The Guernsey Saga Box Set

by Diana Bachmann

  Mary was wide awake. She knew John had gone downstairs and she knew why . . . he was worried about what would happen to her and the children, and miserable about being left on the island on his own. A pity he was more conscientious about the farm than about his family but she supposed one had to admire him for it. She and the children would stay with her sister Nancy in Oxford. Her husband had joined up, so they would be company for each other. She certainly didn’t want to be stuck with her in-laws and that Aline . . . Just so long as they sent her enough money.

  *

  Next morning Greg had a hard time persuading Sarah to remain in bed and not come with him to deliver Suzanne to school. ‘We’ve enough problems to sort out at the moment without adding seriously high blood pressure and an emergency birth to the list,’ he said fiercely. ‘You’d do much better to say goodbye here, and stay by the phone. You never know who may need to get in touch with us.’

  Suzanne was aeriated and petulant. ‘I don’t see why we’ve got to wear winter uniform in the summer. And overcoats! It’s stupid!’

  Sarah didn’t know, either. England wasn’t much cooler than Guernsey, and they’d all be back home before the winter. ‘You have said you wanted to go with the school, so you have to obey the school rules. That’s why, darling.’ She kept eyeing the child, surreptitiously, loving the way her sunburnt nose tilted and her wide mouth pouted when she was cross. ‘I’ve put your stockings in your suitcase. It’ll be cooler for you to wear socks right now which don’t need a liberty bodice and suspenders. Oh don’t cuddle Toby against your uniform,’ Sarah groaned. ‘You’re covered in dog hairs!’

  Sue brushed her front. ‘Doesn’t matter. Not if I’ve got to have my coat on.’ She slid her arms into the sleeves, adjusted the label tied into her buttonhole and pulled the long strap of her gas mask box over her head.

  ‘Ready?’ Greg carried the carefully labelled suitcase through the hall. ‘Time to get going.’

  Sarah wrapped her arms tightly round the child, kissing her forehead. ‘Look after yourself, darling. Remember to wash your teeth and say your prayers every night.’

  ‘Yes, of course. And I’ll soon be back.’ Suzanne gave her mother a quick squeeze before disengaging herself. ‘Come on, Dad!’ And with a happy wave she ran out to the car. When she was seated beside Greg she asked, ‘Mummy wasn’t crying about something, was she?’

  ‘She’s probably sad about saying goodbye. She’s going to miss you, you know.’ He tried to swallow but it was difficult because of the lump in his own throat. ‘You will write every week, won’t you?’

  ‘If I get time. Are you going to miss me, too?’

  ‘Yes, a lot. Will you miss us?’

  ‘I hope not because it would make me unhappy. I’ll try not to think about you too much, then I won’t.’

  Such was the logic of a practical child mind, it left Greg speechless for the rest of the journey.

  Suzanne pretended not to notice. She chattered brightly about her friends and the prospect of seeing a real train for the first time. It bothered her that her parents were both so weepy: they had always taught her to be brave, that it was sissy to cry. So why weren’t they being brave? Or did she know? Perhaps they, too, had a horrid tightness in their chests making them feel odd. Or had she eaten her breakfast egg too quickly?

  *

  Sarah went back to bed, but it was impossible to relax so she gave up, got up and tidied Suzanne’s bedroom . . . crying all the time, Toby glued to her heels. Maureen’s shepherd’s pie was still in the pantry. She sniffed it, decided it was still edible and put it in the oven to recook thoroughly. Then it would only need warming up again when Greg came home. With a loose summer dressing-gown over her nightie, she wandered into the garden. It needed watering. Later. Bees elbowed their way in and out of the foxgloves: several hummingbird hawk moths hovered in front of the petunias, each with its long probiscus embedded in the purple trumpets. Distant gulls were screaming over Bordeaux beach.

  Les Canons des Isles, she thought, as a rumbling sound reached her. Les Canons were often heard in Guernsey in summer and there were varying theories about them. Some believed it was caused by sea surging in deep, underwater caverns: others said it was mild earth tremors, the island being on a seismic fault. In her own mind, Sarah had always associated the sounds with fine weather. The next series of rumbles were stronger, louder. Louder than she’d ever heard before. And again. Then she gasped, realising that this was no natural phenomenon. It was war. Guns and bombs over the French coast. A few minutes later aircraft flew low overhead and she hurried indoors. What was happening? Would the island come under attack? And what of Suzanne! Had the school children’s boats got safely away?

