The Guernsey Saga Box Set

by Diana Bachmann

  *

  Hubert had been rushed to hospital with a stroke. Fortunately it proved to be a mild one, but for the first few days not even the doctors could say if, and how well he might recover.

  He hadn’t been well over Christmas, his digestion playing up as ever. So Marie had sent Aline off to Lostwithiel to see if she could find a billeting office or an estate agent who dealt with rentals. Aline returned very pleased with herself and with the fistful of details on various properties, ranging from a crenellated castle to a holiday chalet.

  William had driven them to the local bus station from where they journeyed to view the holiday rental. Hubert had had to be persuaded from the start, he felt too tired and depressed even to contemplate the next move, and the little chalet, cold, bleak and uninviting was freezing as a gale swept up out of the panoramic view.

  It was fortunate that the agent, an elderly woman with a horsey face, was still with them when, having climbed the narrow stairs to explore the bedrooms, Hubert appeared to trip and collapsed across a bed. And it was doubly fortunate that Horseface, who had once been a nurse, immediately recognised the problem and knew where to find a handy telephone for an ambulance.

  When he was fit enough to leave hospital, Hubert found the two women already installed in the chalet, having felt obliged to take it after all Horseface’s help.

  Holiday accommodation is invariably built for summer. Hubert and the two women sat huddled around a two-bar electric fire in the evenings, wrapped in blankets, repeatedly assuring each other how lovely it would be in fine weather. But Hubert was hoping for a miracle to get him home before the summer. His mind was on the farm constantly, wondering how John was faring, living there alone, Mary having left with the children. And what about the herd? One of Sarah’s Red Cross messages had said, ‘Gert and Daisy helping the Middletons’, knowing that the family had always politely referred to their stomachs as ‘Mr Middleton’: Gert and Daisy, named after the famous comediennes, were twin heifers he’d bred himself, so there must be some cows left. He listened to every news bulletin, eager to glean some hopeful indication that the end of the war could be in sight.

  Small but tough, Marie worried about him, bullied and coerced him into eating things he loathed because she was sure they were good for him, begged and bribed for fresh eggs, butter and milk, and terminated his nightly tot. She insisted Aline should take over all the family paperwork, and Hubert’s health was not improved when, knowing his daughter’s weakness for extravagancies, Marie insisted Aline was put on his bank mandate.

  *

  Filly Warwick, and her little girl Anne had moved out of Gus’s parent’s house before Christmas, and were living in a small cottage in Little Oakshott, which they shared with Deirdre, the young widow she had made friends with soon after her arrival, and her little girl, Sophie. It had been an amicable parting with amazingly good results. Humphrey and Maud, possibly anxious about their son’s reaction to the move, went out of their way to be helpful and friendly thence forward, even arranging for Anne to spend a regular day every week with them. Three days a week, Filly and Deirdre left the kiddies with a willing neighbour and went by bus to the factory in Devizes where they made wireless components . . . their contribution to the war effort.

  Gus was not worried, believing that Filly had moved only through the generosity of her heart to console the young widow. He was stationed in England but expecting to be sent abroad at anytime.

  Filly had written to Aline a few times, with news of the messages she had received from Sarah, asking for any further news of their own and enquiring how they all were, including Suzanne. Information out of Guernsey was scrappy but undramatic, which had to mean the situation wasn’t as bad for civilians as news bulletins reported from the continent.

  *

  Post took forever from England. Ethel wrote regularly to her parents, but her most recent letter had been returned, ‘Gone Away’. Where to? Earlier, letters from Aline had relayed what little news they had had from the island, and the fact that Suzanne was with her school, but not much more than that. The Airletter card which had just arrived from William brought news of their father’s illness, but no current address for him; she couldn’t even send him a get-well message, other than through her brother.

