‘Listen!’ Greg stuck his head out from their shelter.
‘I can’t hear anything.’
‘Exactly. It’s stopped.’ He began to drag himself out.
‘Don’t go,’ she begged. ‘They may come back.’
The silence continued and five minutes later they both emerged.
‘Good Lord. Look at my dress!’ A headless sardine was stuck on the bulge. ‘And your shirt is drenched in beer!’
‘Bed, woman,’ Greg ordered.
‘What I need is a cup of tea.’ But she waddled obediently into the bedroom. Suddenly she realised she was shaking all over.
When he had taken the tea to Sarah, Greg went to the phone. ‘I’ve got to find out what is happening in Town,’ he said, but he was unable to get the operator. ‘I’ll have to check that the old folk are all right. I might be able to get through from there.’
‘You’re not going to leave me, are you?’
‘Only for ten minutes.’
When Greg walked in, Edward Gaudion remarked that the steam boiler in the yard was acting up. His son didn’t argue; and of course Alice hadn’t heard a thing. Mina was banging dishes about in the kitchen, clearing their supper. She asked if Mr Greg knew what they was up to in Town . . .
It transpired, later, that having demilitarized the islands to protect them from unnecessary attack, the British Government had overlooked the small matter of notifying the enemy . . . who not unnaturally assumed that the long queue of tomato lorries waiting on the White Rock to transfer their loads to a waiting ship, were packed with munitions. Twenty-two people died and many more were injured . . . including Wilf Bougourd.
*
Next morning, when the telephone exchange was back in operation, Greg called the doctor. ‘Sarah hasn’t slept all night and she’s looking very flushed this morning.’
‘She would be better off in the maternity home where I can keep a close eye on her. I suggest you take her in as soon as possible,’ Dr Walker advised.
‘I don’t think this child wants to come out,’ Sarah remarked in the car. ‘Probably thinks it’s safer inside.’
‘One can hardly blame it.’ Greg drove into Town the back way through the Capelles and the Baissieres: having made an exploratory trip towards Town early that morning, George had phoned and warned him that the normal route along the Front was in a mess and one couldn’t get through.
Sarah felt she should be telling Greg about food: what was in the house and what to buy. To cancel the milk . . . but she was too weary. ‘I hope they don’t make me wait too much longer. I’m sure I’m well over my time. I might ask them to give me something to start things moving.’
Dr Michael Walker always wore a three-piece, pin-striped suit and a dark tie on duty. He spoke down to his patients from the dizzy heights of his medical knowledge, and treated all nursing staff like ignorant servants. Young patients regarded him in speechless terror, an attitude he encouraged, whilst older ones, like Sarah, thought he was a pompous ass, of which attitude he was blissfully unaware. Young nurses were reduced to jelly in his presence, while their experienced seniors, knowing their own medical knowledge to be infinitely superior to his, indulged him with apparent smiling deference while winking hysterically at each other behind his back.
‘Just you sit back and relax, young woman,’ he told Sarah next day. ‘I’ll be the one to decide when this baby is due.’ He turned to Sister de la Mare. ‘Keep a close eye on her blood pressure, nurse. I doubt the infant will be with us before the middle of next week.’
Sister de la Mare waited till he had gone, then sniffed. ‘Fat lot he knows! That baby will be here by tomorrow.’
Sarah and Greg were sipping tea together, the following afternoon in her little, green-painted room, disappointed that the Sister was proving wrong, when the first pain came. It was vicious, and quickly followed by another.
Greg rang the bell.
An hour and a half later, having elected to stay at the nursing home, Greg was sitting in a small waiting-room reading a three-year-old magazine, when Sister de la Mare opened the door. ‘Well, Mr Gaudion, do you want the good news first or the bad news?’
He jumped to his feet, mouth hanging open. ‘Oh my God! Is she all right?’
‘Your wife and son are both fit, strong and healthy,’ she declared.
‘Then what’s this bad news you have?’
‘I’m sorry to say I’ve just been informed that the Germans have landed at the airport and formally taken over the island.’