  *

  Andrew assured his brother that he would look after the old folk . . . and the greenhouses, as Greg had definitely got someone to come in and help with the picking.

  Greg drove back home, fast, to tell Sarah. He felt so relieved; he hadn’t been able to get that last picture of Suzanne out of his mind: standing in the middle of her form room, surrounded by friends, she was trying to look nonchalant, grown-up, as he walked out of the door. Her wide, toothy smile was almost genuine, but her lower lip was quivering, very slightly.

  Now, as soon as Sarah was fit they could both get on a boat and join the child . . . wherever she might have been sent, all labelled up like a piece of luggage, with her gas mask slung round her shoulder, and suitcase clutched in her hand.

  *

  ‘I only wish this infant would hurry up,’ Sarah sighed, the following morning, as she clutched her vast abdomen. ‘The sooner it arrives the sooner we’ll be able to follow them.’

  ‘True! But in the meantime today is Friday so I’ll have to get on with the picking.’

  ‘Oh no! Must you? I hoped you could take me up to Val du Douit to say goodbye to the family.’

  Greg pulled on the old stained shirt he used as an overall. ‘I feel I must do as much as possible to help Andrew as long as I’m here. But I’ll try to finish by lunchtime and take you up this afternoon. Now, don’t go off the deep end,’ he went on cautiously, ‘but I’ve arranged for Mina’s niece to come and help in the house. You’ve been trying to do far too much.’

  Sarah grinned. ‘What makes you think I might go off the deep end? I’m only too happy to have help, but I hope this girl has a clue or two about housework. I don’t want to have to teach her how to wash a floor.’

  ‘You’ll soon know. She’s starting this morning.’

  Daisy knocked on the back door at nine o’clock. She had worked at home for her mother, she said, but it was obvious she hadn’t learnt much. However she could wash dishes and peel potatoes and Sarah decided she was better than no one at all.

  After lunch Greg drove her out to St Saviour’s. ‘This might have to be the last trip out here in the car, old girl. There is a petrol shortage, remember?’

  ‘Well we’ll have to use bicycles, then. Ma may want me to look after things out here, and water Pa’s plants.’

  ‘Can’t John water them?’

  ‘I’ll ask him, but I imagine he’ll have his work cut out keeping up with the farm chores. We don’t know yet if Jean Quevatre is going or staying, nor any of the other men.’

  Unusually for summertime, the front door was bolted up. Sarah waddled round to the back door and though closed, it wasn’t locked. There were dishes on the kitchen table but no sign of anyone around. ‘Coo . . . ee! Where are you?’

  The only sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall.

  On the dining-table were the remains of a meal. Upstairs, discarded clothes were scattered on the beds, but there were no signs of suitcases.

  Sarah returned to the kitchen and sank onto a chair. ‘They’ve gone! We’re too late!’

  The back door opened and Mrs Queripel came in wearing one of her usual floral pinafores and carrying a bucket. ‘Ooh, Miss Sarah you did give me a fright! Mr John sent a message I was to come and clear up after th
em all has gone. It not being my usual day, you understand,’ she added by way of explanation.

  ‘Good. Do carry on, Mrs Q. I didn’t know they’d gone.’ Sarah felt desolate. She drifted back through the house, through each of the rooms, trying to convince herself they’d be back within a few weeks; fighting down the dreadful, invasive fear that it could be a long time . . . that the days of big family meals, chatter, laughter, had gone forever.

  The house felt horribly empty, eerily so and she couldn’t wait to get away . . . And yet there was a strange reluctance to say goodbye to the old family home. She doubted she could face coming back to water Pa’s plants very often. Maybe Mrs Q. could do them.

  John was in the yard when they went outside. ‘I saw your car. Ma asked me to phone you but there was no reply. You must have left.’

  ‘Why didn’t they phone before going?’

  ‘When a boat came in they were told to get to the White Rock immediately, or their places would be taken by someone else.’