  She gazed out across the brown fields. The summer drought had been so bad this year that with Paul away in the New Zealand Air Force she was left with endless problems. Never mind, she was a farmer’s daughter and she would cope. ‘Come on, boys,’ she called. ‘Time to collect the eggs and feed the chicks.’ She thanked God daily for the blessing of her five sons: young as they were, David, Michael and the twins, Roger and Tim, were good for her morale and a great help around the place. Even little Sam was keen to do his bit, particularly in the kitchen with her. She begged God that her children would remain a loyal, close-knit family . . . not be fragmented even by war. Where were Paul’s brothers and sister now? she wondered. And what about her own siblings? Scattered hundreds of miles apart, were they able to keep up their spirits?

  Putting William’s letter aside, she went out of the backdoor, picked up the pail and headed for the grain bins in the shed.

  *

  ‘By God, Vicky, it’s you!’ Aubrey immaculate as ever, his Sam Browne and brasses a continuing credit to his industrious batman, stared open-mouthed in amazement. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’

  Victoria Harcourt-Waites disengaged herself from the dark grey pin-striped arm pinning her to the plush club seating and stared back at her brother. ‘I might ask you the same question? Thought you were dashing off to put the fear of the Almighty into the Huns and Ities or the Japs.’

  ‘Our battalion is awaiting orders.’ He eyed her elderly companion. ‘Er, won’t you introduce me to your friend?’

  She straightened her dress and gave a brief smile. ‘Of course this is . . . er . . . Reggie?’ she gave the man an enquiring glance and received an affirmative nod. ‘Reggie, this is my brother Aubrey. Colonel Aubrey Laurence.’

  Reggie staggered to his feet knocking the table and spilling the contents of his glass. ‘Pleashed to meet you, I’m sure!’ and thrust out a sweaty hand. ‘Didn’t know Vicky had another brother. Where’ve you bin hidin’ him, love?’

  Aubrey withdrew from the revolting hand shake and tried to smile. ‘You know my brother Piers, do you? Haven’t seen him lately, myself.’

  Reggie collapsed on the seat again and laughed. ‘Bright lad, your brother. Always on the move. That way they’ll never catch up with him, will they?’

  Aubrey hadn’t the faintest idea what the man was talking about and turned to his sister. ‘How long have you been in London, Vicky? I imagined you’d gone to stay with your ex-in-laws in Berkshire.’

  ‘Terribly boring in Berks, darling. Felt the need to get back to Town.’

  ‘You’d better give me your phone number so we can get together sometime.’

  Victoria looked flustered. ‘What, now? Oh, very well.’ She fished a pen out of her handbag. ‘Got some paper?’

  Several days passed before Aubrey was able to speak to his sister again, and in many ways he rather wished he hadn’t made the effort. From their conversation he gathered that she was maintaining a gay lifestyle as some sort of escort girl to Reggie and his ilk, while his young brother Piers was running a lucrative business on the black market, and moving from town to town around the countryside, draft-dodging.

  *

  The view from the Cornish holiday chalet in no way compensated for the cold, wet Easter. Suzanne was not all that interested in views, anyway, she wanted to be out, doing things, exploring and making friends with other people her own age.

  ‘May I go over to see Josette and Marivonne, please?’ she begged.

  ‘One day, perhaps,’ Auntie Aline said. ‘Have you finished your book, yet?’

  ‘No, but I’ve been reading all morning. I’d like to go out and do something this afternoon.’

  ‘Well you can’t. It’s pouring
.’ She felt a tinge of regret for not allowing Filly to have the child this holiday. Maybe the next one.

  Later, when Suzanne was upstairs in her bedroom, drawing another pony in the lined exercise book which was already full of similar sketches, Aline came into the room.

  She sat on the edge of the bed and said, ‘I think it’s about time we had a little talk.’ She was hesitant and looked embarrassed. ‘Has your mother ever spoken to you about—er—sitting on a nail?’

  ‘Eh?’ Suzanne was obviously baffled.

  Aline sighed. ‘Oh. I see she didn’t. Well . . . I suppose I’d better . . .’ She studied her hands, blushing. ‘Er . . . as you get older you’ll find . . . a girl’s body changes. Yours will too—’

  ‘You mean like growing bosoms and starting the curse?’

  It was Aline’s turn to stare. ‘You already know about it then?’

  ‘Of course. I began the beginning of last term.’

