The Guernsey Saga Box Set

by Diana Bachmann

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How do you and Sarah feel about it?’

  ‘Personally, I’m very fond of you both and if you’re happy, then that’s all that matters.’

  ‘And Sarah?’

  ‘Frankly, she is worried about Margery. About the decisions and heartaches that will arise when she returns after the war is over.’

  George paced up and down the concrete floor behind the packing bench. ‘Yes. It worries me, too. You see, we never meant this to happen: Gelly was as lonely as I was; I’m no good at cooking, and she’s not brilliant at chopping wood. I caught the fish . . . she cooked it.’ He stopped pacing to stare at a spider dealing with a fly on a filthy window pane. ‘It was the day she got the news that her brother had been killed in action. She was in tears and I put my arms round her to comfort her . . . okay, I know what you’re thinking. How much comfort was in my mind at the time, and how much was I capitalising on a damn good excuse?’ He turned to face Greg. ‘If I knew the answer to that, I’d tell you.’

  ‘So you two are in love?’

  George grinned like a sheepish schoolboy, nodding.

  ‘And what do you feel about Margery?’

  ‘Sounds crazy, but I still love her, too.’

  Greg raised an eyebrow. ‘So what’s your plan? To start a harem?’

  ‘It’s no joke!’ George protested.

  ‘Sorry. But what do you want me to say?’

  ‘God knows! Just that you don’t condemn me as a bastard, perhaps.’

  Greg stood up. ‘Idiot! Would I ever? But at least you’ve got it off your chest. We’ll all have a think about it. And in the meantime, let’s go home, I’m parched.’

  As they rode their bicycles, side by side, down the lane and round to the bungalow, they kept looking up nervously at the planes which roared overhead, bringing noisy reaction from the German guns. ‘They’re busy today,’ George remarked.

  ‘Yes. Better hurry. Young Richard gets nearly as terrified as his mother!’

  But as they pedalled up the drive they were horrified to see Sarah standing in the window, wearing the radio headphones.

  ‘What the devil are you playing at?’ Greg stormed as she opened the front door. ‘We could have been anyone!’

  ‘It’s started!’ she shouted. ‘The Allies are invading France!’

  Both men dropped their bikes on the gravel and rushed indoors, Greg accepting the headphones from Sarah and fitting them over his ears while she and George stood in front of him, eagerly watching his expression.

  Greg was grinning, nodding. ‘She’s right,’ he hissed. ‘British and American forces are landing on the Normandy coast . . . Thousands of them . . . At several different points.’

  ‘I thought I could hear more than just local gunfire,’ Sarah said looking anything but nervous. ‘Oh, George! Isn’t it exciting!’ she threw her arms round his neck and kicked up her heels. ‘They are only a few miles away! It can’t be long now before we’re free!’ She planted a smacking great kiss on his cheek.

  When the news bulletin ended, Greg removed the earphones, wrapped them and the little radio in a towel and returned them to their ledge under a floor beam, replaced the floor boards and carpet, rolling the settee back into place. ‘Fancy a trip into Town?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes! Let’s do that. I want to see public reaction.’

  George shook his head. ‘The Gestapo will be in a bad enough mood. Gloating islanders could find themselves frog-marched home to be searched for the source of their information.’

  ‘What are you all looking so pleased about?’ Alice was standing in the doorway. ‘Is the war ended?’

  ‘Nearly!’ Sarah shouted. ‘The British have landed in France.’

  ‘That’s a good idea. Edward and I learned years ago.’

  ‘Learned what, Ma?’ Greg yelled the question as Sarah folded up.

  ‘Learned to dance! That’s what Sarah said, didn’t she?’

  ‘You’d better check through all the windows that no one is within hearing before you reply,’ George told him.

  When Alice finally understood, she too was excited. ‘Now we have something to dance about!’ And she pirouetted round the room till George caught hold of her before she fell into the empty coal scuttle.

  The excitement was island-wide. Throughout the Occupation, rumours had sprung up like mushrooms overnight, usually due to the combination of wishful thinking and fertile imagination. ‘I wonder if . . .’ became ‘Have you heard that . . .’ in the batting of an eyelid. At first, some people received the news with scepticism, but by the end of the day of June 6th, all the islanders realised it was true. The only question now was, could the beach heads be held?

