The Guernsey Saga Box Set

by Diana Bachmann

  Wearing swimsuits under their towel wraps, they walked down the hill to Port Grat, crossed the road to the grass and climbed down over the rocks onto the sand. The tide was quite high, warm enough for them to sink into the water without a shiver, and float on their backs, hand in hand, watching the gulls overhead.

  Sue could not stop smiling: the happiness was tangible. Solid. And this, the ultimate feeling of unity, was only the beginning of the rest of their lives together. The bliss, the freedom of which she had dreamed for so long.

  *

  By the end of August ‘49, there was no longer any doubt in Sue’s mind. She wondered if it had happened that day in late June, when they returned from a swim at Port Grat and it had seemed so natural when they got home, to stretch out on the bed after they had showered the sand and salt out of their hair . . .

  “Are you okay? You look green as grass!” Jonathan studied her face with concern.

  “I’m fine, thanks. Apparently nausea is often a symptom of my condition.” It was the first time she had said anything.

  He had begun to turn away but swivelled, blue eyes goggling with excitement. “Honestly? Are you sure?”

  “Well, along with the fact that I haven’t had the curse for three months, I imagine the nausea confirms it. But I’ll go along to old Dr Collard when I have time.”

  “Time! It’s time you eased up, old girl. Put your feet up for Heaven’s sake! And you get Collard to come and see you, tomorrow.”

  “Whatever for? I’m not ill. The only thing that is troubling me is whether we’ll be able to afford someone to take over my duties next April when I produce.”

  “You can put your mind at rest on that score. We are already way up on our estimated profit for the year. A lot of it from bar takings of course, largely due to local trade which will continue year round. So, my darling,” he pulled her into his arms, “we can well afford to employ an assistant manager for next season.”

  *

  Flight Sergeant Terry Simon’s family had had a small hotel in St Peter Port before the war. His father, being elderly but a forward-thinking man, had sent Terry down to Jersey to learn hotel work at the Pomme d’Or in St Helier when he left school in 1937. He enjoyed both the work and his workmates, and when a group of them decided to enlist in the RAF early in 1940, Terry went with them, became a rear gunner and survived the conflict without so much as a torn fingernail. Grounded in 1945 when Germany surrendered, he volunteered for work in a catering unit until his demob. Unfortunately, in the meantime the family hotel had ceased to exist, so he returned to the Pomme d’Or for two seasons until, on a day visit to Guernsey at the end of August, he saw an advertisement for Assistant Manager at La Rocque Hotel.

  Dressed for his interview that same day, in dark grey suit and spotless white shirt, black hair oiled flat and moustache neatly clipped, he made a favourable impression on Sue and Jonathan, and his apparent knowledge of the catering industry influenced their decision to offer him the job, starting as barman that autumn until taking up full duties next season. A legal contract was drawn up and sent through the mail for signatures, all finalised by the third week of September.

  Their minds filled with these business details, building improvements to be completed before the start of next season, and preparations for the baby’s arrival in April, neither Jonathan nor Sue had given much thought to the British Chancellor of the Exchequer’s current problems. So it was with utter disbelief and horror that they listened to the news at breakfast on the 19th of September and Sir Stafford Cripps’s announcement of a thirty and one half per cent devaluation of sterling.

  All colour drained from Sue’s face as she stared at Jonathan. He gave a long, troubled sigh, then forced a smile. Taking her hand in his he said, “Don’t let it upset you, my sweetheart. We don’t know yet how this is going to affect us, or even if it will at all.”

  “But we’ve just signed a contract with Terry Simon . . . we might not be able to afford him, now.”

  “Let’s wait and see before throwing in the towel.”

  *

  It was a cliché Sue repeated at Les Mouettes the following week when she visited her mother.

  It was almost as though Sarah welcomed the news as a good excuse for another moan. “Really, this government is totally useless! Why do the English people put up with them? They must have been mad to oust Mr Churchill: he would never have got us into this mess.”

  Sue tried to divert her mother onto other topics. “Do you think I could have the baby at home, or would you advise . . .”

