The Guernsey Saga Box Set

by Diana Bachmann

  ‘Get out of those wet things, both of you,’ Sarah ordered. ‘Greg, you’d better put this stuff under the floor, while I go and find some dry clothes for these folk. We’ll hear the story later.’

  Belle obligingly whisked Richard and Polly away for a game of Snakes and Ladders on a bedroom floor, so that Greg and Sarah could be alone with John and Edna in the living-room. Alice joined them, sitting by the fire in her usual chair, but as she could hear nothing unless it was shouted into the ear-trumpet, conversation was uninhibited.

  When the kettle boiled in the grate, Sarah poured five cups of parsnip coffee and handed them round. Then settling herself on the floor by the fire she said, ‘Right. Let’s hear all about it.’

  Edna nodded at John, so he began. ‘You remember that old shed at the bottom of the hill before you turn left to go out to Pleinmont?’

  ‘Didn’t the Batiste twins’ father keep his fish pots in there?’ Sarah asked. ‘Timmy told me about it years ago.’

  ‘That’s the one. It’s been overgrown with ivy for as long as I can recall, and half the roof gone. Well I’ve been loathe to cut down any more trees near the farm, and decided to see if there was any timber left in that shed worth the taking.’ John paused to sip his coffee, warming his hands round the cup. ‘I went down there yesterday afternoon with a hand cart. There was nothing much left to remove; the door and doorposts had gone, and the window, too. But there were a few crossbeams under the rafters, with worm-eaten planking which I thought would burn well. I climbed up on a barrel to see how to go about getting them down, when I saw a sack . . . full of something. When I looked inside, well . . . you know what I saw!’

  ‘Weren’t you scared to take it?’ Sarah asked. ‘After all, it must belong to someone.’

  ‘And that someone sure is mad as hell, right now,’ Greg added.

  ‘My guess is that it was stolen in the first place, and the thief doesn’t know yet that it’s gone,’ Edna commented.

  ‘You took one devil of a risk bringing it down here!’ Sarah stared at her brother in awe. John! Her once so serious and proper elder brother . . . How he had changed. First he had acquired a mistress, then a great sense of humour no one had ever previously suspected, and now he’d turned criminal! ‘What possessed you to bring it down here?’

  ‘Abject terror? Panic? An urgent desire to shift the loot? Take your pick. I only knew I wanted to get rid of as much as possible as quickly as possible before anyone came looking for it . . . especially if they are armed.’

  ‘I can sympathise with that sentiment,’ Greg told him, grinning. ‘However, I hope you’ve kept plenty for yourself.’

  ‘Yes thanks,’ Edna assured him. ‘And it’s well-hidden. But what I can’t stop wondering is, who in the world put it there?’

  ‘There are only three obvious answers to choose from: a civilian, a German soldier or an O.T. worker. And the stuff could have come from a private home, a depot or a German kitchen. Only one thing is certain: it was stolen.’

  John nodded. ‘No one would dream of leaving it in there if they weren’t breaking the law, so I imagine there’s no chance they’ll report their loss to the police. However, I must confess I feel sorry for the poor blighter when he finds it has gone.’

  ‘Same here,’ Edna agreed, ‘But let’s face it: he has possibly saved our lives.’

  ‘Well, I hope it hasn’t cost him his,’ Greg remarked.

  ‘We are all struggling to survive, now.’ John’s face became clouded. ‘It’s a case of “every man for himself and the devil take the hindermost”.’

  *

  The starving civilian population of Guernsey became very excited and flocked to Town to see the Red Cross ship arrive. News had flashed across the island that a berth was prepared and barricaded off at the White Rock for her entry into the harbour on Monday, November 27th. The people waited . . . and waited. Some even returned, hopefully, the following day, but no ship arrived. Two weeks later, listening to their crystal radio one evening as they huddled under the bedclothes for warmth, Greg and Sarah heard a BBC announcer say that the Red Cross ship, S.S. Vega, would leave Portugal the following week loaded with food parcels for the Channel Islands.

  Promises. Promises. They had heard it all before, and realised that Christmas 1944 would be very, very bleak.

  ‘What are you giving people for Christmas?’ Greg asked.

