Greg was normally the most mild-tempered, tolerant man, but even his patience eventually gave way when he heard on his radio that the Allied countries were sending food parcels to Russia, Greece and Italy. ‘For God’s sake!’ he exploded. ‘Have the bloody British forgotten we exist?’
And food wasn’t the only problem. Stocks of domestic coal were finished and likewise gas. Thousands of trees had been burnt for heating and cooking, and empty houses stripped of stairs, bannisters, doors and door frames. Lack of timber for greenhouse repairs had caused the loss of number six at Les Marettes during a storm, and Greg had had to recruit the help of George, John and the Batiste twins to salvage the wood before it vanished.
The civil authorities counted up, calculated, and put the dire facts to the German Commandant: all remaining food stocks, if very strictly rationed, would last only till the end of November.
When the facts were passed on to the German Chancellor, he asked the British Government to evacuate the entire civilian population—wanting to maintain his ‘nice guy’ image and not be held responsible for starving them to death. The British Government debated the idea but made the strategic decision to decline.
Greg brought home lengths of greenhouse timber on a handcart and sawed them into pieces small enough to fit in the living-room grate. The wood was hard, seasoned and bore many years’ layers of paint: the saw was soon blunted and his bony hands became sore and calloused.
Sarah worked endlessly to create meals from almost nothing. Throughout the summer she had preserved and bottled; with Belle’s help she had peeled the hard, coarse skin from sackfuls of sugar beets, diced them up and boiled them in the clothes hopper to make sugar beet syrup. Making more than sufficient for their current needs left enough over to use for barter; four jars and a woollen jumper of Andrew’s for a pair of secondhand shoes for Richard, one jar for a piece of soap and two ounces of washing powder.
Worrying about Polly, Belle’s tight curls turned white, in stark contrast to her skin. The Mongol girl’s child mind in the frail body of a woman, retreated further into a distant world, lacking necessary nourishment and stimulation.
Alice’s arthritis deteriorated, causing her to scream in agony when she moved incautiously, and she developed a nasty cough which refused to go away.
The healthiest member of the family was Richard, benefiting as he did from much of his parent’s rations in addition to his own.
They assumed that only the dwindling rabbit population was keeping Toby alive: they were eating the potato-peel puddings themselves.
Amongst the family, Sarah continued to make a joke of the appalling food she provided; in the privacy of her bedroom she knelt by the window clutching her Prayer Book, choking back tears of misery and physical weakness, pleading to God for a miracle.
Chapter Twelve – LIBERATION
William frequently suffered waves of guilt over not volunteering for the armed services, but the fact was he worried about leaving Annemarie and the girls. To say that Aunt Dot was difficult would be a hopeless understatement: she had become more and more exacting over the past couple of years. Nothing pleased her, nothing was right. Josette was now ten years old, Marivonne eight, little Sarah five and attending school with her sisters. They were normal, healthy and sometimes boisterous, but Dorothy Soames could never tolerate the sound of their laughter or excited squeals at play. Annemarie was obliged to keep them quiet while she acted the skivvy, at Dorothy’s beck and call at all times, and William continued to maintain the woman’s properties, the painting, decorating and repairs, collecting the rents, doing her errands and keeping her house, and particularly her vegetable garden, in order. He worked a seven day week which seemed an onerous price to pay, even though their accommodation was beautiful and they were kept clothed and fed. But Aunt Dot never actually paid them any money; if and when William wanted anything for himself or his family, a new coat or a bicycle for one of the girls, he had to ask for it, and if Dorothy approved she would tell him to order it and bring her the bill. An ignominious arrangement, and both William and Annemarie suspected that Dorothy was enjoying her hold over them. They had discussed finding somewhere else several times, but mysteriously, just as they braced themselves to make their announcement, Dorothy would be taken ill and they felt unable to leave her.
The fact that despite all her enquiries through the Red Cross and other wartime organisations, Annemarie had been unable to discover the whereabouts of her parents or her brother Louis since they fled Cherbourg, only added to her unhappiness. She could only pray they were all still alive.
