The Guernsey Saga Box Set

by Diana Bachmann

  “What about Stephen?”

  “What about Stephen?” Sue frowned.

  Sybil sat up, brushing her hair aside. “You were still having those crazy spasms of guilt when we last spoke.”

  “Yes. Difficult not to. And no, we haven’t seen anything of each other since the day of the funeral.”

  “Why?”

  “It just hasn’t happened.”

  Sybil fully understood. Which didn’t lessen her determination to see that it did happen. Soon.

  She gave the matter serious thought as she drove Sue and children home, and as they climbed out of the car and collected their rods, nets and piles of sandy wet towels and bathing suits from the boot, she invited her cousin to dinner, sometime. “Whenever it suits you. Let me know and I’ll organise it.”

  Visualising sitting round a dinner table in embarrassed silence, everyone trying not to say the wrong thing, Sue wanted to decline the offer. “I don’t think it would be practical before the end of the season,” she hedged.

  “That’s only a month away. Why don’t we settle for the first week of October?”

  Sue hitched the bag of beach toys onto her shoulder. “Okay. I mean, yes. Thanks. Lovely.” Sybil was trying to be helpful and it was difficult to refuse outright. Anyway, surely October was far enough away?

  *

  Jessica was only sixty-five but her heart was not strong and Jonathan’s death had been a severe shock. Sue was very fond of her and very concerned, visiting her daily or inviting her up to the bungalow or the hotel for meals. One blustery September day they sat in the corner of the hotel dining room, at one of only three occupied tables. Of the remaining guests, most ate out at midday.

  “You’re not socialising much yet, are you?” Jessica remarked.

  “Nor are you!”

  “One doesn’t expect to at my age. But you have got to start living again. What is holding you back? Some delusion of guilt?” Jonathan’s mother had always had the knack of hitting the nail on the head . . . and the nerve to speak her mind.

  Sue threw her a half grin. “Yes.”

  “Why? Because of Stephen?”

  “Uh?” Sue gave an audible gasp and peered, frowning into Jessica’s face.

  “I haven’t mentioned it before: obviously it’s a pretty sensitive topic. But surely you don’t imagine I didn’t know?”

  “Know? Know what?” What could she know?

  “That you and Stephen are in love with each other. Look here,” her thin hand, big sapphire and diamond engagement ring swivelling loose round her bony finger, was stretched across the table to take Sue’s forearm in a fierce grip, “I am not some mealy-mouthed, narrow-minded idiot. I know damn well what your life has been in the past few years, both mentally and physically. I was only too glad to see you had Stephen’s love and support. No . . .” she shook her head as Sue opened her mouth to speak, “I have no idea whether or not that love was consummated; that is immaterial. If you didn’t feel the need, fair enough, if you did I couldn’t blame you.” She released her grip on Sue’s arm, sat back and smiled. “I love you, Sue, like the daughter I never had. You have been a wonderful daughter-in-law in the worst imaginable circumstances. But I also love my grandchildren, and seeing you moping around the place with a long face is not helping them get over their own loss. They need a normal home life, full of love, joy and laughter. And one day, in the not too distant future, I hope, they will need to have two parents again.”

  Sue turned to gaze out across the garden, not seeing the frothy little cotton wool clouds playing chase against their deep blue backdrop and casting momentary shadows over the sea and rocks. When she turned back to face Jessica she was smiling. “You are right, of course. But one of my worst fears is that Jonathan . . . did this . . . because he knew about Stephen, too.”

  “Oh, he knew that Stephen had always been very fond of you, and he knew you liked the boy, too. What he didn’t know about was the love you shared.”

  “But you knew, so why shouldn’t he?”

  “He was far too young. One needs a lot of extra years, years of experience of reading people, interpreting the nuances of their body movements and their conversation.” Jessica shook her softly permed grey head, setting the gold pendant earrings swinging. “No. I think that once he learned his illness was terminal he began to face up to all the faults he would be carrying when he came to face his Maker.”

  Sue looked puzzled. She had had ample evidence of Jonathan’s kindness in the months leading up to his death, but the idea of him having had some sort of religious awakening seemed a bit far-fetched.

  Jessica read her thoughts. “No, I’m not suggesting he had some holy blinding flash! But when you know you are dying anyway, your priorities can change. His concern was transferred from himself to his family, and to their future.”

  Sue pondered on Jessica’s words, in silence.

  “You have already had problems with young Roddy because of his disturbed background,” Jessica continued. “And knowing how well you and Stephen seemed to like each other, Jonathan may well have hoped that together you could create a new stabilty for the children.”