  Everyone knew that they would be. They had to believe it: the food situation made it imperative.

  Next day, Sarah stared at the family’s weekly meat ration which lay on a saucer on the drainboard, wondering how to stretch it between six people for seven days and how on earth to cook it without it shrivelling to half its size. Apart from the bright yellow fat which indicated it was probably from an elderly Guernsey cow who had ceased to produce milk, it was impossible to guess from what portion of the animal the damp heap of gristle and minimal flesh had originated.

  Belle read her thoughts. ‘We could cut off some of the fat, ma’am, and roast it or fry it for a few minutes with an onion for taste.’ She picked it up, turned it over and grimaced. ‘And dice the rest into your big jar with some carrots and potatoes. If Mr Le Huray has enough room for the pot in his furze oven to cook it slowly overnight, the meat wouldn’t tighten up too much.’

  Daisy came in carrying a dustpan and brush. ‘Me mum says there’s long queues at Le Huray’s, now. People wanting to get their dinners in his oven.’

  ‘Well we’ll just have to join the queue. The question now is, do I dice it small so we have three little pieces of meat and gristle each, or a bit bigger and have one and a half pieces?’ She opened the cupboard under the sink and pulled out a bag of tiny, wrinkled potatoes. ‘Could you peel these for me?’

  ‘Sure won’t be much left if I do, ma’am,’ the black woman shook her head. ‘Want me to do the carrots too?’

  Sarah brought out two, huge horse carrots. ‘Perhaps we should boil these first. They’ll be tough as nails. Now the thing is, what do we eat today?’

  Almost as though she had heard the question, Alice came into the kitchen holding a carrier bag. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘See what you can do with this.’

  ‘Right, Ma, I’ll see to it in a minute,’ Sarah shouted. ‘I’m just trying to work out what we’ll eat today.’

  Alice sat on a chair. ‘Not too bad, but these shoes are getting too big. They must have stretched.’

  Belle and Sarah attempted to keep their faces straight.

  Daisy fled from the room, choking.

  ‘My guess is she thinks I asked how her feet are today,’ Sarah grinned, then picked up the end of her mother-in-law’s ear-trumpet. ‘We’ll get Greg to stuff them with paper for you.’

  Alice nodded. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll read it when he’s finished it.’ She got up and tottered out of the room leaving the two women smothering their giggles.

  ‘She certainly gives us something to laugh about,’ Belle commented, wiping her eyes. ‘What’s that in her bag?’

  Sarah put the bag on the table, peered inside and frowned. ‘What . . .? Where on earth has she got eggs from?’

  ‘Eggs!’ Belle came to look. ‘And what’s in this packet?’ she withdrew a small roll of paper which she slowly unwrapped to reveal a little piece of rather dry and green-looking bacon. ‘Gold!’ she exclaimed. ‘And here, look, sugar!’

  Sarah was still frowning. ‘But where has it all come from?’

  Belle wasn’t the least bit worried. ‘Does it matter? Let’s just plan what we’ll do with it.’

  ‘But suppose she’s stolen it?’

  ‘We don’t know that.’

  ‘So you suggest we cook them up in bliss
ful ignorance?’ Sarah’s mouth twitched. Suddenly she had an inkling of the food source. And the thought of using one of the eggs and a little of the sugar to make a few meringues for Richard, was too appealing to resist.

  When Greg came in later, his mouth was soon watering. ‘That smells marvellous. What is it?’

  ‘Bacon, onion and swede quiche,’ Sarah announced proudly, adding, ‘Courtesy of your mother.’

  He stared at her, then looked at Belle who promptly threw her apron over her face to muffle explosive noises. ‘Mother?’ he repeated. ‘How come?’

  ‘We’ve no idea. She just walked in with a bag of food.’

  ‘Mother!’ he sat down, totally baffled. Then he smiled. ‘Did you know she was at Les Marettes today?’

  Sarah clapped her hands together. ‘Aha! I guessed as much. Do you think she’s been playing the starving waif?’

  ‘What’s the betting she simply walked into her pantry and took what she fancied?’

  All three gazed at each other trying, unsuccessfully, not to laugh.

