In retrospect that might have been a bad mistake. She had felt guilty about it many times, wondering if that was why she had long ago forgotten what her parents looked like. It would have been interesting to know if other girls were the same, but the guilt made her too ashamed ever to ask. At school prayers every morning they had prayed for the war to end soon, and for their families to be safe and well. They sang patriotic hymns about winning battles, conquering evil and freeing the beloved homeland. Freedom was the key word: they prayed for it, extolled it, dreamed of it . . . the great moment when they would all be free to return home.
Like her love of Guernsey, love for her parents never wavered throughout the five years of separation. Love and loyalty had burned fiercely and continuously . . . or had it? Had she been idolising a mythical couple who bore no resemblance to reality? She hadn’t recognised them in the crowd of parents waiting as the schoolgirls disembarked and walked down the quayside; it was a shock to realise the grey-haired couple who looked like someone’s grandparents where actually her mother and father. And she had sensed a strained atmosphere, from that first reunion. Despite the smiles and anecdotes it was irritating to be constantly corrected on table manners, diction, clothes and ‘respect’. Her parents seemed to expect to be revered like gods, correct in all things, wise and omnipotent, whilst in fact, cut off from the outside world for the past five years, they had retained the attitudes of the Victorian era.
And they treated her like a child. A ten-year-old child!
*
The shock at their reunion had been mutual. Greg and Sarah had stared in disbelief as the tall, self-possessed young woman in a tweed suit and high heels stopped in front of them and said “Halloo, luvs!” in an almost unintelligible Welsh accent. Suzanne? Was this the little girl to whom they had waved goodbye for a week or two . . . weeks which had stretched into five long years? The label on her suitcase said so, so it had to be. Hearts plummetting and swallowing hard, they had fixed smiles across their mouths and tried to remember all the things they had planned to say.
Matters hadn’t eased since.
“We will have to give her more time to adjust, that’s all.” Greg held Sarah against his chest and planted a kiss on top of her grey hair. “Try to be patient, sweetheart.”
Sarah sighed, pulling away. “For how much longer? She’s been home more than a month, now, and shows no sign of settling down. She’s rude, unco-operative, won’t do a thing she’s told.”
“I’m sure she is trying . . .”
“You might be sure, but I’m not. Look at the way she ignored me just now, when I called her for supper. I’m getting fed up with it. It’s bad enough—”
“All right! I’ll try having another word with her. You must remember, though, that we are like strangers to her.”
“Strangers! We’re her parents, for heaven’s sake.” Sarah’s voice rose in exasperation. “She’s the stranger, if anyone is. She went away a child and only five years later she thinks she’s an adult. Comes back wearing grown-up clothes and high-heeled shoes . . .”
“One inch high.”
“That’s right, take her side!”
“I’m not taking sides. We’re all in this together.”
“First it was Ma and Aline coming back making trouble. Now this . . .” Sarah turned to stare, unseeing, across the kitchen sink and out over the garden, shaking with sobs.
*
Family! All those years dreaming of getting back to family, only to find there wasn’t one. Years of living in billets where no one cared, of longing to be loved and part of family life, being comforted when one was sick or miserable . . .
Suzanne had felt dreadfully sick on the evacuation boat. And no one had cared so long as she didn’t mess up her clothes, or anyone else’s. She and Joan and Priscilla had sat on their shared bunk in semi-darkness, having a midnight feast on the sandwiches their mothers had made for the journey, which, with the excitement and emotional exhaustion, combined with the heat and smell of oil and paint, had had disastrous consequences. Even after being ashore for hours, floors and walls continued to pitch and roll with sickening effect. The Dutch cargo boat Batavia III was never the most stable of vessels and, after the Channel crossing, the long wait outside Weymouth for a pilot boat to guide them through the minefields had completed the children’s discomfort.
