The Guernsey Saga Box Set

by Diana Bachmann

  ‘Makes one want to help them, but what can we do?’ Greg sighed.

  ‘Well we can’t spare them food, that’s for sure! But if there’s any old clothes we can pass on, I bet they’d be grateful.’

  Greg told him about Daisy and the soup, adding, ‘I wouldn’t want to attract them round here again.’

  ‘True. One has to be careful after what happened to the Fergusons.’

  Greg asked, ‘What did happen to them?’

  ‘John heard a noise one night and went down to investigate, and before he knew it they grabbed a brass candlestick and hit him over the head. Then upstairs they went and did the same to Rita before ransacking every scrap of food from the place.’

  ‘That is alarming. I suppose one ought to conceal the food.’

  ‘Ah, my boy,’ Mr Robin tapped the side of his nose with a forefinger. ‘I did that long ago.’

  Sarah got home from a long queue at the butcher’s on the Bridge, for a scrap of meat she would hesitate to feed to the dog, and found the sitting-room in chaos and Greg’s behind sticking up in the middle of it. ‘Oh no! Now what are you doing?’ she looked and sounded exasperated.

  ‘Cutting a hole in the floor,’ was the muffled reply. When he emerged he called, ‘Where are your tins and bottled foods? Bring them in here, I want them.’

  Seeing the pitiful supply stacked on the floor, Sarah couldn’t help comparing it with the vast stock her mother had bought and hoarded away at Val du Douit . . . She was bitterly regretting the extravagant way they had got through it all in the first year.

  Greg piled the food neatly on the dry sand under the floorboards, replaced the boards, relaid the carpet, and rolled the settee back into place. ‘There. Who’d ever guess what’s underneath?’

  Sarah wrapped her arms round his skinny frame. ‘How did you come to be born so clever?’

  ‘I inherited it from my mother, obviously.’

  ‘Obviously,’ his sombre-faced wife agreed.

  *

  The North Cinema at St Sampson’s had a centre aisle: one side reserved for the German officers and men, the other side for civilians. During their regular bridge evening on Friday at the beginning of September 1943, Greg and Sarah had arranged to go with George and Gelly on the following Wednesday, and duly walked down the aisle to their places that evening in particularly jovial mood. Everyone else on the civilian side of the cinema was also in jovial mood . . . Not to say, ecstatic. Having had all their radios confiscated, no one was supposed to have heard the news and all were attempting to hide the fact of their knowledge from the uniformed patrons on the other side of the aisle, not wishing to invite trouble. All save for one man. Andre was a well-known, popular figure in the Vale and St Sampson’s area, his late arrival no doubt due to the time it took him to hide his crystal set before leaving home. Alone, he walked the full-length of the aisle beaming, grinning from ear to ear and raising both thumbs in the air to the watching islanders.

  They could no longer contain themselves and burst into laughter and applause . . . leaving the stony-faced Germans in no doubt of the fact they had all heard the news that earlier that day, September 8th, 1943, Italy had surrendered to the Allies.

  As always, the evening programme included a Nazi propaganda film. It was the usual theme of glorious German victories, battles being won, the ‘liberated’ inhabitants greeting their soldiers with flowers and kisses. Endless British Tommies were shown falling to the hail of accurate shooting, while never hitting a target themselves; British tanks exploded in flames, German soldiers raised their successive Swastikas. The film ended with solemn music over a picture of two Nazi war graves, and as the music faded, Andre’s voice was clearly heard from front to back of the building saying, ‘I suppose those two buggers died of constipation.’

  Sarah, Gelly, George and Greg were still convulsed as they stepped out onto the pavement.

  ‘Sarah! I haven’t seen you folding up like that for years,’ Gelly gasped, tears dripping onto her lapels.

  Greg gave Sarah’s arm a shake. ‘Be serious, woman, or you’ll have us all locked up!’

  She presented him with a solemn mask but her nose was twitching and turned white again as they both collapsed.

  *

  The subjects of co-operating and/or collaborating with the enemy continued to be argued as the months became years.