He shook his head, trying to clear the mist. He was tired and confused, had been for the past two weeks or more . . . He didn’t know what day he was in but remembered seeing a small calendar with two furry kittens on, hanging near the waiting-room window: he stepped up to examine it.
It was Sunday, June 30th, 1940.
Part Two
‘As it will be the right of all, so it will be the duty of some, definitely to prepare for a separation, amicably if they can, violently if they must.’
Abridgement of Debates of Congress, 14 January 1811.
josiah quincy 1772–1864.
Chapter Seven – EVACUEES
Hubert Ozanne looked at his wife. She grimaced slightly, shrugged and gave the faintest possible nod. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Thank you very much Colonel Wellsey, we’ll take it.’
The colonel grunted. Might not turn out too bad, after all, he thought hopefully. Ever since the fellow from the Town Hall in Cirencester had asked them to take in evacuees and they had been unable to think of an evasive excuse fast enough, they had lived in mortal dread of what might, one day, arrive on their doorstep. There had been such horrendous tales about ghastly children from London’s East End tearing people’s houses apart . . . but these people, he looked at Hubert’s engraved visiting card again for the name—Ozanne—didn’t look the sort to put coal in the bath. ‘You’d better come into the study,’ he invited, leading the way. ‘Where are you staying at the moment?’
‘We are at the Kingston Lodge Hotel . . .’
‘Really! I say, do sit down Mrs Ozanne.’ Impressed, he placed a chair for her, ‘And you, too, Miss Ozanne.’ He tugged a bellpull by the empty fireplace. ‘You will take tea, won’t you?’
Two days later the three Guernsey evacuees were installed in the handsome, red brick and timbered house which stood in two acres of well-loved gardens. ‘I don’t suppose we’ll be here more than a few weeks,’ Marie commented as she unpacked, ‘so I suppose it will do.’ The sitting-room was rather small and the kitchen microscopic compared with Val du Douit. ‘What’s your room like?’ she asked Aline.
‘The size and shape of a shoe box, and there is the smallest wardrobe I’ve ever seen in my life, but then,’ she sighed, ‘as I have hardly any clothes with me I don’t suppose it matters.’
Hubert had been able to read Aline’s mind for years. ‘Well what on earth did you have in that cabin trunk, souvenir rocks from Cobo?’
Aline laughed very heartily at his joke and went off on the prowl to see what she could discover. For a start, she wondered if there was a Mrs Wellsey . . .
There was a small dining-table in the sitting-room, and after an early supper the three sat down to write letters. Marie wrote to Sarah, asking her to do various jobs for her and relay messages to people she’d forgotten in the rush of departure. So concerned was she for the welfare of her possessions and irritated by her temporary exile, that the fact that her youngest daughter was on the point of producing a second baby had completely slipped her mind. She was mortified when she remembered, later.
Hubert’s letter contained instructions to his bank manager.
Aline wrote down measurements for the new suit she was ordering from Simpson’s of Piccadilly.
Letters were put aside at nine o’clock so they could listen to the news. Alvar Liddell was reading it, telling them that German Forces had occupied Guernsey that afternoon. They had known it could happen; the possibility being one of the reasons for fleeing
the island, but it was a shock nevertheless. Stunned, Marie pictured jackboots stomping over her carpets, cigarette burns on the furniture and every item she had collected and treasured all her life being looted. Tears streamed down her face. Hubert prayed his milk herd would not be slaughtered to feed the troops, while his daughter sat gazing wistfully into space, visualising all those straight backs and handsome uniforms.
Hubert put his arm round Marie’s shoulder. ‘Come on. Come on, my love. It may not be that bad. The Tommies will soon shift the beggars.’
Marie fished a handkerchief out of her sleeve and blew. ‘I know. You’re right. We’ll soon be home again.’
*
Richard was not a very happy baby. ‘I suppose it’s because I’m all wrought up and on my nerves,’ Sarah said as she crawled back into bed for the fourth time.
Greg reached out and pulled her against him. ‘I don’t know why you’re het up. If Jerry goes on as he’s begun we’ve nothing to worry about.’