  Aline swiftly dismissed the small twinge of guilt at not raising the subject with her niece until it was too late. ‘Oh well, that’s all right then.’ She stood up and smiled at Suzanne’s drawing. ‘That’s a good one . . .’

  *

  ‘What has your John got to say, then?’ Nancy wanted to know when Mary came in with a Red Cross message.

  ‘Part of it is a reply to one I sent last year, asking how and where everyone was. He says, “Sarah at Marettes with Greg. Baby Richard bonnie. Middleton well and happy after good Christmas. Gert, Daisy and their friends still with us. John.”’ Mary screwed up her forehead. ‘So if his sister is living the other end of the island, who is cooking for him? You know Middleton is the name the Ozannes give their stomachs, and he says his is happy.’

  ‘Can’t be cooking for himself then?’ Nancy asked, lighting a cigarette.

  ‘John? You’re joking. He couldn’t boil water. Unless he’s living on milk, he is saying he still has the cows, Gert and Daisy.’

  ‘No he didn’t. He said they are still with us. Who’s us?’

  Mary leaned forward to light her cigarette from her sister’s. ‘Let’s think. Can’t be Jean Quevatre ’cause he left. Maybe the Batiste twins.’

  ‘Doing the cooking?’ Nancy laughed, which brought on a bout of coughing.

  ‘Hey! Just a minute,’ Mary glared at her. ‘What are you inferring? That John’s taking a bit of comfort on the side? Never! Never, never, never!’

  Nancy recovered and gave her a sly look. ‘Come on, girl. We all like a bit of friendship with the opposite sex. Doesn’t mean we necessarily go all the way, does it?’

  Mary grinned, remembering the party down at the social club the previous evening. ‘We . . . ell, that’s as may be. But the fact remains I’m perfectly sure that John hasn’t got it in him. Takes life far too seriously.’

  Nancy choked and hastily pinched out the cigarette, saving it till later. ‘That’s really rich, coming from you!’

  Mary gave a little shrug. ‘I can’t deny you are having a bad effect on me. I’ve never danced anything like I did last night, not before coming here.’ She tried unsuccessfully to smother a giggle.

  Nancy raised her eyes to heaven. Two halves of beer and a chat with a couple of soldiers and her sister reckoned she was a fallen woman!

  *

  Hubert was in hospital for three weeks after his second stroke. It had happened late in June and both Marie and Aline attributed it to the depressing war news. Not only were the Germans advancing deeper into Russia, but the disastrous British defeats in North Africa and the fall of Tobruk with massive Eighth Army losses, had made the chances of ousting the Germans from the Channel Islands recede into 1943 at the earliest. Returning home was Hubert Ozanne’s main ambition: he could think of little else, listened to and analysed every news bulletin and scoured every newspaper for a glimmer of hope. He was more than just a ‘fish out of water’; much more. Utterly lost in this alien environment, he physically ached for Val du Douit, dreamed of the salt wind coming up from the west coast, of the view from the top fields. He wanted to run a hand over the backs of his prize Guernsey cows, hear the hiss of warm yellow milk hitting the milking-pail.

  But with the fall of Tobruk his hope of ever seeing, feeling and hearing it all again faded.

  They brought him home, Marie insisting that despite his useless left arm and weak left leg, she and Aline could nurse him. They got William to come over from Dorothy’s to bring a bed down from upstairs and put it in the living-room window where he could see the summer view.

  And there was another problem: Suzanne. ‘We can’t have her here for the summer holiday,’ Aline said very positively.

  ‘Where will she go? William says they can’t have her there,’ Marie pointed out.

  ‘Greg’s brother Andrew?’

  ‘Huh! We’ve asked them once before and he couldn’t wriggle out of it fast enough.’

  ‘I wonder if Mary might have her?’

  ‘We can but try. Drop her a line.’

  ‘Last time I wrote it took her three months to reply. I’ll try and send her a telegram.’

  Mary’s negative reply was delivered two days later.

  ‘Well she’ll have to stay in Wales that’s all,’ Marie decided.