  Greg maintained that offering the Germans open defiance and insult was the act of a puerile and petulant mind: it achieved nothing except to worsen the conditions under which the civilian population lived. ‘Heaven knows, we are only bags of bones now! Far better to give the appearance of passive co-operation without servility, and gain the best possible concessions and rations for ourselves,’ he argued.

  ‘You don’t think that that makes life more comfortable for Jerry?’ George suggested across the bridge table. ‘We don’t want him to think he’s got us beat.’

  ‘I know there are some collaborators, but the vast majority leave no doubt in anyone’s mind that though physically, by holding guns to our heads, they currently have the upper hand, mentally we will never submit.’

  ‘I’d like to think you’re right. I hate to feel they reckon we’re all ready to roll on our backs at their feet, waiting to have our tummies scratched.’

  George’s mind was entirely put at rest on that score in October when the bodies of twenty-one members of the crew of HMS Charybdis, sunk by a German E-boat, were washed ashore on Guernsey. The German authorities acceded to the request that the sailors should be given a decent burial, and were staggered when a mass funeral took place with full military honours attended by over five thousand islanders.

  Chapter Eleven – STARVATION

  Sarah and Greg were spending Boxing Day of 1943 with John and Edna at Val du Douit, together with several other mutual friends. After a convivial lunch, laughing hilariously at the ridiculously meagre fare on the table and swapping Occupation stories involving islanders secretly getting the better of the invaders, and having cleared away the damage and left the men to wash the dishes, the women announced they were going for a walk. Sarah was out in front and inevitably her feet led her up a now very overgrown path to the top fields. There was no breath of wind, though the air was icy cold with the threat of frost by nightfall. Climbing the hill they all needed to pause quite frequently to regain enough breath for the next few yards. Sarah was very aware of her decreasing strength: she had never been plump, but the way her skin had begun to wrinkle in folds round her neck and upper arms was horrifying. It didn’t look too bad when she was dressed, although the clothes hung on her as though they were on a peg behind the door—loose and empty. And what clothes! Every original garment was patched and darned, and now she and Greg had resorted to raiding Andrew’s and Maureen’s suitcases. And Edna was celebrating Christmas in one of Aline’s cocktail dresses!

  Still way ahead of the others, she paused panting, staring out at the changing view. Way over to the left, the L’Eree headland had sprouted an ugly concrete tower.

  ‘Awful eyesore, isn’t it?’ Gelly remarked as she caught up.

  ‘Have you seen the one at Chouet?’

  ‘Yes, and I hope it won’t be too difficult to remove them when the Krauts go.’ Sarah hugged her coat across her chest. She hated the outbreak of these tumorous growths all round the island coasts, thinly-veiled with camouflage like make-up over the pock-marks on the ravaged features of a debauched film star.

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on it. George says that judging by the amount and strength of concrete they’ve poured into these fortifications, they’ll last into the fourth millenium.’

  ‘Cheer me up!’ Sarah sighed. ‘I wonder how many O.T. workers died building it?’ She shook her head. ‘Come on, we’re nearly there.’

  But they never reached the top. A large notice hung from a wire stretched across their path. VERBOTEN!

  ‘That’s it. We can’t go any further,’ Edna puffed from behind.

  ‘Why not?’ someone asked.<
br />
  ‘Because of Big Bertha.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘They’ve got a massive gun up there. The biggest thing you can imagine. When they fire it, it sounds as though the whole world has erupted,’ Edna told them, shivering. ‘Dammit I’m cold. Come on, let’s go back and see what we can brew up for tea.’

  Sarah was last to leave; she felt totally desolate, as though bit by bit everything precious was being eroded. Her life, her world was being eaten away by this foul, Nazi canker. Suzanne, her parents, her brothers and sisters were all gone, except for John. At least they were safe, she hoped, but what of the people in the prison camps? The cars and radios had been taken, then their homes, and now the island, her island, was being defiled with these concrete monstrosities.

