“I have,” he responded involuntarily, then reddened.
“You have! Oh wonderful. When are you going to bring her round to see me? What is she like? Have you proposed?” Jonathan’s mother was overjoyed with the news of her nephew’s romance and the thought of another family wedding.
Sue and Stephen glanced at each other.
“I can’t propose, unfortunately . . .”
“Why ever not?” his aunt demanded, catching the brief exchange between them.
“Because she is already married.”
Jessica looked from one to the other as they held their breaths, waiting, wondering if she had guessed. “Oh! Dear me. Oh, Stephen! How careless of you!” Then turning back to Sue she asked, “And you knew about it?”
Sue had never felt more confused. “Er . . . yes. Stephen has confided in me.”
“Well I’m glad he has had someone to talk to. I know this sort of thing happens . . . so tragic. But, Stephen dear, one cannot go marching in breaking up a happy marriage just to gratify—”
“Okay, Auntie. I know. But I didn’t come here for a lecture. Believe it or not, I do know right from wrong, but there are always more facets to these problems than might first appear.” He put an arm round her shoulders. “Now will you stop worrying about me and pour that cup of coffee, or do I have to go home without it?”
*
“Want any help with the dishing up?” Sue asked her father’s new housekeeper.
Mrs Birch was vast, filling the small kitchen with acres of quivering pinafore. “No, thank you, Mrs Martel, I can manage.” Which was just as well: there wasn’t enough room for anyone else in there.
Lunch was served in the dining room, Greg and Sue sitting together at the far end of the table near the window. He carved the pork and Sue added vegetables to the first plate before passing it through the hatch for Mrs Birch.
“How are you getting on, Dad?” she asked as they began their meal. “Is this one working out all right?” She tilted her head in the direction of the hatch.
He grinned. “A good deal better than the first one: she was a walking disaster.” He lifted the glass jug. “Water? And what about yourself? You’ve looked much more relaxed, lately.”
Sue watched as he filled her tumbler, then sipped, stalling her reply. “Fine, thanks,” she said casually.
Greg stared at her. “That is not an answer. I want to hear how you are coping.”
She longed to tell him the truth. She wanted him to know that she had been meeting Stephen secretly at least once a week for nearly three months . . . and that as long as she could continue to lie in his arms while he filled her, body and soul, with his love, she could cope with anything . . . But Dad was old fashioned. Could he ever condone what she was doing? Could he even begin to understand? She remembered her mother telling her years ago, how much she had dreaded the impending sex act, and how long her father had had to wait before it finally happened, months after their wedding. Sarah had been his adored, ideal woman: what would he think of his daughter craving sexual love with someone other than her husband, even knowing Jonathan was unable to do anything about her need.
“Well, I am much more relaxed than I used to be,” she replied, truthfully. “When Jonathan is having one of his bad days, I find I can handle the situation far better. Maybe because the children are a bit older.”
“Bad days? You mean when he is in a bad mood?”
“Ye-ss. But some days he complains of not feeling well.” She shrugged. “Of course he always did. If I had backache, his was much worse. When I had morning sickness he would tell me that he frequently suffered nausea but he didn’t make a fuss about it.” She laughed, “But then I’m told that all men suffer far more than their women ever do.”
“Told, no doubt, by some malicious female!”
“No doubt. Actually he can never manage to digest this sort of thing,” she added, crunching into a delicious piece of pork crackling. “Mmm! Your Mrs Birch has done this to a T!”
“She certainly cooks like an angel. Her meals are divine. Only trouble is she samples so much she has difficulty bending, so the cleaning leaves much to be desired.”
Mrs Birch came in to replace the first course with a delicious apple crumble and a bowl of custard.
While they tucked in, Sue said, “By the way, how is Richard? I hardly ever see him.”
A slight frown crossed Greg’s face. “He spent most of the summer holidays working at Schmit’s Boatyard.”
“And that worried you?”