‘Except the fact he’s here in the first place and keeping us apart from Suzanne.’ Greg was right, of course. The Germans had issued a Declaration on their arrival, stating that providing people accepted the Conditions they laid down and obeyed the 11 pm curfew, the islanders would be treated with respect and allowed to keep their radios. They had of course added that if there was any form of resistance the Town would be bombed. So it was to be hoped that no idiotic young hotheads started anything; nothing could be achieved except death and destruction of islanders themselves.
Daisy was a boon. Her housewifery skills proved limited in the extreme, but she earned her keep by pushing Richard’s pram round the lanes, leaving Sarah free to wrestle with the mounting food problem. Already, after only five weeks of Occupation, Greg had cycled out to Val du Douit several times to raid Marie’s stores but they could not be expected to last indefinitely and as only a limited amount could be carried on the bicycle, the journeys were both tiring and time consuming.
Greg had been heartbroken to see the tomato crop going to waste. ‘When I think of the money spent on coal, steam-cleaning and feeder to produce it.’ He shook his head in despair. ‘And just to see it all being dumped in the quarry . . . it’s tragic!’
‘Well at least we needn’t run out of tomato soup and ketchup,’ Sarah had declared. ‘Remember all those jam jars and bottles you criticised me for keeping in the garage? Thank goodness I did. You can give me a hand fetching them all out and washing them.’
They made sauce, ketchup and green tomato pickle. Then Sarah had another idea and telephoned John one evening. ‘Do you think we could borrow Luke and the farm cart? I’d like to collect all Ma’s old Kilner jars and bottles for preserving.’
‘What a good notion. But why don’t you come by car?’
‘George says he thinks we should keep it under wraps for the time being. He’s afraid our friends might commandeer anything they see!’
‘Heaven forbid! Well you’re welcome to borrow it. I think poor old Luke could just about haul the cart there and back in one day.’
‘Can one of the twins give me a hand?’
‘Of course. Then he can bring the cart back.’
‘Good. And you’ll be sure to have some of the jars back, full.’
John laughed. ‘Thanks. We . . . I’d appreciate that.’
We? Sarah shrugged. He must have been thinking his family was still with him.
Sarah was only sorry that her friend Margery wasn’t on the island, to give a hand with the bottling. She had had no intention of leaving without George, but her sister who taught at a private junior school, phoned to say that one of the teachers who had intended travelling with the youngsters had decided she could not leave, after all; and would Margery be willing to take her place? She could always return once a replacement was found. So Margery had gone . . . and was unable to get back before the Germans had arrived. Poor George was devastated.
*
Hubert’s cousin Dorothy had married Cedric Soames and settled in Cornwall soon after the end of the Great War in which he had been severely injured. Fortunately he had inherited property, and his tenants provided a reasonable income to supplement his meagre pension. Unable to have children, they lived for their home, garden, pets and books—a lifestyle Dorothy continued after being relieved of the burden of nursing, by Cedric’s death in 1929. When William and Annemarie had arrived with their children, all worried and weary after a tedious journey, the sight of the charming, stone-built house, set in a sea of hollyhocks and delphiniums and festooned with roses, lifted their spirits enormously.
Auntie Dot, as she insisted they called her, appeared to welcome them enthusiastically enough, showed them to their bright, sunny bedrooms and then summoned them into the kitchen for a huge, home-baked high tea with fresh Cornish cream.
In the weeks that followed, Josette and Marivonne fell in love with the two fat Labradors, three cats, the ducks and chickens and the elderly tortoise.
‘This is heaven, Aunt Dot,’ William commented appreciatively, early in August. ‘However, we are hopelessly short of funds, and as one cannot see an early end to the war, I will need to get a job to support my family. You have been very kind, but we cannot live on charity.’
‘I agree. And I think we may have the perfect solution. If Annemarie could give me a hand in the house, while you helped me with the maintenance of my various properties, that would pay for your keep and I could afford to give you something extra besides.’
They discussed the idea in more detail before William relayed the offer to Annemarie.
‘Yes . . .?’ she responded cautiously. ‘What somefing extra has she in mind?’
‘I didn’t like to ask. But I think the idea is good in principle, don’t you? She has various houses and cottages which need running repairs, and you can see this place takes a lot of maintenance and she is no spring chicken to be coping with it all by herself.’