  ‘Sarah! Are you coming?’ a voice came up over the hedges.

  She lifted her chin and straightened her back. Don’t be a sissy, as they used to tell Suzanne. Be tough! They must all hang on, believing that one day they would be rid of the Germans and all things Germanic. They would be reunited as a family; return to the way they were. Yes, she was coming . . . a cheerful smile across her face, some jolly remark at the ready to brighten the party.

  *

  January 1944 brought wonderful news from Russia: after 872 days, and the death of a million and a half Russians, the siege of Leningrad was lifted.

  ‘When one hears that only a fraction of those who died were military; that over a million civilians died of starvation, it makes one feel guilty for complaining,’ Greg said at lunch, eyeing his plate and the root vegetables which Sarah had tried to flavour with a little pork fat.

  ‘I like swedes,’ Polly told him, soft eyes smiling. She had become very fond of him, and followed him round the greenhouses like a puppy.

  ‘Then you’re very lucky!’ he responded.

  ‘I like swede, too,’ Richard piped up from his high-chair.

  ‘What is he saying?’ Alice wanted to know.

  ‘That he likes swede!’ Sarah yelled.

  ‘Well he’ll have to learn to wait till we’ve finished the first course,’ the old lady retorted.

  Belle rolled the whites of her eyes.

  ‘Swede . . . sweet,’ Greg explained.

  The big bosom heaved at its owner’s effort to contain her mirth.

  *

  ‘I can’t believe our daughter is fourteen years old today,’ Sarah murmured, snuggling against Greg for warmth under the bedclothes. ‘The fourth year we’ve spent the 30th of January apart. She’ll be getting quite grown up, I suppose. Do you ever wonder what she looks like, now?’

  ‘Often. But I still picture her as she was the night before she left. I just can’t update the image.’ He rubbed a bristly chin on Sarah’s forehead.

  ‘This must surely be her last birthday in exile. The Jerries are being defeated on all fronts. They’ve been kicked out of North Africa, and Italy’s all but lost to them. And from what one or two of the German soldiers have been telling people, they’ve lost hundreds of thousands of men in Russia.’

  ‘And the RAF is blasting away at their cities even more than the Luftwaffe did in London. Yes, it’s hard to believe they can last out much longer.’ Greg yawned, stretched and hugged Sarah against him. ‘Don’t worry, my sweetheart. Our daughter will be back home long before her next birthday.’

  ‘If only the British and Americans would attack Europe from the west,’ she complained. ‘I don’t understand what they’re waiting for.’

  ‘One has to presume they have good reason. Anyway, Mrs Gaudion, I’d better get up. It’s time to go and see how many thieves got into the greenhouses in the night.’

  ‘Isn’t there anything you can do to stop them?’

  ‘You mean like Harry and Martin le Conte?’

  ‘What did they do?’

  ‘They kept losing cabbages so they lay in wait one night determined to catch the beggars. It was pitch-dark when they heard someone and made a dash at him. During the mêlée Harry shouted, “I got him, Martin! I got him!” And immediately his brother’s voice growled from under him, “No you haven’t, you fool. You’ve got me!”’

  Sarah snorted. ‘No! That’s not what I had in mind.’

  *

  Maureen Gaudion had arrived home first, and was standing at the window, waiting, as Andrew drove onto the concrete slope in front of the garage. She hurried to open the front door for him, dying to pass on the news. ‘Do you remember the rather stuck-up people who bought the big house near Sarah’s parent’s place in St Saviour’s?’ she asked, hiding something behind her back.

  ‘You mean the ones with the son who put Sarah’s sister in the family way?’ He placed the two cases of samples on the hall floor while he shrugged out of his overcoat, hung it on the hall stand and placed his trilby on top. ‘I can’t remember the name, off hand.’

  ‘Laurence.’

  ‘Oh yes. That’s right. Retired army colonel.’ He took the cases into the living-room, stowed them under the bureau and looked around for the newspaper. ‘So, what about them?’