It was also unfortunate that their English hosts imagined they had all arrived carrying fleas and diseases, incarcerating the children in a cinema requisitioned as a clinic, where they waited their turn to be certified clean by a team of doctors and nurses. A nice WVS lady with the best of intentions, offered Suzanne a cup of tea and an iced bun, unaware that the ten-year-old had never drunk tea in her life and did not have a sweet tooth. Out of politeness Suzanne tried to drink the tea but it was so strong and bitter she began to retch again.
The train journey north was a novelty: Suzanne had never been on a train before. All the girls were exhausted and Suzanne’s legs were nearly buckling.
Miss Watson, their form mistress, aware she would be required to play a dual role for the time being of both teacher and parent, smiled with unusual frequency and referred to her charges as ‘my children’. Well past middle age her tall, bony frame draped in long, drab colours, she wore her iron-grey hair drawn tightly back into a thin bun in the nape of her neck, exaggerating a terrifying beak of a nose and thin lips stretched over huge, long yellow teeth.
Aching with weariness, Suzanne assimilated the unspoken message. “Are you going to be our mother until we get home?” she asked.
The yellow teeth flashed. “That is correct, dear.”
All the girls in the carriage flinched: Old Watty had never called anyone ‘dear’ before.
The woman was no beauty, in fact compared with Mummy she was positively ugly, but her coat was furry and cosy. Suzanne desperately wanted to be cuddled and comforted: Watty would have to do. She shuffled along the seat until she could lean against the coat.
Touched by the move, Miss Watson put her arm round the child.
Suzanne snuggled up. “Can I call you ‘Mummy’?” she asked sleepily.
The arm was swiftly removed. “No! I am not your mother. You must call me Miss Watson.”
Suzanne wanted to cry but she was too tired. Moments later she fell asleep.
*
“Where on earth have you been, Sue?” Greg glared across the dining table, trying to look fierce to satisfy Sarah’s sense of justice.
Suzanne glanced at her mother’s stony face, the eyes glued to her plate. Oh hell! You could cut the atmosphere with a knife! “Out,” she snapped, flouncing onto her chair.
“How dare you speak to your father in that tone!” Sarah almost shouted.
“Well, it’s my business where I’ve been and nobody else’s,” the girl retorted in her heavy Welsh accent. “If he was that interested to know where I was, why didn’t he ask nicely?”
Greg, as ever wanting to avoid a blazing row, shook his head sadly. “Sue, Sue. We are only concerned about you. You knew it was supper time before you went out. Didn’t you? So why did you go?” His voice was soft and conciliatory.
Poor old Dad: he was always the one trying to keep the peace. He was much more understanding than Mum. “Because I wanted to get away from the house,” she whispered.
“Why?”
She glanced briefly at her mother. “I was upset. I wanted to be by myself to think.”
“About what?”
“Herself, of course,” Sarah snapped. “That’s all she ever thinks about. Self, self, self. To think we have spent five years grieving at not being with her, longing for us all to be together again, and all we get is tantrums and selfishness. She uses this place like an hotel, expecting to be waited on hand and foot—”
“Oh, for goodness sake, Mum, give over. I keep telling you, if you want me to do something, then ask. Surely the house is your responsibility. You’re the one who plans what’s to be done. What, where and when we eat. W
hen the beds are to be changed and things like that. I’ve got plenty of things to occupy my mind without doubling up on your responsibilities. But I keep telling you, I’m always willing to help. But I’m not psychic, so don’t expect me to read your mind all the time and know what you want done.”
Sarah had sat wide-eyed and open-mouthed throughout Sue’s outburst. As her daughter finished she gasped for breath and shouted “Ask! Are you incapable of seeing when a table needs laying? Don’t you know what a tea towel is for? I cannot believe—”
Sue pushed back her chair. “I’ve heard all this before, several times. If you must repeat it yet again and ignore everything I say, then carry on. But don’t expect me to sit here and listen.” And with a furious glare but head held high, she left the room, gently shutting the door behind her.