  But Suzanne received that news with horror. Then she remembered Aunt Filly! Letter writing could not be described as Suzanne’s forte, but she wrote and posted two that same evening, one to Cornwall and the other to Little Oakshott in Wiltshire.

  She was beginning to panic when at last two replies arrived in the same post. An invitation and travel instructions from Filly and Aline’s agreement together with train fares and pocket money. The thank you note was brief, but she did remember to send her love to Grandpa, telling him to hurry up and get better.

  *

  Marie sat by the bed hour after hour, knitting; watching her husband withdraw from the misery of life. She was desperately sad for him, feeling his despair and willing him to make the effort to survive, getting more and more angry with him for giving up and daring to even consider leaving her here in exile alone. Except for Aline. The thought of returning to Guernsey after the war without him was impossible. He had been everything to her. He was an integral part of Val du Douit. Without him there would be nothing.

  Desperately she tried to explain all this to him, while he sat gazing through the panoramic windows into space, seeing and hearing nothing.

  And on Monday, August 17th, 1942, the day General Alexander replaced Auchinleck as Commander-in-Chief in the Middle East, Hubert Ozanne murmured, ‘I want to go back to St Saviour’s . . .’ and died: a month before his sixty-eighth birthday.

  Chapter Ten – PRIVATION

  ‘We both think it’s time you came to us for a change,’ John told Sarah on the phone, one morning early in September 1942.

  ‘Difficult with Richard and all our gear balanced on our bikes.’ Sarah didn’t want to sound negative, it was sweet of them to ask, but the thought of struggling all that way for the sake of an overnight stay was daunting. Nowadays one lacked the energy to do much, on so little food. ‘You understand, we couldn’t leave Daisy to look after him and the old lady. Alice would finish up with a nappy pinned round her head and the babe would have the ear-trumpet stuck up his bottom. She’s not the brightest maid one ever had.’

  John laughed. ‘True. But we were hoping that if I fetched you in the trap, you’d stay for two or three days.’

  ‘That’s very tempting.’ The idea of Edna relieving her of the catering burden for a few days was extremely appealing, though they would have to take some food with them.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Sounds marvellous. Yes please.’

  ‘When would suit you?’

  ‘George and Gelly are coming for bridge on Thursday. How about Friday after lunch?’

  ‘Splendid. I’ll be there. But what’s this about George and Gelly? They seem to be seeing a lot of each other.’

  ‘Yes. I rather think they are.’

  ‘Do they have
a similar scenario to our own?’ he chuckled.

  ‘Difficult to say. I am quite worried about it: they seem to be getting very close.’

  ‘So what? You didn’t seem too worried about Edna and me.’

  Sarah hesitated. How open could one be with one’s brother on matters of the heart? ‘I think this is different . . .’

  ‘In what way?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘You and Mary never seemed to have such a close . . . er relationship as George and Margery. Maybe it’s because they were so close that George misses her so much . . . feels the need to seek comfort . . . oh, I don’t know. Anyway, changing the subject, have you remembered that it will be Pa’s sixty-eighth birthday next Saturday? We can have a little celebration for him in his absence.’

  ‘Dammit, I’d forgotten. Yes we will. We’ll have to open another bottle of Edna’s elderberry wine.’

  Greg was pleased with the arrangement, and John turned up on Friday as promised, with Luke the cob between the shafts of the old trap. It was a typical September day, white puffy clouds hastening across an intensely blue sky, occasionally threatening to damp the travellers’ spirits but holding off until they were well settled into the farm.

  Sarah wandered through the house from room to room, touching the familiar objects of her youth, absorbed in memories. ‘I haven’t been here for months. I’m so thankful you two have moved in, it would be tragic if this place was taken over, or broken into. Pa would be devastated to come home and find any of his old family heirlooms missing.’

  ‘Keep your fingers crossed,’ Edna made a moue. ‘Did you know that the Laurences have been turfed out of Les Blanches Pierres? They’ve had to move into the butler’s quarters.’

  ‘Arabella won’t like that!’ Greg hooted. ‘So where is Littlejohn?’

  ‘Mrs Queripel says he is still there with them. And Polly and Belle.’