  ‘I decided weeks ago that it was senseless to keep in store, all the clothes belonging to family who went away, while the rest of us are perishing with cold. So I’ve gone through all the stuff at Val du Douit and what was put in boxes in the packing sheds, and made up parcels for everyone. Well, there’s nothing else, is there?’

  ‘True. I only hope that the others don’t all return expecting to find their clothes waiting for them!’ Greg wrapped his arms round her.

  ‘If they complain I’ll hit them!’ she vowed, laughing. ‘But I know they would be only too glad for us to have them in the circumstances.’

  ‘The circumstances,’ he repeated with a groan. ‘I suppose we must simply concentrate on the good news we are hearing every day from the battle fronts.’

  Sarah sighed into his chest.

  *

  John and Edna joined the family party, if it could be called that, on Christmas Day—their first visit since delivering the surprise food stock. All long-distance trips were rare, now; few people had the energy to cycle far on their iron rations. George and Gelly came, too, making ten, to share the chilly hearth and add some extra much-needed body heat to the room. Edna brought her last, treasured bottle of parsnip wine, and they were all sitting round, delaying the start of their meagre meal, when there was a knock on the door.

  Sarah frowned. ‘Who on earth can that be?’

  Greg shrugged and got up. ‘I’ll soon find out.’

  Two of the German officers currently lodging at Les Marettes were on the door step, each carrying a bottle of champagne. ‘Herr Gaudion,’ one of them clicked his heels, bowing his head. ‘Ve vish to offer you and your family ve greetings of ve season.’

  ‘And hope vat ve next Christmas iss a better vun for you,’ the other added. ‘Ve know ve German army is kaput. Finished. Correctly so. Vis war should never haf been.’ He gave a grim smile, holding out the bottle in his hand. ‘Ve haf kept vis to celebrate our victory. Now, ve vish you to take it to celebrate yours.’

  A million conflicting thoughts chased through Greg’s mind. He eyed the champagne, mentally licking his lips. But was it a trade-off . . . for his good references of their behaviour when the islands were surrendered? Or were these men genuinely regretting their part in the conflict, genuinely wishing to apologise for the situation? They stood there in front of him, waiting. For him to take the champagne and shut the door in their faces . . . or to invite them in? Poor devils, they had been separated from their own families for years . . . Would he be branded a collaborator? The hell with it! This was the so-called season of goodwill! ‘You are very generous,’ he said politely. ‘Would you care to join my family for a drink on Christmas Day?’

  He was nearly bowled over with the alacrity of their acceptance: the high peaked caps were whipped off in unison as they marched on his heels down the hall.

  ‘Er . . . we have unexpected visitors,’ Greg announced . . . and dearly wished he had had a camera on hand to record the expressions on the faces of everyone in the room as the Germans entered. Quick as a flash, Sarah dropped the radio and earphones into Alice’s knitting-bag, her eyes large as saucers. Belle sat motionless, except for the rolling of her eyeballs. John and Edna frowned at each other in alarm, still very much aware of the loot under the settee where they were sitting. George was obviously highly amused by the situation and grinned at Gelly.

  Alice looked up and said casually, ‘Hello! I hope you’ve brought some food with you.’

  ‘No!’ Greg shouted at her. ‘Something to drink!’

  ‘You don’t think? Why not?’

  It was Richard who
broke the ice. ‘Happy Christmas!’ he yelled and hurled himself across the room into the arms of the nearest officer. ‘Santa Claus brought me a new coat!’ It was made by Mrs Tostevin—who had created Sarah’s wedding dress—from a grey tweed skirt Maureen had left behind, and the child was wearing it with great pride.

  The German beamed, held Richard up to the ceiling and said, ‘It is a beautiful coat! You are so lucky. I vish someone would make so good a coat for me.’

  Greg summoned Sarah into the kitchen to fetch a tray of glasses. ‘Sorry about this, but what was I to do?’

  She blew him a kiss. ‘I think we can fraternise for half an hour on Christmas Day without too much fear of eternal retribution!’

  The champagne had a profound effect on empty stomachs. Alice drank more than anyone else and appeared impervious, but George and John were soon in hilarious mood. Much to the amazement of the surprise visitors.

  ‘I think those two expected us all to be sobbing in our soup,’ Gelly whispered to Sarah.