Sarah gasped, shaking her head in disbelief. “This is ridiculous. She cannot be allowed to get away with it!”
“And just what do you propose to do about it?” Greg pushed his half-finished meal aside and sat back. “You know, I did warn you before she came in. But you would go on nagging at her.”
“I – what?” Now she was furious with him. “I was nagging? Rubbish! I was simply pointing out the truth . . .”
“. . . As you see it. Not as she does.”
“What has that got to do with it? This is our home!”
“And hers. But she has had a very different upbringing and background for the past five years from what it would have been if she’d been with us and you really must try to understand that.”
“On the contrary. She’s the one who has got to learn to obey the rules of this house and comply with the family.”
Greg sighed. Sarah was becoming more like her mother than ever, he thought, remembering Marie’s tight, Victorian attitudes even before the war. Why couldn’t she see it and be warned? Unfortunately, it looked as though Sue was inheriting her grandmother’s obstinacy, which was going to make the situation in the house totally unlivable. “Well? What do we do? Tie a rope round her neck and tether her down? Or let her have her head?”
“What about boarding school?”
Greg frowned. “You mean kick her out again when she’s only just got back home?”
“Don’t come the dramatic with me. Can we afford it?”
Greg’s mind was spinning. If he said no, then Sarah would have to drop the idea. But it would be a lie and he had never lied to his wife, ever.
Sarah read the hesitation with perfect accuracy. “You don’t have to lie to me. If you are dead against the idea, say so. But I do think we should talk about it. And even ask Sue how she feels. She might like the idea.”
*
Richard was a cute little boy. Sue was sitting on a rug on the lawn with him, reading him a story while he watched her every dramatic facial expression, designed to suit each fictional character. Aready she was becoming very fond of him: well, he was the only one in the family she could trust not to misconstrue her words or turn on her for no reason she could fathom. Like dear old Toby, stretched on the rug beside them. Amazing how affectionate he was towards her. She was convinced the dog could remember her. Watching from a window, Sarah smiled. There were occasions when she felt confident that Greg was right, that given time Sue would eventually settle down. It was lovely to see their two children enjoying each other’s company. She picked up her sunhat and went outside.
Richard looked up when he heard her steps on the gravel. “Come an’ hear the story, Mummy,” he commanded.
Sue smiled and moved up to make room for her. “We’ve got to the bit where Pooh knocks on Eeyore’s door.” She loved her mother’s smile, and enjoyed the warmth that reached her through their thin cotton dresses.
When the story was finished Sue closed the book and stood up.
“Where you going? I want another story,” Richard wailed.
“Perhaps Mummy’ll read to you. I must hurry, now. I’m meeting the girls at four-thirty at the Gaumont.”
Sarah’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re not going to the cinema, are you?”
“Yes.”
“But . . . we’re playing bridge at the Martel’s tonight at seven-thirty and you’re sitting in.”
“Since when? You didn’t tell me.”
“Do I have to tell you every time we are going out?”
“Well . . . yes, if you want me to sit in with Richard. I told you on Wednesday that I’d arranged this with the others.”
“No you didn’t!”
“I did! Don’t you remember? You were in the kitchen with Dad . . .”
“Will you stop arguing! We are going out tonight and you are to be home by seven.”
“But the film doesn’t end till seven-thirty!”
“Then you’ll have to telephone one of your friends to say you can’t come.”
“I can’t. They’ll all have left home by now and if I don’t turn up they’ll be left standing around waiting. When did you arrange this bridge game, anyway?”
“This morning. But what has that to do with it?” Why did this child have to argue so persistently? Sarah ground her teeth.
“I told you before!” Sue’s voice rose an octave. “I promised last Wednesday, and I told you. So you’re the one who’ll have to cancel.” She ran across the lawn towards the house.
Richard burst into tears.
