“Do you think there is the call for it in the island?”
“I’m not thinking of the island. I was hoping to find an opening in North Wales.”
Sarah pursed her lips. “You mean near that boy. I think we have enough problems to overcome already, without adding him to the equation.”
Sue’s eyes flashed.
But before she could work up a retort Greg cut in. “Well, not in the short term. Maybe when you reach eighteen or nineteen you will have had sufficient experience with horses over here to go off to the mainland. In Wales, if that is what you still want.”
Sue shrugged.
So the unarmed truce continued.
Chapter Two – Family Ties
“No!” Richard pulled his hand away as Sue tried to grab it, and continued strolling along the edge of the water, saturating his shoes and completely ignoring her.
She ground her teeth, looked at her watch and lunged again. “Mummy said we had to be back by half-past-five and it’s nearly six o’clock. It’s almost pitch dark. You’ve got to come. NOW!” This time she held tightly to his wrist.
The five-year-old had never been a child to kick, scream or throw tantrums: he simply made up his mind what he wanted and refused to budge. Like now.
Sue tugged, but he had dug his heels in. If she tugged any harder he would fall into the freezing water and wet sand, soaking his coat and trousers. Anyway, she couldn’t drag him all the way home on his backside by one arm, and he was far too heavy to carry that far. She resorted to bribery. “If you’re very good and do as I ask, you can have some of my chocolate.”
He smiled sweetly. “Where is it?”
“At home.”
“I want it now. Then I’ll come.”
“I’ve told you, it’s at home. So will you come?”
“No.” The little beggar was still smiling.
It was nearly six-thirty when they walked into the kitchen at Les Mouettes.
“Where on earth have you been?” Sarah demanded. “I told you to be here by half-past-five at the latest.” The day had been bad enough so far, what with the clothes line breaking and then the Ascot refusing to light. And they were due at the Schmits’ at seven.
“Richard refused to leave the beach . . .” Sue began.
“Don’t be ridiculous! Are you telling me you can’t handle a five-year-old child?”
“Yes. What was I supposed to do? Pick him up and carry him all the way?” Sue was thoroughly peeved.
“Don’t answer back! If I’d been there I’d have made sure he—”
“How? You can’t control him.”
Sarah banged her fist on the table. “I have warned you not to answer back! Once more and you’ll be punished.”
Sue turned on Richard who was watching the row develop with interest. “See what you’ve done. You wouldn’t come when I told you, and now I’m expected to take the blame without being allowed to say one word to defend myself!”
Sarah was halfway down the hall. “Your suppers are in the oven. I’ll have to leave you to see Richard eats his. Then you can bath him and put him to bed. I haven’t got time now.”
*
Later, much later, when her brother was finally asleep looking quite angelic, Sue mooched around the house trying not to think, thinking made her feel so miserable. She turned on the wireless, and switched off again. She wasn’t interested in gardening, and music only increased her depression. Dirty dishes were stacked on the drainboard, waiting. Was Mum right to expect her to ‘play her part’ by babysitting, washing dishes and changing beds when they were paying Daisy, the maid, to do it? Was this what being part of a family was all about? It was certainly nothing like the scenario she had dreamt of through the war. Home and family . . . like her first billet – not the second.
*
There was no denying that Clwyd Hall was splendid: way out in the country, it was vastly different from Nain and Taid’s little home in the town. There were horses, a pony and dogs, stables and an old caravan they could use as a den in Beech Wood.
When Lady Matherson learned that Suzanne could ride, she gave permission for her to saddle the pony and join her granddaughter when the girl rode over on her skewbald in smart riding clothes. Unfortunately the saddle room was unlocked only for those rides – which failed to deter the evacuee who was perfectly happy to mount bareback, oblivious of her numerous tumbles but worrying Meggie to death.