  “Book yourself into the Maternity Hospital as soon as possible. But make sure you explain you want Dr Collard for the actual delivery. It’s no good depending on midwives. Some of them are so old-fashioned in their methods . . . really bossy and cruel. I remember poor Mrs Mahy from the—”

  “Hallo Richard,” Sue interrupted. “Like your new class this term?”

  Her brother gave her the latest news from school. Then asked, “Can I have a sandwich, Mum, I’m starving.” Sarah sighed, and the boy added “I’ll do it.”

  “No thanks. You’ll only leave the kitchen in a mess.” She started to pull herself out of her chair.

  Sue leapt up. “You stay there. I’ll go and do it. What do you want, Rick, Marmite or jam?”

  “Both together, please.”

  “Good decision . . .”

  “Absolutely disgusting,” Sarah commented.

  Richard followed Sue into the kitchen.

  “Is she always like this?”

  The boy nodded. “Or worse.”

  “Must be horrible, some days.”

  “Every day.” He slumped onto a chair. “Sometimes I wish I could board at school.”

  “Ever talk to Dad about it?”

  “I tried, once. He wouldn’t listen. Said I should try harder to please her.”

  When Sue arrived back home, she had no idea of which route she had taken, being so distracted over her brother’s dilemma. “Thank goodness I’m not living there any more,” she remarked to Jonathan. “I think I would go crackers.”

  “I do feel sorry for Richard . . . poor little beggar.”

  Sue had developed a close relationship with Edna, during the time she worked for her. She decided to drive up to Val du Douit and discuss the problem. “Do you think Mummy might be sickening for something?”

  “It’s possible, but how are you going to find out? You can’t very well suggest she asks the doctor for a tonic to cure her moods.”

  Sue laughed. “True. But I might suggest to Daddy that he talks her into it.”

  “Huh! Knowing your father I can’t think you’ll make much headway there. But you can try.”

  Sue drove to Les Marettes greenhouses and found Greg telling his ‘hand’ what he wanted done next morning. “I’d like a word with you, if you can spare a few minutes,” she said.

  Greg raised one eyebrow and guided her out of the greenhouse into the office.

  “Phew! What a stink of stale booze in here!” She opened the window wide. “Is Uncle Andrew still at it?”

  “‘Fraid so. But I’m sure that is not the reason for this visit. What do you want to talk about?”

  “Mummy.” She hitched her rear onto the edge of the desk. “Have you wondered if she might be sickening for something?”

  “No. Why?”

  “She seems so irritable all the time. Can’t say anything nice about anyone or anything. We had become so close when I had my accident, but now we’re back to square one. As for poor Richard, he’s having a hell of a life.”

  “Now look here, Sue, that sort of talk is very disloyal to Mummy,” he said severely. “And I’m sure Richard is perfectly happy.”

  “Oh Daddy! Do you think I would have come here today if I wasn’t honestly worried about him, and Mummy? It may be partly due to the change – I know she is having a bad time with it. And perhaps the fact that Richard is away at school all day, I’m married and you are busier now, what with your pots a
s well as the vinery, well, all that could be making her feel depressed and useless.” She shrugged. “Whatever. She’s making herself miserable and Richard, too.”

  And me, Greg thought. But he didn’t say so. Instead he said, “Mmm. She doesn’t seem to be quite her old self, lately. But I cannot imagine what anyone can do about it.”

  “Get her to see the doctor.”

  “She’d be furious if I suggested it!”

  “Not if you put an arm round her and tell her you are worried that she hasn’t been looking very well lately. Ask her to have a check-up, for your own peace of mind.”

  Greg smiled at her concern. “I can try.”

  “You might even give the doc a ring and brief him, first.”

  Greg nodded, then asked, “What about you? How is junior coming on?”

  Sue smoothed her skirt over her slightly protruding stomach. “Couldn’t be better. Never been fitter in my life.”

  They strolled out to her car, together, discussing the state of sterling and prospects for the coming growing and tourist season.

  *

  Doctor Walker told Sarah she was very anaemic, gave her some pills and ordered her to rest. Greg was very attentive and Richard was persuaded to be a little more understanding.