However, when the D-Day landings brought hope of an early end to the war, the young Ozanne family decided to put up with the situation till they could settle in a home of their own. Of course they had no idea where that home might be eventually, either in France or Guernsey. Or even England. ‘If the Cherbourg apartment is gone and your father’s business no longer exists, we might go back to Guernsey and I’ll see if I can get a job again in the bank,’ William suggested.
Annemarie wasn’t enthralled by the idea: her in-laws tried to be nice when they spent one Christmas here with them in Cornwall, but they had never been exactly friendly towards her when she visited them in Guernsey, before she and William were married. She did not want William to be faced with split family loyalties.
Dorothy Soames was a large woman, recently tending to excess weight which put a considerable strain on her hips, one of which reacted painfully during cold, damp weather. Walking was often difficult and petrol rationing kept the car in the garage, but she managed to balance herself quite adequately on her bicycle. She would ride off to visit friends, deliver produce from the basket fixed to her handlebars, or perform her WVS duties, and it was not unusual for her to stay out for the whole day. One damp and drizzly morning in October she poked her head round the kitchen door to utter a brief goodbye, and disappeared. ‘A pity vis is a school day and ve girls are not ’ere to enjoy vemselves,’ Annemarie remarked to William.
‘Did she say where she was going?’
‘No. But she ’ardly ever does. Lunch is nearly ready: just some soup and a sandwich and I’ll cook a proper meal for tonight when she gets back.’
However, Dorothy didn’t get back. Six o’clock, seven o’clock came and went. By half-past seven Annemarie was getting worried.
‘She’ll turn up,’ William said, adding with feeling, ‘It’s been a relief having a whole day without her nagging.’ But when another hour had passed he began telephoning those of Dorothy’s local friends whom he knew. No one had seen her. ‘She couldn’t have fallen off the darned bicycle, could she?’ He opened the back door and peered out into the dark misty night.
‘Ver’ easily, I fink. She is so fat and wobbly.’
‘I’ll have to phone the police. And go out and search for her myself.’
Dorothy was finally located in the cottage hospital outside Lostwithiel. She had indeed fallen off her bike on a narrow track, where she had lost consciousness after lying for several hours unable to move due to a broken pelvis, and was found by a farm dog on the way home with his master late in the evening. She came to for brief periods the following day but pneumonia developed. Within ten days she died.
William felt guilty that he hadn’t begun searching for her earlier.
Annemarie was more concerned with immediate practicalities. ‘What are we going to do? Where will we live? Do you fink you will find anovver job in Cornwall?’
‘I don’t know, but there’s no point in worrying, yet. Whoever inherits her property will need to make their own arrangements, and it still has to be looked after until they do.’ As the shock wore off, sadness took over. ‘Poor Aunt Dot. I don’t think she ever really liked us living here, and she could be a dreadful harridan, but she could be very kind. I am sorry she died that way. What a terrible end to one’s life.’
The undertaker came to arrange the funeral. ‘Did she wish to be cremated, do you know?’
William had no
idea. ‘I imagine she would have left instructions to that effect in her will . . . wherever that is.’
‘Have you contacted her lawyer and bank manager? They are most likely to be her executors.’
It was Dorothy’s lawyer who had all the information. He made arrangements with the undertaker for her cremation, and after the funeral he came out to the house. ‘You will no doubt be anxious to know the terms of her will,’ he remarked as he sat on the living-room settee with a cup of tea. He opened his briefcase and extracted a sheaf of legal papers fastened with thin green ribbon.
William sat some distance away on the window seat, praying they would be given reasonable enough time to move and find somewhere else to live.
‘I won’t read this right through, now,’ the elderly solicitor told them. ‘There are several instructions about her personal effects, and a few minor legacies to close friends and her favourite charities. But the major part of her estate, including this house, and all the properties with which I believe you are familiar, Mr Ozanne, are left to you and Mrs Ozanne.’
William didn’t think he had heard correctly. ‘Er . . . would you mind repeating that, please?’