  ‘Where is your friend, the other officer who lives at Les Marettes?’ Greg asked.

  The two Germans glanced at each other and one replied, ‘He is vorking today. But I fink he may not be pleased we come here. Possibly you would be so kind not to tell him?’

  Greg nodded. ‘Of course. We won’t say a word.’ He remembered that their tall, blond compatriot had always been most arrogant and off-hand. He would not dream of telling anyone that the Fatherland was kaput.

  Suddenly Alice said, ‘What’s this?’ with her hand in her knitting bag.

  Sarah grabbed an almost empty bottle as she leapt across the room. ‘You want a refill, Ma?’ she shrieked.

  Alice smiled happily and removed her hand from the bag to pass her glass. ‘Lovely,’ she said, as Sarah slowly drained the bottle, giving Gelly time to sneak the bag away unseen to Sarah’s bedroom.

  When the guests showed no inclination to leave, Greg prompted their departure with an apology. ‘I am so sorry we are unable to invite you to join us for lunch. Afraid there is barely enough to go round as it is.’

  The two men immediately stood up, bowing. ‘You have been most kind to invite us into your home on vis special day. We fank you.’

  Everyone except Alice heaved a sigh of relief when they had gone, and Sarah began dishing up the chicken and vegetable casserole, which was followed by date pudding.

  ‘What a pity they couldn’t stay to lunch,’ Alice complained. ‘Such nice young men.’

  Everybody fell asleep after lunch except Richard; the latest injection of fuel inspiring him to play at being a fighter plane swooping low over the somnolent family, so Belle took him out for a walk with Polly.

  Sarah’s sleep was troubled with bad dreams about food, or rather the nonexistence of it. Waking before the others, she tried to make herself think positively, concentrate on the fact that come what may this had to be the last captive Christmas; next year both her children would spend it together.

  When Greg woke, he put on the gramophone, to play Beethoven’s Fifth yet again. It was the one symphony which raised his spirits, with its morse V sign, dit dit dit dah. All the other classics made him want to weep.

  ‘Just as well you didn’t play that to the visitors, earlier!’ John remarked, opening one eye. Then he sat up, adding, ‘This symphony so reminds me of the sitting-room at Val du Douit before the war, when Pa used to put it on for the family.’ He sighed. ‘Poor old Pa.’ Apparently the Fifth didn’t have the same effect on everyone.

  *

  George and Gelly went home that night, but John and Edna stayed, sleeping on settee cushions in the sitting-room, so that they could spend Boxing Day with the Gaudions, as well. They left on the 27th, cycling home via Town, just for a change of scene . . . and what a scene! There, steaming very gently into the harbour was a ship marked with huge red crosses, clearly named S.S. Vega! They dashed into the nearest shop to borrow the telephone. ‘Greg! Bring the family to the harbour quickly. She’s come! She’s here!’ John’s voice broke and tears welled up in his eyes. ‘The Vega has come with our food parcels!’

  *

  The news of the ship’s arrival was greeted with much relief in Cornwall. Everyone was aware that the food situation in the islands was serious . . . though fortunately none of the family had the remotest idea just how serious.

  ‘What a lot of shilly shallying,’ Marie exploded. ‘Why didn’t it arrive for Christmas, I ask myself?’

  ‘Endless red tape, Ma, and Forms of Agreement to be signed by the different countries involved.’ It wasn’t easy to explain such details to a person who so despised bureaucracy, William concluded.

  ‘Bah!’ Marie commented, predictably. ‘And I suppose the Jerries will have kept most of the parcels, anyway.’

  ‘They have said they will respect the Red Cross ruling that the food is only for civilians,’ he argued.

  ‘Bah!’ his mother repeated.

  Things were different, now that William and Annemarie were the property owners. The house rang with children’s laughter, all the rooms were open and the cats and dogs joined in the fun. William produced a young fir tree in a pot, and the girls festooned it with baubles they had found in the attics. Father Christmas surpassed himself, Suzanne playing along with the fairy-tale for little Sarah’s sake. Annemarie invited her mother-in-law to use her kitchen for whatever baking she chose, and everyone was thrilled to taste real Guernsey gache and biscuits again.