He grimaced. “Not the fact of working there, that’s fine. But I have a feeling he is getting very keen on the boat scene.”
“Why shouldn’t he?”
“Your mother and I always hoped he’d go on to university. He’s quite brainy you know.”
Sue laughed. “I’ll never forget seeing that report of his when he got one hundred per cent marks for mathematics. My brother! Do you know, once, during the war, I got exactly eight marks out of a hundred for arithmetic!”
“You little devil! You’ve managed to keep that dark for years.” He glanced at his watch. “George said he’d pop in to see me after lunch. Seems to have something on his mind.”
They were drinking their coffee in the sitting room when Greg’s old schoolfriend arrived, with his wife. Gelly, who had been at school with Sarah and Filly, had remained in the island during the war, and George’s then wife, Margery, had gone to England. The five-year separation had left George bereft and he and Gelly had drifted together, married after his divorce and continued the close friendship with the Gaudions.
Sue stood up when they came in. “I’ll press on home and leave you to your business,” she said.
George was looking unusually serious. “No, don’t go. I’d prefer you to stay.”
Puzzled, Sue dropped back into her chair and waited.
George had never been one to beat about the bush. “It’s about that lad of yours, Greg,” he scratched his bald patch. “Has he said anything to you about his plans?”
“Plans? What plans?”
“At the beginning of the holidays he started talking about boats and engines, and reading my yachting magazines. He always enjoys the work, however filthy it might be, and I was only too pleased . . . that is until he started talking of it as a more permanent career.” He looked at Gelly, who gave him an encouraging smile. “Well, I know how you want him to complete his education, so I felt it was only fair to try and discourage him.”
Greg and Sue were trying to follow the story, but with difficulty.
“And did you succeed?”
George snorted. “I thought I had. But it seems I only succeeded in making him think I didn’t want him working for me! Next thing I know, he’s been offered a job with another yard.”
“Where?” Greg prompted. “When for?”
“As soon as he can leave school.”
“Have you said anything to him?”
“I haven’t tackled him, yet. You see, I thought it best to speak to you first.”
Greg was stunned. “Richard is at school right now.”
“Tomorrow’s Saturday so he’ll be at the yard. Why don’t you come round about nine-thirty and we can both talk to him? I mean, I don’t want to interfere, but I feel partly responsible.”
Greg shook his head. “Of course you’re not. And I would be very grateful if you were there. He’ll probably take more notice of you.”
Late that evening Greg telephoned George, who was already in bed. “Sorry to call so late, but they do say troubles don’t come singly. Afraid I won’t be round in the morning, after all. I’ve just had a call from my Ma’s nurse. The old lady has died.”
Apparently, Alice had been sitting in her chair by the fire after supper, looking through an old family photograph album while the nurse was pottering in the kitchen. When the latter went back to start getting the old lady ready for bed she found her sitting very peacefully, head to one side, dead.
“Oh, I am sor
ry, old pal,” George sympathised, “but she has had a good innings. What age was she?”
“Just two years short of her century. As you say, a good innings.”
Greg was immediately involved with funeral arrangements, and sat back after his supper on Saturday evening with a great sigh of exhaustion, the newspapers on his knee, unread, the old dog, Toby, asleep at his feet.
“Dad?”
Greg opened his eyes to see his son peering at him round the door. “Yes?”
“I wondered if you could spare a minute; I need to talk to you.”
“Yes of course. Come on.” Greg sat himself upright, trying to get his mind into gear. “What’s on your mind?”
The sixteen-year-old youth looked drawn and serious as he lowered himself awkwardly onto the edge of the armchair opposite his father’s. He was almost as tall as Greg, his legs and arms long and coltish, out-growing his trousers and sleeves. Like his father his features were strong, but the amber eyes inherited from his mother were dark and troubled as he tried to find the right opening words.
Greg saw his plight. “If it helps, I do know what has been going on at the yard.”
Richard’s jaw dropped. “Uh! You do? I mean . . . what do you know?”