‘“In appreciation of all William and Annemarie Ozanne have done for me since coming to live here, I wish them to be joint beneficiaries of my—”’
‘Oh! Mon Dieu!’ Annemarie burst into tears.
Numb with relief and gratitude, William put his arms round his wife. ‘Perhaps she did like us being here, after all.’
*
By the third week of November, the food situation in Guernsey suddenly deteriorated from bad to disastrous. Despite protests from the States Food Distribution Committee, the Germans visited all the local food depots and removed the entire stocks of potatoes for their own use. Rations were reduced to one carrot per head per week and one swede to be divided between three. Sea water in which to cook them had to be bought for the equivalent of tuppence ha’penny per pint paid in pfennigs, or washers as the locals called them.
‘Which coffee do you prefer?’ Sarah asked Greg. ‘The acorn or the parsnip one?’
‘Both about the same. Which is easiest?’ Greg’s eyelids were red, the eyeballs overlarge and yellow, staring from dark hollow sockets. His face was emaciated above his scraggy neck, his chest sunk in and stomach distended from malnutrition.
‘John collected some acorns for me at Val du Douit, but I haven’t done anything with them, yet. There is ajar of parsnip prepared, though.’ She had grated it, dried and toasted it and the result was passable. ‘You put the kettle on and I’ll set out the cups.’ She watched, heart aching, as Greg knelt on the rug by the grate to balance the kettle on bars he had arranged over the wood fire. Of all the family, Greg was suffering most from starvation. His huge frame needed so much more nutrition than a smaller person, but he refused to eat any more than the others in the household, and he often handed half his meal over to his ravenous son, who, apart from recurring tonsilitis, looked fit and normal.
Belle came into the room. ‘There. Both Richard and Polly are in bed. Now what can I do?’
‘Sit down and relax,’ Sarah ordered. ‘You’ve been working all day and you look exhausted.’ She was very concerned to see how Belle had shrunk, not only in girth but seemingly in stature, too. ‘I’m making parsnip coffee. Want some?’
‘I don’t know. I’m scared it might turn my skin black,’ the nursemaid replied, trying to keep her face straight.
‘We can’t have that, Belle. You’d come in the room and we wouldn’t recognise you,’ Greg said, still on his knees.
The two women giggled and Sarah asked, ‘Did you ever trace your origins, Belle? Do you know what part of Africa your ancestors came from?’
‘No, ma’am. But my father, back in Georgia, reckoned we were of the Ibo tribes in Nigeria.’
‘Why did he think that?’
‘Because different tribes look different. Some have very wide noses, or very short, curly hair, and others a very pale brown skin. Now my skin, like my father’s, is black. Real black, as you can see. Like the Ibos. So maybe it won’t make too much difference if I drink some of your coffee.’
Greg clambered slowly to his feet. ‘You’re a good sport, Belle,’ he grinned at her. ‘Do all Ibos laugh as much as you?’
‘No, sir! My family all reckoned there was something wrong in my head, because they all are real gloomy.’
‘Do you miss your family?’
Belle shook her head. ‘It’s more than thirty years since I left the United States, since I saw my old family. Miss Polly is my family, now. She’s all I got.’
*
George cycled up the path the following morning. ‘You two alone?’ he asked in a conspiratorial whisper. His appearance had changed dramatically in the past year: the shock of bristling, crinkly hair which had always resembled a badly-stacked hayrick, had thinned and now lay almost flat, reducing his limited height even more, while clothes hung on his once stocky frame like voluminous curtains.
‘Belle is in the kitchen trying to do some washing, and Richard and Polly are helping her,’ Sarah told him. ‘Why?’
‘Did you know that two chaps have got away?’
Greg frowned. ‘Not again! It’s so darned . . .’
George held up a hand. ‘Hang on a minute. They were asked to go, so I’m told. Seems they attended an emergency meeting of the Distribution Committee, when the remaining food stocks were listed. They’ve gone off with a copy of the list in the hopes of convincing the British Government that we’re getting a bit hungry.’