  Maureen followed, wishing he’d keep still for a minute. ‘We’ve had a letter from Mrs Laurence.’

  ‘Eh! Why on earth would she write to us? And how can she? I thought they stayed on the island.’

  At last she had his attention. ‘They did, but they have been deported to a prison camp in Germany.’

  ‘Really? What did they do?’

  ‘Dared to be born British, I imagine. Don’t you remember hearing about the British being deported, some time ago?’

  ‘Yes, now you mention it.’ He found the paper and sat in an armchair beside his pipe rack.

  ‘Aren’t you interested to hear what she says?’

  He laid the paper on his knee with a sigh. ‘Well?’

  ‘Your father died more than a year ago . . .’

  ‘How on earth would she know?’

  ‘Greg and Sarah asked her to pass on their news. And there are German officers living in Les Marettes.’

  ‘With mother!’

  ‘No. She is living with your brother in their bungalow, along with the Laurences’ daughter Polly and Belle, her nursemaid.’

  ‘All in Les Mouettes? Impossible!’ He was getting annoyed.

  So was Maureen. ‘I’ll leave the letter here on the table. Read it for yourself.’ Not for the first time, she wished she was young enough to go off and join the ATS. She went into the kitchen, leaving Andrew screwing up the newspaper and churning up inside as he imagined his younger brother dealing with all their mother’s affairs, muscling in on what should be the eldest son’s duties . . . and inheritance.

  *

  George found Greg sitting on an upturned pot at the bottom end of number three, holding his head in his hands. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Tired, for one thing. The RAF are being pretty attentive at night, as well as all day.’

  ‘I suppose it means the long-awaited invasion is imminent. The Jerries certainly think so; they’re running around like scared rabbits.’

  Greg managed a grin. ‘They’re not the only ones. Frankly, I’m pretty scared myself. From the amount of activity overhead one imagines the islands could well be included in the fracas: not funny with the kiddie and the old lady to look after. Did I tell you I’ve built a shelter in the garden? Pretty primitive, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Good idea,’ George nodded. ‘Should keep you safe from blast, anyway. Talking of which, did you hear the Big Bertha going off on the top of the Vale Castle last night?’

  ‘Hear it? You’re joking! Sounded as though they were firing it through the bedroom window. Any idea what they were aiming at?’

  ‘I bumped into Tom Mahy this morning and he said a German soldier told him there were a couple of British destroyers out there.’

  Greg got to his feet and straightened his gaunt frame. ‘Well that’s not my only worry. You’d better come and see.’ He led the way up the centre path in silence till they reached the gable end. ‘Look,’ he poin
ted at the broken panes and the dug-up trenches. ‘I’m wasting my time. Of everything I grow, two thirds of it is stolen before it is ready to dig or pick. There must be some terrible stomachaches, somewhere, from eating underripe fruit and vegetables.’

  ‘Obviously not as terrible as hunger pains,’ George suggested.

  ‘Possibly not. But how can I explain that at the depot? The Germans demand the lion’s share of everything I produce.’

  ‘Well there are German officers living only a few yards away in your family house. Tell them to guard it.’

  ‘I always go in and tell them when it happens.’

  ‘What do they say?’

  ‘They came rushing out to see the damage the first time, and the police were called. The second time they made a note to report it to headquarters. But since then they have only shrugged—politely of course, and said it was a pity.’

  ‘It is nice having polite captors, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it hell?’ Greg made the effort to smile at his old friend. ‘Come on, I’m not staying here. Let’s go and see if Sarah can raise a cup of hot, wet liquid.’

  George blew a raspberry. ‘Sounds delicious. But I wonder if we could have a quiet chat, first?’

  Greg gave him a quizzical glance. ‘We can go in the packing shed. There are some old chairs in there.’

  The place smelled musty, the dust of years dampened by the recent rough weather. Greg sat on a pile of old newspapers on a discarded dining chair. ‘So what’s on your mind?’

  His friend chose to remain on his feet. ‘Gelly. You must have realised by now that we are more than just good friends?’