  ‘Is Mary in?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘She went yesterday . . .’ he was saying, when an aircraft swooped overhead.

  ‘Wow! That was low!’

  ‘They have been low, lately. With us being so close to the airfield I suppose.’

  They talked a little longer, promised to keep in touch, and then Greg helped Sarah back into the car. ‘He seemed a bit odd, didn’t you think?’ he commented as they drove up the lane.

  ‘Yes. But I can’t say exactly in what way.’ John had almost appeared to want to get rid of them. ‘Let’s get home. I need to lie down again.’

  *

  Next day, Greg went to a chemist and bought prussic acid. Toby spent the morning with him in the greenhouses because Daisy was nervous of dogs, and as the scruffy little fellow followed him up and down each path between the tomato vines, Greg became more and more worried: he knew he was going to funk it when it came to fixing the fatal dose.

  The Bougourd family had graded and packed the Gaudions’ tomatoes for years. Every picking day Wilf drove his battered green lorry into the yard to collect the roughly loaded baskets, to take them back to his team in the packing sheds, where one of the men would unload and tip the fruit onto the old wooden grader for the women. Fresh wooden baskets were waiting, lined with soft, coloured paper: pink, pink and white, white, blue or green, each representing the grades. Most local growers laughed at the grades preferred by the English markets, who refused to take the big, boat-shaped ‘Potentates’, full of juice and flavour, so relished by the islanders; ‘the English housewives say they don’t fit into the sandwiches’ was the hilarious reason given.

  Greg was feeling a bit peeved. Having done all the picking with only the help of Wilf’s sister’s boy, and finished loading the lorry, he was ready to give his brother a piece of his mind for not doing his share. Twice he had gone to look for Andrew in the house, then phoned him at home, but there was no reply. He washed his hands roughly under the outside tap and got on his bike to ride round to Andrew and Maureen’s house. The place was deserted, but as the door was unlocked he went in and called. No reply. There were breakfast things on the table . . . dishes that had been there a long time: a jug of milk curdled solid. Dried-up bread and cups decorated with congealed rimes of tea. An unpleasant feeling of déjà vu brought up the hairs on his neck: Val du Douit had looked like this last week . . . But Andrew couldn’t have gone, his bottom set were half-hidden under his saucer. A man wouldn’t set off on a journey without his teeth!

  Upstairs, Andrew’s clothes hung in the wardrobe, though some of Maureen’s were gone. And of course Sybil had left months ago to join the ATS. He wandered downstairs again, looking for clues, and out into the back garden.

  ‘Where’s your brother then?’ a voice called over the fence.

  ‘Hallo, Mr Robin. I was hoping you could tell me.’

  ‘We haven’t seen him for a couple of days. Not since he drove Mrs Gaudion and her sister-in-law and the youngsters into Town.’

  Greg frowned. ‘With suitcases? Which day was that?’

  Mr Robin frowned and stroked his moustache. ‘Let me see. It couldn’t of bin the Tuesday . . .’

  ‘I saw him first thing Wednesday. He helped me with the picking for an hour,’ Greg cut in impatiently.

  ‘Ah, yes. It would be a bit later, say half-past eight, then. That’s right. I was out here pulling my carrots and I said to the wife—’

  ‘Fine. Thanks very much, you’ve been a great help. I must dash off, now.’

  ‘How’s the wife, then?’ the old chap called after him.

  ‘Fine,’ Greg shouted over his shoulder. But she wouldn’t be fine when he told her the news, that despite his promises, Andrew had jumped on board with Maureen, and gone. He pedalled furiously up the road. Damn. Damn. There was little chance of finding someone else to keep an eye on the old people, and they couldn’t be left . . . The nurse may have gone, too. Dear Lord! Should he tell Sarah now, or would it be safer to wait till after the baby was born?

  *

  ‘28th of June! Oh if only this baby would arrive, I reckoned it was due days ago!’ Sarah sat in bed listening to the worsening news bulletins on the wireless. Every day another disaster was announced. Marshal Petain had done a deal with the Nazis and Italians, selling their allies down the river. Sea and air battles raged everywhere.