“Uncle George has been round. He tells me you seem keen to start a career in the boat business.” Greg was glad the boy had come to him, rather than the other way round, but wished he might have chosen a better moment.
Richard grinned. “Yes, that’s right. I’m not sure why, but I’m afraid Uncle George doesn’t want me . . .”
Greg held up a hand. “Wait a minute, lad. Let me explain.”
So Richard sat back, listening, the smile gradually leaving his face when his father insisted he should remain at school to take A-levels to get into university. “What on earth for, Dad?” he protested.
“So you can get a good job.”
“I don’t need a degree for the job I want. It would be a total waste of time. It would gain me nothing; whereas if you let me go straight into a yard I’d be a fully qualified marine technician at the age I would have graduated.”
“Young people nowadays need to get away from the island and see the world.” Greg started on another tack.
“I can do that on holiday.”
“Not the same thing. One has to live abroad for a while.”
“We chaps often talk about this at school. Several want to get away, but I always argue that I love the island and the sea; I have no desire whatever to ‘get away’. Guernsey has everything right here: every imaginable sport and hobby, splendid libraries, it’s own Orchestral, Choral and Dramatic societies. Artists and writers from all over the world choose to come and live here. You and Mum have had a super life here with your sport and bridge and trips to Herm and Sark in Uncle George’s boat. Dad, what would I want to go away for? It’s all encapsulated here within our shores!”
Greg rubbed a hand across his forehead. How could one possibly argue with such eloquence? “Very well, I’ll think about it. But in the meantime, don’t go signing up for a job with anyone else until I’ve discussed the matter with Uncle George . . . after Grandma’s funeral.”
Why, oh why did problems and dramas always come at the same time?
And that wasn’t all.
*
The Martel family were at the kitchen table having breakfast on Tuesday morning when the phone rang.
“Dad!” Sue exclaimed on hearing Greg’s voice. “What do you want at this hour?”
Jonathan listened, waiting.
“Oh Dad! No! What happened?”
Another pause.
“What a terrible shock for poor Aunt Maureen. Yes, I realise he had it coming, and better for him this way than just continuing to deteriorate.”
Jonathan frowned, straining to hear above the children’s chatter.
“They do say these things happen in threes. Let’s hope this is the last of the series. Of course, you’re right. It has been awful for Auntie, living with his problem these past few years. He has been no use to anyone, least of all himself. She has had to look after him like a baby.”
Roddy and Stephanie began fighting, and by the time Jonathan sorted them out Sue returned. “It’s Uncle Andrew,” she whispered, bending over his chair so the children wouldn’t hear.
“He got blind drunk again last night and apparently drove into a granite gatepost near La Rochelle corner.”
*
Sybil came over to the island as quickly as she could to give her mother moral support. She arrived in time for Alice’s funeral on Wednesday afternoon, but there was no ‘wake’ held afterwards . . . No one felt like it, not with Andrew’s post-mortem pending.
General Sir Gordon Banks, Sybil’s recently knighted husband, arrived at the weekend and proved a tower of strength, helping Maureen through the formalities and officialdom. When she thanked him he gave her a casual hug. “Must be honest, Mother. I’d do anything for an excuse to get over here; just love the place.” He also loved calling her Mother, she being just four years his senior. “Do you know,” he went on, “I just wish I could retire over here.”
“Do you really, darling?” Sybil looked up from her magazine. “Seriously?”
“Unquestionably! I cannot think of a better location for one’s declining years!” He noticed the two women glance at each other. “What? What?”
“Nothing really,” Sybil acknowledged Maureen’s nod, “Except that Mummy and I were speculating, earlier, on what is to happen to Les Marettes, the Gaudion family home, now that Grandma has gone.”
Sir Gordon’s eyes narrowed. “You scheming minx, you! I suppose you want me to find out who owns it, now, and buy it.”