Sue stood in her bedroom, shaking with tears and anger. For a few precious minutes the atmosphere had seemed perfect, out there on the lawn. Then her bloody mother had to spoil everything. Damn her. Damn, damn, damn! She dragged a brush through her hair, rubbed a flannel over her face and grabbed her purse.
The cycle shed was locked. “Mum! Where’s the shed key?”
“In my pocket.” The reply came from the kitchen.
Sue ran to the back door. “Can I have it, please?”
“May I have it, you mean. And the answer is no, you may not.”
“But I’ve got to get my bike out. I’m going to be late!”
“I’ve told you, you’re not going.”
Sue’s temper snapped. She strode up to her mother and glared in her face. “Oh yes I am. Hand it over.”
Sarah promptly yielded to the urge she had only suppressed with difficulty since her daughter’s return. She raised her hand and slapped the girl across the face. “Don’t you ever speak to me in that tone—”
The sentence was never finished, cut short by a resounding return smack from Sue.
“Aah!” Sarah shrieked. “That is definitely that! It’s boarding school for you, my girl. Your father and I have discussed it. We don’t want to send you away but you leave us no alternative. I’m not putting up with this a minute longer! Go to your room and stay there.”
Suzanne stared at her, speechless. She realised she had overstepped the mark, hitting Mum back. But Mum had asked for it! Bloody hell! She had sat in for them three times in the past week, anyway. And she hadn’t been offered a penny extra pocket money.
*
Sue lay on her back on the eiderdown, staring at the ceiling, deeply shocked, her breath coming in short gasps. Was this really the mother she had longed for, the home and family she had craved and cried for for years? Family members were supposed to love and support each other to be tolerant and understanding. Maybe it was necessary for parents to be strict with their children but not use them whenever they felt like it for their convenience. Anyway, I’m not a child. Haven’t been since . . . the last time she had belonged to a family?
*
The train journey north to Oldham had ended at four in the morning, and through darkened streets the children were driven to a Baptist Chapel schoolroom where they slept on the floor on horsehair mattresses. Oldham was strangely dark and horrible with high buildings and no bathrooms so one had to walk to the public baths which were streets away, and most of the toilets at the chapel were outside in a smelly tent. Three weeks later, another bus journey took them into the Derbyshire hills which was much better, but despite all the girls and
sharing rooms it was dreadfully lonely. Suzanne managed not to get weepy like some girls did, except when the staff discovered an outbreak of head lice, and her head had been bandaged up with paraffin for three weeks. The blisters it made on the back of her neck were so painful it was hard to sleep properly – and things always seemed more miserable at night in the dark.
The lice were gone and the scabs healed when yet another bus trip took them to Denbigh in North Wales. The driver stopped at several places in the town before Miss Watson finally called “Suzanne Gaudion!” and the Billeting Officer helped her down with her suitcase and stood at a front door which actually opened onto the pavement!
An old lady opened it and said, “Hallo, love! Have you come to stay with us, then?” in a very strange, sing-song voice. And while the grown ups talked Sue was coaxed past them by a nice, smiling lady, through a tiny hallway into a cosy room. Even on this warm September evening the fire was lit in the black range alongside its two ovens above which, under the mantelshelf, was a brass rail hung with freshly ironed shirts. Keeping sentinel on top of the shelf sat two china dogs, one each side of a big ebony clock.
“I’m Mrs Ellis,” the nice lady told her, “and this is my son, Bryn, and here’s Myfanwy, my daughter.” The boy was older, the girl younger than Suzanne. They said hello, shyly, but didn’t attempt to shake hands. “Now this is Taid, my father,” she said, leading her to the old man sitting in an ancient, plush-covered chair, “and it was Nain, my mother, who opened the door.”
Suzanne smiled politely, struggling to understand the accent and remember what was told her. Much later they explained that Nain and Taid were Welsh for Grandma and Grandpa.
The Guernsey Saga Box Set Page 29