  ‘But it’s no laughing matter,’ Greg pointed out, seriously. ‘Suppose she does it again? She could make a habit of it, and we’ll all be in the soup.’

  ‘Perhaps they gave it to her?’ Sarah suggested.

  ‘Perhaps. But we cannot assume that. We simply must prevent her getting out again.’

  ‘How?’ Sarah wanted to know. ‘She’ll be livid if we lock the gate.’

  Belle cleared her throat. ‘Your Richard has shown an interest in the outside world, recently. He saw a little boy walk past the gate the other day and asked if he could go with him. Lucky I was there to divert his attention, but one day he’ll follow. If you were to explain that it was for her grandson’s safety, she’d be quite happy, wouldn’t she?’

  ‘Belle, you’re a genius!’ Greg exclaimed. ‘I’ll put a lock on it today. Anyway, it will only be for a month or so at the most. The Jerries will have to get out before they are cut off here, by the Allied advance.’

  *

  The D-Day landings dominated the news and conversation all over Britain. Marie wanted to start packing immediately.

  ‘Better wait a bit,’ Aline cautioned. ‘It might be weeks before we can get back.’

  ‘Bah!’ Marie exclaimed, unable to contain her impatience.

  ‘Well you never know: perhaps Val du Douit has been full of Germans like Les Blanches Pierres and Les Marettes.’ They had realised it was possible ever since receiving Arabella Laurence’s letter. ‘We can’t move in if the place is a mess and there’s no furniture.’

  ‘I don’t care if everything’s gone and we have to sleep in a barn. All I want is to get home, and to take your father’s ashes up to St Saviour’s cemetery.’ It had been his dying wish.

  Aline wasn’t at all happy with the thought of returning to an emptied house. After being limited by the extent of her Clothing Coupon book—plus some of Suzanne’s coupons of course—she longed to open the wardrobe doors in her bedroom and see all those clothes just waiting to be worn again. For instance, there was that elegant new cocktail dress she had abandoned, and her fur coat. ‘Of course, Ma,’ she said, maintaining her policy of agreeing about everything. ‘But it would be nice to get back to some of one’s own things.’

  ‘Possessions,’ her mother said, disdainfully. ‘What use are they if you can’t be in your own home and in your own garden. We haven’t exactly gone without here, but have we been happy or content?’ Of course she did have her jewellery, still, in the lining of her handbag; and the well-worn photographs and letters she’d kept with her. But those were not the possessions she was talking about.

  Aline thought about all the charming retired army men they had met in England, whose attentions and compliments she had so enjoyed. Spinsterhood had held its advantages, but perhaps it was time to get married, while she was still young and attractive. Now what made me think of Piers Laurence? she asked herself, peeping into the mirror over the mantelpiece. She cocked her head to one side and exposed her teeth in a seductive smile. Yes, despite the white hair, and she could always do something about that whenever she wanted, she was wearing extremely well for forty-three . . . an age she admitted only to the mirror. Yes, he was well worth remembering. ‘No,’ she lied, ‘Not at all.’

  *

  ‘I feel so sad to think Suzanne has missed all Richard’s babyhood.’ Sarah had laid on a picnic of sorts, in the garden, to celebrate his fourth birthday, including a precious meringue, just for him. Alice was in a deck chair under an ancient, tattered parasol, with Sarah, Edna and Gelly beside her on a rug, while Richard, Belle and Polly played ball with a wretchedly skinny Toby, and Greg, George and John fought a needle match at croquet.

  ‘Yes, it is a shame, but at least she’ll be here for his next birthday.’ Her long-time friend cast her a consoling smile. Gelly had always been slim and elegant, sunning herself each summer to a golden tan. Now her once finely-chiselled features were skeletal, eyes deep in their dark, hollow sockets, the once glossy black hair dull and splashed with grey and her long legs like brown matchsticks.

  Sarah smiled back, ruefully, because Gelly’s situation was another cause for sadness. She and George were obviously and irrevocably in love: they adored each other in a way far beyond normal, marital devotion and now, with the end of the war in sight, there loomed an emotional upheaval that would devastate them both. Poor Gelly. Poor Margery. Poor George. The eternal triangle!

  ‘Shot!’ George shouted.

  ‘You blighter, John. How did you manage it?’