  “Your father is being so sweet; won’t let me lift a finger,” Sarah told Sue at Christmas time. “Anyone would think he had been given a good talking-to.”

  “Oh Mummy! What an awful thing to say! You know he adores you.”

  Sarah eyed her daughter for a moment, then smiled. “I had even wondered if you had said anything.”

  Sue contrived a seriously shocked expression. “As though I would!” Adding, “But I do think you should both take a holiday. Why don’t you fly off to somewhere exotic like Spain or Italy?”

  “We have thought about it, but I’m not keen on the idea of going by air.”

  “Oh there have been a few accidents, but not as many as on the roads. Everyone is travelling by air, now.”

  *

  When news of the plane crash near Cardiff broke on 12 March the following year, it finished any chance Greg might have had to get Sarah into an aircraft. “Eighty people dead!” she exclaimed. “I thought the authorities had banned all those Tudor planes.”

  “Only the Mark fours. This was a Mark five,” Sue told her. “I suppose they should have grounded them all. Now, changing the subject, anyone like a cup of tea? I’ll go and put on the kettle.” They were in the Martel’s sitting room at La Rocque, where Jessica had joined them.

  The two prospective grandmothers leapt up as they saw the girl struggle to her feet, saying “I’ll do it!” with one voice.

  “Why? I’m strong as a horse. Just a bit awkward, that’s all. But you can come out to the kitchen and talk to me while I set the trolley.”

  “Do you ever have problems with your back, now?” Jessica asked, following.

  “Occasionally if I’m on my feet too long.”

  “She really shouldn’t be working in the hotel . . .” Sarah began.

  But Sue interrupted, afraid Jessica would take this as a criticism of her son. “The hotel has nothing to do with my back, Mummy. I just find myself reading the paper standing up or forget to use the kitchen stool to prepare the vegetables.” She filled the kettle and then set tray cloths on the trolley. “Would someone like to butter the gache, please. And I made some little coffee cakes, this morning. They can go on this plate.”

  Crisis averted, the women returned to the sitting room, Sue wheeling the trolley.

  *

  Jonathan tried to make Sue rest. “It cannot do your back any good, carrying that huge load around all day.”

  “True, it does ache rather more, now. But to be honest I find the worst part is not being able to reach things. Like my shoes, for instance.” She pushed a foot towards him. “Could you do that up for me? And I really cannot drive the car any more. I can’t get behind the steering wheel.”

  “Thank God for that! I told you you shouldn’t risk ramming the poor chap with it, weeks ago.”

  “You must stop calling it a him, darling. I don’t want you to be disappointed if it’s a her.” She sighed. “I wish it would arrive before Easter.”

  “What, in less than a week? He . . . I mean it, will have to be two weeks early.”

  Roderick Oswald Dennis Martel was safely delivered at nine-thirty a.m. on 10 April 1950, Easter Monday, much to his mother’s relief. After such an easy and comfortable pregnancy she was shattered by the long, difficult birth, but her spirits were soon lifted when Jonathan arrived in great excitement that afternoon together with Norton, Tiny and Penny, Sarah, Greg and Jessica. She was upstairs in the ‘conservatory’ ward at the Amherst Maternity Hospital where ‘the boys’ had smuggled in bottles of champagne and several glasses. Sue was rather alarmed, eyes constantly flickering to the ward door, scared of seeing the ward sister or one of the rattier nurses approaching, but the toasts were long past and the second bottle almost drained when a junior nurse appeared, looking shocked.

  “Cor! I wondered what the noise was. You’d better get all that out of sight, quick, or you’ll have me shot!” Then aware of the large number of people in the room she asked, “How many of these are yours, Mrs Martel?”

  Fate was on their side. The three other new mothers in the room were without visitors, and one immediately piped up, “Some are mine,” the call taken up by the other two.

  The young nurse’s starched cap quivered in disbelief, but with the glasses and bottles out of sight she shrugged and disappeared.

  “Brilliant!” Jonathan laughed, turning to thank Sue’s fellow patients, who were bringing out their glasses from under the bedclothes.