  The weather was oppressively close causing rivulets of sweat to trickle down her swollen body. She pushed back the damp sheet, swung her legs clumsily over the side of the bed and sat staring at the collection of suitcases in the corner of the room. They were neatly labelled. One for herself and the baby for the maternity home; one with extra things for Suzanne and the baby to be taken to England; one for herself and another for Greg, also for England. So the moment the doctor gave permission . . .

  Daisy stood in the open doorway. ‘You all right, ma’am?’

  ‘I think so. I wonder when Mr Greg will be back? What time is it?’ She stared at the bedroom clock. ‘Four-thirty. Too early yet. Could you pour me a glass of lemon barley water before you go?’

  Greg’s mood was black as he cycled home that afternoon. The nurse had gone, telling Mina she wouldn’t be back. So instead of watering, he had spent a couple of hours trying to find someone to look after his parents, but the elderly Gaudions were well-known for being awkward, and no one who had actually decided to stay on the island seemed willing to take them on.

  ‘Let’s go and sit in the car overlooking Bordeaux this evening,’ Sarah begged when Greg came in. ‘We could take some sandwiches with us for supper.’

  ‘You are supposed to be staying in bed. Doctor’s orders.’

  ‘I’ve been in bed all day!’

  Looking at her hot, swollen body he couldn’t help but feel sympathetic. ‘Okay, as our daughter would say!’ It was a wretched addition to the modern vocabulary. ‘You can come and sit in the kitchen and tell me what to put in the sandwiches.’

  It was a perfect evening. Across the Russel, Herm and Jethou were bathed in a pink glow as the heat of the sun waned. Seabirds strutted on the shore below them as Greg and Sarah sat, both car doors open, listening to their mewling.

  ‘You’re frowning, darling,’ Sarah commented, stroking the hair on his bronzed forearm.

  He had to evade mentioning Andrew’s departure. ‘I’m just hoping the cargo boats keep running. There’s a heck of a lot of fruit on the White Rock, tonight, waiting to be loaded.’

  ‘Big pick this morning?’

  ‘Yes. And worth a lot of money. We can’t afford to have it all rotting on the quay.’

  ‘Well there is nothing we can do about it, so let’s enjoy our supper.’ She opened the biscuit tin balanced on the bulge. ‘Sardine and tomato or cheese and pickle?’

  ‘I’ll start with sardine. But hold on a minute while I pour the drinks. Can you reach yours if I put it on the running board?’

  ‘No. You’ll have to keep mine your side and pass it over when I need it.’ She le
aned towards him and kissed his ear. ‘I’m so glad you got home early this evening. Did Andrew say that Maureen and her sister-in-law got away all right with the kiddies?’

  Greg drew a hand across his forehead. This was all so ridiculous. Here they were, sitting with a picnic supper on their laps, overlooking this spectacularly beautiful and peaceful scene, trying to convince themselves that everything was going to be all right, when he knew perfectly well that everything was dreadfully wrong. How long was it going to take to drive the Germans back out of France? Make the English Channel safe? Get the islands running normally again? Surely, this whole thing must have cost the Guernsey States thousands . . . As for their personal problems . . .

  He was framing the lie in response to Sarah’s question, when the evening was shattered by the roar of low-flying aircraft. So low they almost wanted to duck. He jumped out of the car, spilling his drink, to watch them swoop over the Town, and listened with horror to a series of thumps and explosions.

  Palls of smoke rose from the White Rock.

  Sandwiches and drinks were shoved aside as Greg started the engine and slammed his car door. Speeding up the lane he swung to a crunching stop at their front door and carried Sarah bodily into the bungalow. They had scarcely had time to draw breath.

  Having dumped Sarah quite heavily on the dining-room floor and shoved her along on the linoleum until she was right under the dining-table, Greg rushed in and out of each room opening windows to avoid shattering glass, admitting all the terrifying, explosive noises.

  When he returned, doubling up his huge frame to squeeze under the table with her, Sarah was laughing. ‘I feel such a damned fool!’ she wailed, helplessly.

  Watching her freckled nose wrinkle up in silent hysterics, Greg caught her mood and his shoulders, too, began to shake. Which made the situation the more ludicrous. Waves of aircraft continued to roar over their heads while they sat huddled together laughing at the sight of each other half-enveloped in Sarah’s bobble-fringed tablecloth.