He looked so relieved, so boyishly enthusiastic, she didn’t want to voice the possible pitfalls that immediately came to mind. And after all, it was a lovely, safe haven . . . perfect for the children who had already enjoyed romps on the beach. ‘Yes. Yes I fink it will be good.’
William grinned and went off to report back to Aunt Dot.
*
Mary Ozanne had taken her children to live with her sister in Macclesfield. Nancy’s husband was in the army, leaving her living in their semi-detached on Finsbury Drive with their two children, so although the house was a bit cramped, she welcomed Mary’s company; they had always got on very well together. Young Joseph, now nearly eighteen, took one look at the set up, at the tiny bedroom he was expected to share with his ten-year-old cousin, and decided to join the navy. He didn’t have to, Mary pointed out: Channel Islanders could not be called up, only volunteer. But her efforts to discourage him were only half-hearted: she had admitted years ago her total inability to discipline him and hoped the navy might be the making of him. If he didn’t get himself killed in the meantime.
‘In September your Margaret can go to school with my two,’ Nancy said. ‘And if you like, Mrs Leadbeater next door can look after little Charles during the day and you can come and work at the munitions factory with me.’
Mary hadn’t been out to work since getting married and wasn’t too sure. ‘What’s it like?’
‘A laugh a minute. The foreman’s a real card and the other girls are all for a bit of a giggle. You’ll love it.’
She was proved right. Within a couple of months Mary had to admit she hadn’t enjoyed herself so much in years.
*
‘Two large pinkers with a splash of soda,’ Colonel Laurence ordered over the shoulders of his fellow officers at the mess bar. He was in a celebratory mood having received his additional pip that morning.
‘Cheers, Aubrey old lad. Here’s mud in your eye!’ His friend Grant Smudge (one of the Gloucestershire Smudges don’t ye know) raised his glass before draining it.
As it was Grant’s fifth
double gin, Aubrey doubted he had any idea what the celebration was about, and in fact he was beginning to find the man embarrassing. He looked around for a familiar face, an alternative drinking companion and noticed a very short chappie who reminded him of someone he once knew . . . Leaving Smudge talking to thin air, he weaved his way through the khaki crowd. ‘Excuse me chipping in, my dear fellow, but haven’t we . . .’
‘Aubrey Laurence! Well I’ll be damned! How are you?’
Colonel Laurence accepted the proffered handshake, totally mystified. ‘Er . . . er, hello. Er . . . fine thanks.’
The short, bouncey fellow in front of him grinned. ‘I see you haven’t the foggiest idea who I am. Ozanne. Guernsey. Bertie Ozanne for God’s sake. Your brother married my sister!’
‘Great Scott. So it is! Afraid it was the pips that fooled me!’ Having joined the army before the war as a regular soldier, Bertie Ozanne had suddenly been elevated to the rank of major.
‘Collected a few more yourself, since last I saw you,’ the Guernseyman commented. ‘Tell me about your folks. Did they get away?’
‘No, unfortunately. Victoria’s over here, in London; dunno what she’s doing. And Piers is flitting around, too. But Pater and Mater are stuck on the island.’
‘We have lots of news to swap. Would I be stepping out of line if I suggested lunch to a higher ranking officer?’
Aubrey certainly considered Bertie Ozanne to be both his social and service inferior; however, as rumour had spread about his own little . . . peculiarities, it had become increasingly difficult to find anyone in the mess willing to be seen talking to him for more than a few minutes at a time, and no one ever accepted an invitation to dine a deux, let alone actually invite him. Except that dotty dipsomaniac Smudge. ‘Absolutely not, old chap. Be delighted.’
*
Being an Englishman, rather than an islander, Augustus Warwick was keen to get into the services and ‘do his bit’ as fast as possible, so as soon as he had escorted Filly and the baby over to England, and settled them with his parents in Little Oakshott, a tiny village near Devizes in Wiltshire, he set off to sign on in London. He was well-satisfied that the arrangement for his wife was ideal.
The Guernsey Saga Box Set Page 15