Suzanne was so thankful that she and Meggie were billeted together. She had become very fond of her somewhat serious, bespectacled friend who, of necessity, frequently curbed some of their wilder escapades, and couldn’t imagine how awful it would be at Clwyd Hall without her. She had overcome her anger at Grandma’s journey of complaint which, as far as the old lady was concerned, had proved well worth the enormous taxi fare, satisfying her sense of snobbery despite Suzanne’s refusal to complain to the Billeting Officer about the home she had been living in: the one with the lovely, affectionate family. Suzanne had been unable to withstand Marie Ozanne’s determination to move her, but they couldn’t stop her going back to visit Nain and Taid and Myfanwy and Bryn, except that it was a terribly long way from the Hall. She could only run down the hill in her lunch hour for a quick “hello” and a hug. Nain always looked so pleased to see her, unlike old Appleby.
“Appleby! See the girls have Scott’s Emulsion,” Lady Matherson’s voice would boom instructions to her personal maid, “Appleby, see the girls have Wellington boots.” And the girls were well aware of the old retainer’s reaction. Long and bony, with a twisted neck and always draped in black, she was not unkind; it was just that she didn’t really like having to look after children at her age, especially homeless refugees. They ate with her in the Servants’ Hall, along with Mrs Sands the fat, jolly cook and her son who was very nice, and the starchy parlourmaid Ellen, who was not. Maisie the kitchenmaid was fun and giggly, but there was no family, no one to hug and praise you for good arithmetic marks or an essay like Mummy used to, like Nain had done. Only Appleby to scold if you got your feet wet, or forgot to wash your hands before tea.
One of the good things about Clwyd Hall was it’s proximity to the river. The Clwyd was narrow and shallow but excellent for small fish and eels. Billy Sands showed them how to make a fishing line, and how to cut eels’ heads off before they wriggled away back to the water . . . which made Meggie feel sick. Suzanne demonstrated how she caught cabous back home, sneaking up on them round the rocks and scooping them into her hands. Where the river meandered around shelves of shingle, forming tiny islets draped with silver birch saplings, they played at kingdoms going to war against each other. That game had had to be modified after a particularly good battle when they arrived home sopping wet and spattered with mud. Appleby had been very angry and made poor Maisie clean their clothes.
Sometimes, on dark nights, Meggie and Suzanne drew back the curtains and sat on the latter’s bed to watch the bombardment of Liverpool docks. Not that they could see any detail, the docks being over twenty miles away, but the sky would be criss-crossed with searchlight beams and speckled with ack-ack fire, all the horizon bursting red and orange. Was this, they wondered, the way it had been in Guernsey? Had the Germans bombed and killed all the people? Suzanne was worried this might be the reason why she hadn’t heard anything from Daddy and Mummy for more than six months. Auntie Aline had told her at Christmas that she knew of someone in England who had had a Red Cross message from a person in the island saying they were all well. But was it true?
There were many times when Suzanne had the urge to reach out for Meggie’s hand, but she restrained herself. She was afraid her friend would think she was soppy.
*
Perhaps she was soppy-sentimental. Perhaps it was babyish of her to want the same demonstrative affection she had enjoyed before the war.
The Ascot still wasn’t working so Sue filled the kettle to heat water for the dishes.
She was in bed when her parents got home but the next morning she hurried to joi
n them at breakfast to receive acknowledgement of her effort. Unfortunately Daisy assumed her mistress had washed up for once, and Sarah assumed Daisy had done it; breakfast conversation was entirely dominated by a post-mortem of the previous night’s bridge. No pat on the back from Dad, no appreciative smile from Mum.
Suzanne continued to make what she considered to be a huge effort to please her parents: worked on keeping her bedroom moderately tidy, tried to remember to set the meal table without being asked and even visited Grandma Gaudion, voluntarily. This was a very tedious chore as the old lady, not far short of ninety, was deaf as a post and got everything muddled.
Sue was always asked what she had done that day.
“I’ve been trying to teach Richard to count. He’s not learning well at school,” she replied one day.
Alice stared at her in horror. “How did you get him out?”
Sue frowned. “Out of where?” she yelled into the ear trumpet.
“It must have torn as he was pulled up. Who rescued him? He must have been frozen stiff.” At that moment Greg walked in and Alice demanded, “Have you had the doctor for Richard?”
“What for?” Greg raised a querying eyebrow at Sue.
“Not Dr Whitmore! Dr Walker. He’d better give the boy something so he doesn’t get pneumonia.”