  John beamed with pleasure. He had actually won! For the first time in his life he had pipped his athletic brother-in-law at a ball game!

  ‘Well done, darling!’ Edna jumped to her feet and ran to congratulate him.

  Sarah watched, happy for them for this moment, but terribly aware of another disaster in the offing. She wondered how both couples were viewing their respective futures. In her own view, she didn’t think Mary should ever have married in the first place. She would have made the perfect, schoolmarmish spinster. Though she had been if anything overprotective of her children, detrimentally so in the opinions of most of the family, she had never been a warm, caring, cuddly mother. Not like Margery, had she ever been able to have children. Fate, or nature, had certainly blundered in deciding their allotted roles in life.

  ‘Mummy! Come an’ get the ball from Toby! He’s eating it!’ Richard called.

  Sarah struggled to her feet, no longer the athlete she had once been. ‘Poor little devil is starving,’ she remarked to the other two on the rug. ‘I don’t know how he survives on his diet.’

  They discovered how the following week, when the dog raced up the garden path and in through the open door, closely followed by a canine adversary who was bent on relieving him of the rabbit clenched in his jaws.

  Greg didn’t hesitate. ‘Gerrorf!’ he shouted at the stranger, grabbed Toby by the collar and cooed, ‘Good lad, then! Give it to Daddy!’

  Toby was no fool and hung on like grim death, but he was no match for his master.

  ‘Can you boil up the skin and give it to him?’ he asked Sarah as he handed over the sodden lump.

  ‘Of course. And if I boil the bones long enough you could pound them up for him, too? As long as there is no chance of them splintering . . .’

  ‘I’ll give it a go. You’ve got an old pestle and mortar somewhere, haven’t you?’

  The rabbit was in a disgusting state, half chewed and covered in dirt, but the flesh appeared to be healthy. Sarah shuddered, trying not to retch as she cleaned it up and commenced the skinning process under Toby’s accusing eye. However, he received a great deal of praise and petting when the household sat back after a really tasty, meaty meal.

  ‘That was very good,’ Alice said as she helped clear the table. ‘Where did you buy the chicken?’

  Foolishly, without thinking, Sarah tried to explain. ‘It was rabbit. Toby caught it.’

  ‘Eh? Toby?’

/>   ‘The dog,’ Sarah shouted.

  ‘Oh no! Poor little devil!’ the old lady put a hand over her mouth. ‘How could you! I think I’m going to be sick.’

  Not until Greg had located the dog and paraded him before his mother, was the old lady convinced of her mistake. ‘Your silly fault,’ Greg scolded his hysterical wife. ‘Why didn’t you simply say George had shot a rabbit?’

  ‘What with?’ she gasped, knowing all firearms had been confiscated years ago. ‘A bow and arrow?’

  *

  It was a long, long summer, listening to the radio plotting the course of the war in Europe . . . waiting, hoping, speculating. While Greg and Sarah kept their map hidden away with the crystal set and earphones, Suzanne was sticking hers up on the wall of her grandmother’s and aunt’s flat, complete with her tiny, hand-made flags: green for the British, red for the Americans and black for the Nazis.

  Marie, as ever, was impatient, especially after hearing the evening news on the 25th of August, of de Gaulle’s triumphant march through Paris at the head of the Free French Army. ‘Surely the Germans must surrender the islands soon. John and Sarah must be so excited.’ She paused, frowning. ‘They would know what’s happening in France, I suppose?’

  Her isolated family knew only too well. As the summer and the war progressed, two unpleasant facts were revealed: firstly, that Hitler had no intention whatsoever of relinquishing the only British territory he had managed to capture, come what may; and secondly, that communications and the transporting of supplies between France and the islands having been totally severed, existing food stocks would have to be meted out very carefully until such time as the Nazi Führer was annihilated.

  By autumn, when home-grown supplies of fresh fruit and vegetables were finished, the prospects for winter were ominous. Even salt became a problem. All summer they had been denied access to the coast, thanks to mindless, selfish escapees, and salt water had to be purchased from licenced street traders, for cooking.

  Malnutrition related illnesses were rife and resistance to ordinary coughs, colds and children’s diseases left most families constantly nursing sick members. After such joyful anticipation in June, of release from the Occupation, frustration and hunger were wearing down even the most resilient characters.