  Friends and neighbours called, and the entire household trooped down to the village church on Christmas morning. The war news was so good, so positive, that the whole western world seemed to be singing in happy anticipation of an imminent German surrender.

  *

  The arrival of the first food parcels had been a source of great excitement. Moments after receiving John’s phone call, Greg put Richard into the child seat on the back of his bike and he and Sarah pedalled off together into Town, to see the ship for themselves. Town was packed with cheering, skinny, hollow-eyed civilians, many of whom looked as though they had just left their deathbeds.

  ‘Look, Richard! See the big ship?’ Greg held the boy up on his shoulders for a better view. ‘That ship is called the Vega. Can you say that?’

  ‘Vega,’ Richard repeated. ‘Why is it here?’

  ‘It has brought parcels of food for us to eat.’

  ‘Why is Mummy crying?’

  How to explain to a child only four years old?

  The arrival was also a source of immeasurable relief. Each parcel contained something different and opening one was like taking the lid off Pandora’s box. Sarah took charge of the Red Cross food immediately each recipient had taken their turn to unpack one, and was very strict in distributing the contents of each parcel. ‘We must be sensible,’ she insisted. ‘We don’t know when or if we’ll get another consignment so this must all be carefully rationed.’ She allowed only the thinnest scraping of butter on the one slice of bread each were allocated per day, with the addition of one teaspoonful of jam or marmalade . . . which improved the disgusting taste of the bread immeasurably.

  One of the most precious items was Bovril. Richard adored it spread on bread. It flavoured the pathetic root vegetable casseroles, and all the family loved it as an alternative to parsnip coffee and bramble leaf tea.

  However wonderful it was to receive the food parcels, and exciting to unpack the contents, there remained a huge deficit in normal, basic supplies. ‘If only they would send us some decent flour,’ Gelly moaned. ‘It would make sense to have proper bread, and to be able to thicken soups and gravies.’

  There was a great temptation during the very cold weather, to remain in bed. Cartloads of old greenhouse timber wheeled over from Les Marettes kept the living room fire going, but it barely heated up that one room. The rest of the bungalow was freezing. Greg felt they shouldn’t succumb to indolence, but remain as active as possible. Earlier in the Occupation he and Sarah had kept up their badminton in the winter, and tennis in t
he summer. The latter had continued long after the supply of balls had become soft and fluffy, making for hilarious tennis, but trying to play with featherless shuttlecocks was another matter. Anyway, by 1945 no one had the physical strength left.

  The parcels did create another problem: they meant civilians had more food than the Germans, and far, far more than the Todt workers. Whilst the islanders were now facing possible survival, the rest were facing starvation.

  ‘Greg! Greg wake up!’ Sarah whispered one night. ‘I can hear someone outside.’

  Greg was out of bed in a flash, dragging on his overcoat. ‘Where? What did you hear?’ He grabbed the stout walking-stick which was kept by the bed, and crept out of the room, Sarah, also in a coat, close behind.

  In the kitchen Greg flicked on the switch for the outside light, and they were in time to see a startled face look up from the dustbin before bolting off into the night, clutching some filthy bit of refuse.

  There were several reports of break-ins, and one elderly couple were found in their home, murdered.

  ‘That’s it,’ Greg declared. ‘I’m not going out leaving you women here alone.’

  ‘We’ll be all right during the day,’ Sarah argued.

  ‘We won’t take that risk. Either we all stay or we all go out, leaving the food well-hidden.’

  In January the island telephone exchange closed down all civilian phones. ‘I hate to feel cut off from John,’ Sarah complained. ‘He and Edna are so far away.’

  Greg suspected she was also loathe to be cut off from Val du Douit.

  Since having the phone installed, Sarah had come to rely on it over the years, for contact, gossip and making social arrangements. It kept her in touch with friends and family even when she couldn’t get out. Suddenly she felt very isolated. Though Greg was at home most of the time, there were umpteen matters to occupy him; running repairs on the bungalow, jobs in the conservatory, potting and replanting. There would have been little to do in the greenhouses, even if he had gone to work: without coal they couldn’t steam-sterilise the soil or heat the greenhouses for early crops. And nowadays there was so much looting it hardly seemed worth the effort to grow anything. So he produced all he could in the tiny conservatory at home.