Sue wanted to giggle. “I have no idea what she’s on about.”
“And what’s more, you’d better get the school authorities to close the blessed thing up! Fancy letting him fall down a well. Was it in the playground?”
“Richard! Down a well?” It was Greg’s turn to look horrified.
Sue got up and walked to the window so the old lady wouldn’t be offended by her uncontrolled laughter. “No, Dad. He isn’t.”
“Good grief! How the devil did you get us into this one?” Greg asked.
But at least visiting Grandma Gaudion was better than going to Grandma Ozanne, and Auntie Aline, who spent the whole time she was with them complaining about her parents stealing their things during the German Occupation. She remembered the pre-war hay-picnics and happy family Christmases; the beach picnics, and the way everyone gathered round to help if anyone was sick. What had happened? Why had everything had to change? Of course she realised that as a young child she wouldn’t have been aware of the various undercurrents of ill-feeling – if there had been any, but now, in spite of all her efforts, the atmosphere didn’t seem much better than in the Evanses house in Llewellyn’s Lane . . .
*
After the 1941 Christmas holidays, Old Watty was waiting at Denbigh station for the girls to arrive on the train from Chester. “Come on. Come on!” she called. “Priscilla, where is your suitcase? Marjorie, put your hat on, please.”
The bus headed straight up through town and much to Suzanne’s surprise her’s was only the third name to be called. “But this isn’t where I’m billeted, Miss Watson! I’m going out to Clwyd Hall.”
“Hasn’t anyone told you? Clwyd Hall has been closed and taken over by the War Department.” The elderly teacher examined the list in her hand. “You have been moved to a Mrs Evans, up here in Llewellyn’s Lane. Let me see, yes, this is it. Number twenty-five. Hurry up now. Everyone wants to get settled into their billets.”
Suzanne opened her mouth . . . and shut it again. She and Meggie had become used to the big, country mansion. For what it was worth it represented home. She peered out of the bus window at the pebble-dashed semi-detached house, wondering if they’d be a nice family like her first billet. Heaving her suitcase down the aisle after Miss Watson she asked, “Is Meggie here yet?”
“Mrs Evans has room for only one girl. Meggie has gone somewhere else.” She thumped the door knocker.
Before the awful news had sunk in, Mrs Jones opened the door. A large, thin-lipped woman with a sharp nose, she gave a brief smile and a nod. “Come in then, love. Thank you, Miss. We’ll look after her now. Goodbye.”
The narrow hallway was dark, smelled of carbolic and led into a small, ill-lit room at the back, bursting with brown furniture, on brown lino, a brown rug by the hearth, and endless ornaments bearing place names. The front kitchen.
“This is Mr Evans,” the woman said, and a tiny man with a bald head peered round the wing of his armchair. “Elwyn, this is Suzy.”
The man held out his hand and Suzanne shook it, wincing at the introduction. Suzy! That had been the name of Aunt Margery’s awful cat.
“You can bring your suitcase upstairs right now and get it unpacked out of the way. Then come down as soon as you’re done and have your tea.” Mrs Jones marched up ahead and opened a door at the end of the narrow landing. “This will be your room.”
Tiny, it was dominated by a very high brass bed with knobs that rattled; a bentwood chair was crammed between the foot of the bed and the window, and a small chest of drawers stood opposite it under a spotted mirror hanging from a nail. It was getting too dark to see much out of the window.
There was no space for a wardrobe so Suzanne hung her clothes from the two hooks behind the door. The books at the bottom of her case presented a problem: if she stacked them on the foot-square bedside table there would be room for nothing else, while standing them in a row on the chest of drawers would mean having to keep her hairbrush and comb in the top drawer with her stockings and knickers. Settling on the latter she pushed the empty case under the bed, trying not to think. Intent on keeping her mind numb.
“Here you are, then. You must have brought a lot of stuff in that suitcase, to take so long to unpack it. Sit down. That will be your chair while you’re here. Rhiannon will be here in a minute.” Mrs Evans left her sitting alone at the table, while she continued banging saucepans in the back kitchen.