“That shouldn’t be difficult,” Maureen pointed out. “My mother-in-law left the house to Andrew and the vinery to Greg. Which means that I now own the house, so the advocate tells me.”
The General turned from Maureen to raise a bristling eyebrow at his exquisitely beautiful wife, then gave a broad smile. “I can see we have some serious thinking to do!”
*
Jonathan did some serious thinking too, during the following year. Doubts and certainties had been battling in his brain since Deborah was born in ’53, and his moody reactions had frequently been expressed in anger and resentment against Sue. Too often he felt embarrassingly guilty – more often than she knew – but he was loathe to let on; if she knew, it would make him feel even more of a worm than he did already.
He despised his useless body. All his life his masculine image had been of prime importance, particularly in the navy. The sports at which he had excelled at school, particularly athletics and boxing, were continued into service life, with concentrated training. He prided himself that he could out-run, out-box and out-swim anyone, plus out-drink them afterwards. Now he could only look down in anger on his useless legs. He hated his dependence on Sue: she had to assist or perform for him so many of his mundane and intimate daily chores as well as being mother and housewife . . . plus all the work she did in the hotel. It placed her in a superior, dominant role – which was probably why he was unable to stop himself criticising, nagging, trying to diminish her in front of the staff and hotel guests. He had not felt so badly about his outbursts as long as she had fought back with anger and resentment to match his own; but for the past year she had been insufferably sweet and submissive. No amount of sarcasm or shouting could cut through her calm, happy smile. Nothing riled her, however hard he tried. And the more he tried the more he hated himself. Worst of all, he had never managed to eradicate from his mind her telephone conversation with her father when the latter rang with the news of Andrew’s death. Sue’s sympathy for Andrew’s widow and talk of the relief from degradation and anxiety Maureen would feel henceforth, caused him nightmarish comparisons with their own situation. Admittedly Andrew had been a chronic alcoholic, as well as exceptionally unpleasant with it; and unlike himself, the older man had had no excuse for the way he treated his wife: fate hadn’t put
him into a wheelchair in his mid-thirties. But at least Maureen had had a forlorn hope that one day the drinking might stop. Sue knew full well that her husband could never get out of his wheelchair and walk, never make love to her properly or take her for walks on the cliffs, romp on summer beaches with the children or dance with her at Christmas parties.
Never, ever again. Yet he was the one who complained, shouted, blamed her for all the problems. However hard he tried he was powerless to stop himself. The anger and resentment would grow in his gut like a cancerous balloon, expanding until it burst.
And in the past year, alongside the anger, another emotion had started growing: pity. Sympathy! Sadness for Sue herself! Suddenly he was seeing their situation through her eyes, almost as often as through his own.
*
Sir Gordon and Lady Banks bought Les Marettes from Maureen soon after Alice’s estate was wound up. The general had opted for early retirement and while he remained in London to complete his final duties in Whitehall and organise the selling up of their place in Wiltshire, Sybil spent most of her time in Guernsey with architects and builders, modernising the old family house.
Sue was delighted that her favourite cousin would be coming back to live in the island, especially now that the difference in their ages had shrunk with maturity. Although Aunt Filly had always been a close friend and confidante, it was much easier to talk with beautiful, sophisticated and worldly-wise Sybil.
Even so it took time and courage for Sue to reveal her secret. Several times when she knew Sybil was in the island, she had driven round to Bordeaux with that intention, only to lose her nerve at the last minute – until the bright July day when she had arrived with the children to find Maureen waiting, eager to take the youngsters down onto the beach, leaving the two young women to enjoy a peaceful cup of tea.
Sybil had negotiated with Greg to move the packing sheds further away from the house, thus giving her a reasonable area of back garden. To the back of the house she had added a lovely modern kitchen and a large conservatory with new Lloyd Loom table and chairs with colourful cretonne cushions, and big double doors opening onto a paved patio. Which was where they had escaped from the builders’ chaos to sit with their tea tray.
The Guernsey Saga Box Set Page 48
