twins, and pretended not to notice.

  Sarah was delighted to see that Polly had been allowed to come, with Belle in attendance. Most people in the district had become used to the big, black woman and her charge. ‘Look who’s here, Suzanne. Someone has come to play with you.’

  Suzanne crawled out of a mini haystack, and squealed with joy. ‘Polly, Polly!’ she shouted and ran at the girl, hugging her round the knees.

  Hours later, Greg came to find Sarah as the sun was going down. He was carrying their daughter over his shoulder and said, ‘I think this little bit of nonsense is ready for her bed.’

  ‘No! I not tired!’ Suzanne wailed, rubbing her drooping eyelids.

  They assembled their gear and friends, and as they departed the sun glowed pink with faint traces of cloud across its face. Sarah turned to wave goodbye. Filly was standing alone, looking quite lost. William and his new friends were nowhere to be seen.

  *

  Greg and Sarah’s bungalow was square, simple and pebble-dashed, with three bedrooms, a dining-room and sitting-room, and a bathroom and kitchen at the back. A little lean-to greenhouse facing south west and leading off the sitting-room was a luxury indulgence: Greg wanted to grow a few vegetables and some fruit for the kitchen and Sarah was keen to try raising some pot plants. On the north east side was the garage. Just a few hundred yards from Les Marettes as the crow flies, though nearly a mile through the twisting lanes, their new home was built in the middle of a field which they had bought from Ossie le Poidevin in August. Greg, Sarah and Suzanne were able to move in three weeks before Christmas . . . much to the annoyance of Andrew and his mother, as it meant paying out for nurses sooner than expected.