‘Sure they’re not exaggerating?’ Greg quipped.
‘If that’s their mission, then all I can say is God speed. May they be successful . . . and in time.’ Sarah shivered and drew Aline’s fur stole tightly round her shoulders.
‘Talking of food, have you got ajar of syrup you’d be prepared to barter?’
‘For what?’ Sarah countered suspiciously.
‘This.’ George put a hand inside his jacket and withdrew a small parcel which he proceeded to unwrap. ‘I’m afraid it isn’t very much.’ He unfolded the paper and held out his hand, revealing a small piece of a foreleg from a piglet. A very small piglet.
A big grin spread over Sarah’s face. ‘Oh George! Where did you get that?’ then, seeing him place a secretive finger beside his nose, added, ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t ask.’
‘I have it on good authority that its mother rolled on it and smothered it,’ he added, careful not to reveal the name of the authority.
‘But . . . one jar of syrup doesn’t seem enough. Are you sure there isn’t anything else you’d like?’
He hesitated. ‘I haven’t a decent jumper left. You wouldn’t have something of your father’s you could spare, Greg?’
When the deal was settled, Sarah and Belle discussed all the marvellous things they could do with the scrap of pork. It would flavour the family’s daily vegetable ration for at least a week.
*
‘They say there’s a Red Cross ship arriving with food this afternoon,’ Sarah overheard a woman in the bread queue telling a friend.
The friend shook her head. ‘That’s the third time I’ve heard that yarn in the past two weeks. Trouble is, it’s like a mirage in the desert: you think you see an oasis, but every time you get near, it isn’t there.’
Indeed the rumours about this mystery ship had been rife for ages. The Gaudion household had been excited about it a number of times, but gradually, one by one, the disappointments had made them very cynical about the ship’s very existence. Food, and the lack of it, had become an obsession: it was the main topic of conversation, the dominant thought in everybody’s mind, taking precedence over any other subject including the Allied progress across Europe.
Greg and Sarah’s chief concern was for Richard. They were long past dreaming of giving him a McVitie’s Digestive biscuit as a treat, or a piece of real Cadbury’s chocolate; nowadays all they could think of was how they could nourish him, however
inadequately, for one more day. They scrounged and bartered, shamelessly, and thanked the Lord for John’s illicit supply of eggs and milk.
None of them bothered to apologise when they were alone, for the anti-social effect their vegetable diet was having on their digestive systems. In company, it was hard not to laugh. Unwittingly, Greg’s mother provided endless amusement with her prolific orchestrations. Her repertoire was magnificent, from short staccato works with each step as she walked, to impressive kettledrum deliveries when she bent to pick something up from the floor. Toby reduced them all to hysterics, when he accidently mimicked a squeaky door, because he never could understand where the noise was coming from, and chased his rear end round and round in a tight circle, trying to locate the source. Stomachs groaned their misery and Greg wanted to weep every time he looked at his beloved, emaciated Sarah. Her hair was quite white, now, and with her yellow, wrinkled skin and thin white lips she could have been in her late sixties, rather than merely forty-one.
Temporary relief arrived early in December. In filthy wet weather, John and Edna rode in one morning on their bikes, looking about furtively before hurrying into the kitchen.
‘You are soaked!’ Sarah exclaimed. ‘Pleased as we are to see you, I think you must be cuckoo to ride all the way down here on a day like this. Here, let me take your coat.’
‘Careful!’ Edna warned.
‘What on earth . . .?’
‘Let’s unload our goods first. Explanations can follow.’ From an old cotton shopping bag tied round his middle, John placed on the kitchen table a loaf, a piece of green cheese, a labelless tin, a bag of flour, a piece of butter, a small bag of dried lentils and some sugar in a screw of paper. Edna produced a slab of sugary dates, a small tin of sardines, a one-pound packet of rice, a rather smelly parcel of uncooked sausages and a small piece of unwrapped chocolate.
Greg stared at the luxuries with his mouth open.
The Guernsey Saga Box Set Page 25