  “Cheers!” they giggled. “The least we could do.”

  *

  Life was sweet.

  Although the hotel was already open to residents again, and the bar very busy, Jonathan was able to spend ample time with his wife and son, thanks to the good work of Terry Simon.

  Roderick was christened at St Sampson’s Church on a wet June day, and everyone came back to the hotel for the party. The residents joined in with enthusiasm. John Ozanne and Norton were Godfathers and Sybil accepted Sue’s invitation to be Godmother, coming over with the general for the event.

  It was Great-grandmother Alice who provided the entertainment. “You’ve got a lovely boy there,” she kept telling Greg, and asking, “Are you planning another to keep him company?”

  Averting his eyes from Sarah, who was doubled up with laughter behind a curtain, Greg shook his head and shouted, “No. We don’t intend to have any more,” down her ear-trumpet.

  “Why aren’t you sure? I thought there were things you could use . . .”

  “NO!” he roared. “You didn’t hear right. I said we don’t want any more.”

  Everyone else in the room was silent, listening to the hilarious exchange.

  There was an agonised moan from the other side of the curtain.

  “It’s you that’s not very bright, not me!” Alice said severely. “I know all about these things.”

  Terry saved the day. “More champagne, Mrs Gaudion?”

  “Of course,” she replied, holding out her glass.

  “The only time she ever hears correctly is when she is offered a drink,” Sue explained to Jonathan.

  “And that without the use of the ear-trumpet, I see!”

  “What age is she?” Norton asked.

  “Ninety-one. And looks like going on at least another ten years.”

  “Well for goodness sake try and get her to use a proper hearing aid, before we all die laughing.”

  “Do you imagine we haven’t all tried?” Sue demanded. “She gets furious at the suggestion. Told me she didn’t need another maid, last time I raised the subject. And when I finally got the message through she said she had heard perfectly well with the trumpet for the past thirty years and she was blowed if she’d start sticking these new-fangled gadgets in her ears. One co
uldn’t tell what they might lead to.” The way she mimicked her grandmother had them all in stitches again.

  *

  Sue could scarcely believe how lucky she was when Stephanie was born on 21 January 1952, ten days before her own twenty-second birthday. “I’m so happy,” she whispered to Jonathan when he visited her again in the maternity hospital. “A wonderful husband, and two gorgeous children. Plus a lovely home.”

  “My darling, I’m so glad you’re happy. I am, too. And not only because of my beautiful wife and children, but also because the hotel is going so well, bringing in a jolly good income. I reckon we should get plans under way for starting the extension at the end of this coming season.”

  “We’ve talked about it enough. Let’s call the architect as soon as I’m back on my feet again.”

  She came home with her daughter in time for her birthday, and was enchanted with all the pictures of Princess Elizabeth and Prince Philip setting off for South Africa. “Aren’t they lucky!” she exclaimed. “I’d love to do a safari one day.”

  “We will, I promise,” Jonathan assured her.

  “Wonderful!” She watched little Roddy as he leaned over his sister’s carrycot and touched her tiny hand very gently with one finger. She smiled contentedly and continued looking at the pictures in the paper. Her mind drifted back to the war years and her desperate loneliness, her longing for home and family. Until David had appeared. She swallowed, and swiftly put him out of her mind because even now, she still felt a niggling sense of guilt whenever she thought of him.

  “The boys are coming tonight to celebrate your homecoming. Is that all right with you?”

  “Super! I’ve got a bean jar we can tuck into.” She knew they all loved the traditional Guernsey dish of dried butter beans and haricots, cooked in a slow oven overnight with a pig’s trotter.

  It was a lively party and continued into the early hours, some time after Sue had retired to bed. She half woke when Jonathan climbed under the blankets beside her. The baby was sleeping soundly and she curled up against her husband with a contented sigh.

  The news of the death of King George VI a week later, shocked the nation.

  The story of Prince Philip breaking the news to the young Queen brought tears to many eyes, including Sue’s. “When you think how happy she looked when the King and Queen were seeing them off at London Airport.”