Much to Suzanne’s surprise, Rhiannon proved to be female. Tall, with a mass of frizzy red hair, she smiled, said, “Hallo,” and proceeded to talk with her parents in Welsh. From then on, apart from when someone was speaking directly to her, Suzanne never heard English spoken in that house again.
‘Tea’ consisted of watery soup with lumps in, bread and butter, cheese and pickles, and a piece of hard chocolate cake with a cup of strong tea. She sat silent, unable to understand the unceasing conversation between the two women, until Mrs Evans offered her another cup of tea, which she refused. She hadn’t been able to finish the first one, so bitter with its meagre splash of milk.
The meal ended when Mrs Evans stood up and carried her dirty plates into the back kitchen. Rhiannon did the same, followed by her father. Suzanne wriggled out of her chair which was wedged into a corner and collected up her own dishes, which earned her a nod of approval. Without a word, Mrs Evans put a dish towel into her hands and proceeded to wash up while Rhiannon stood by, impatiently, waiting to put away. Mr Evans returned to his newspaper.
Later, when they were all seated in the front kitchen again, Rhiannon asked, “Who was you billeted with before comin’ here?”
“With Lady Matherson at Clwyd Hall.”
“Oh ho! All posh then! Well you won’t find any servants waitin’ on you hand and foot round here, will she, Mam?”
This caused her Mam’s face to stretch into a rare smile.
“We weren’t waited on at all,” Suzanne corrected her, politely. “We had to clean our own shoes and make our own beds.”
“I should think so too! Can’t come here scroungin’ off people and expectin’ somethin’ for nothin’.”
“I thought you were paid billeting money.” The child frowned, upset by the older girl’s tone.
“Now you listen here, young lady,” Mrs Evans cut in, “we’ll have none of your back-answers, thank you very much. The billetin’ money isn’t a half what you cost in food alone. And any road, isn’t it time you went up to your bed?”
Though it was only seven o’clock, Suzanne thought it a good excuse to get out of the room. She muttered “Yes. Goodnight.”
No one responded as she groped her way upstairs alone in the dark. If only she could have had Meggie to talk to . .
.
The room was freezing: it was necessary to spread her overcoat on the bed for extra warmth.
She cried herself to sleep.
But crying had always been taboo at home. A stiff upper lip meant you were tough, self-controlled, and earned praise from Mummy and Daddy. Tears, she had always been told, only proved you were weak, soft in the head. Gormless. Thereafter, Suzanne often chose to go to bed early, to read. “There’s nothing else to do and no one to speak to,” she told Meggie at school. “It’s absolutely horrible.”
“My billet isn’t too bad but I wish you could have been with me instead of Marigold. All she ever wants to do is mess about with her stamp album.”
“I wonder if she’d swap billets with me?”
“Would she want to? What will you tell her when she asks what your place is like?”
Suzanne laughed. “Lies, or she would never go. Anyway, we’d have to get permission.” And she knew there’d be no chance of that. “It wouldn’t really be so bad, I suppose, if only they’d speak English. I feel so . . . out of it. Oh well, let’s hope things improve in the house as we get to know each other better.”
Things didn’t improve. Till the day she died, Suzanne would remember Friday the 30th of January 1942, as the worst day of her life. It was her twelfth birthday and for a start no cards had arrived the previous day, for her to open before leaving for school. It crossed her mind that Mrs Evans might have hidden them, meaning to put them on the breakfast table with their own card. Teeth and hair had minimal brushing; she raced downstairs, eyes darting to her place at table . . . but there was no post there. Unlikely as it seemed, she presumed Mrs Evans was having a leg-pull so she waited, straight-faced, eating the lumpy porridge and spreading margarine and jam on dry doorsteps of bread. She dawdled, but nothing happened.
“You’d better hurry up or you’ll be late,” her landlady called from the back kitchen. “And don’t be late for dinner, I’m goin’ out this afternoon.”
School beret and coat on, and clutching the brown paper carrier bag of school books, Suzanne popped her head into the back kitchen. “I’ll be off then. ‘Bye.” She waited.
The Guernsey Saga Box Set Page 31