  Sue nodded to the waitress standing at her shoulder, coffee pot poised. When the girl had gone she said, “You have certainly given me some food for thought. Now you will have to give me time.”

  *

  Two days later, a call from Edna gave Sue something else to think about.

  “Have you heard how Aline is?”

  “No. Why, is she ill?” Sue was standing at the reception desk, checking out the last of the season’s guests.

  “So we understand from the grapevine. We hoped you might have more positive news from her or Bertrand.”

  “I haven’t heard a thing. I’ll call you back if I learn anything.”

  Realising that to telephone would be useless, Sue drove into town as soon as she was able, up to Aline and Bertrand’s house.

  A nurse in starched apron opened the door. “I’m afraid Mr Mitchell is out at present. If you would care to call again later?”

  “It’s my aunt, Mrs Mitchell, I am hoping to see,” Sue smiled sweetly.

  “Oh! Well I have instructions to admit only the doctor, I’m afraid . . .”

  “That would be because Mr Mitchell wasn’t aware I was coming.”

  The nurse stood aside. “Well, I suppose it will be all right.”

  Aline was lying upstairs in bed, almost unrecognisable, her yellow skin pulled taut over sunken features, thin hair cut short, colourless lips stretched over teeth browned with drugs. Her alarmed surprise at the sight of Sue was obvious. “Did Bertrand say you could come?” she croaked.

  “Your nurse let me in,” Sue replied, bending to take her hand, aware of the starched presence behind her.

  Aline’s breathing was a series of short rasps. “Nurse is very good to me. She understands.” She closed her eyes, resting from the effort to talk. Then she gave the woman the semblance of a smile. “You know where those things are.”

  The nurse nodded.

  “Get them, please.”

  Aline was lying on a divan bed. The nurse quickly knelt, lifted the counterpane and opened a drawer. “Here. Is this all?” She handed the patient two towel-wrapped parcels.

  Aline was too weak to hold them, indicating with her eyes that they should be passed to Sue. “Don’t open them now. You had better go before he returns.”

  Recognising Aline’s anxiety, Sue didn’t argue. “Okay, Auntie. I’ll be away. But I will come back.” She bent to kiss the dry forehead, then hurried down the stairs ahead of the nurse.

  “What is it?” Sue hissed.

  “Cancer. Of the pancreas.”

  “But what is all this about her husband?”

  The nurse opened the door and peered out. “You had better go, quickly.”

  Clutching her weird parcels, Sue ran along the pavement to her car to drive directly to St Saviour’s, to John and Edna at Val du Douit.

  All three s
tood round the table while the parcels were unwrapped, disclosing a small collection of Marie Ozanne’s silver; two Queen Anne candlesticks, a covered entrée dish and miscellaneous cutlery – salad and fish servers, gravy spoons and ladles. And a small box. In it were Marie’s pearls, her diamond crescent brooch, and Aline’s own diamond stud earrings. Stuck in the lid of the box was an envelope.

  “You had better open that,” Sue said, breaking the silence and handing it to John.

  “Why me? She handed it all to you.”

  “Only as courier.”

  There were actually two envelopes, one inside the other, the larger one containing a green-ribboned legal document. “It’s her Will!” John exclaimed unfolding it. “She leaves the obligatory third of her estate to Bertrand, and the remainder to ‘my beloved niece, Suzanne Martel’.”

  Sue stared at him open-mouthed.

  “And what is in there?” Edna indicated the smaller envelope.

  Sue slit it open with her little finger and withdrew a single sheet of spiral notepad, torn roughly from the wire. She recognised the thin scrawl immediately: a pathetic reminder of the once boldly written letters she received from Aline throughout the war.

  ‘My dear Sue, I hope this reaches you. I want you to have these things of Grandma’s and mine.

  They come with my love.

  Auntie Aline.’

  “I need a drink,” John announced.

  “Make it two.”

  “Three!”

  They sipped Edna’s cooking sherry out of kitchen tumblers.

  “You do realise I have no intention of keeping all this. It belongs to the family. You in particular, Uncle John, as head of the family.” Sue was quite adamant.

  “No!” John sounded equally adamant. “Aline and I never got on; she would hate the thought that you, the only person in her life she ever loved, were handing it over to me, of all people.”

  “I would happily keep her earrings, but Aunt Edna is your wife. She should have Grandma’s jewellery. And these other things,” she picked up a ladle to examine it, “These should be divided amongst all members of the family: Uncle William’s lot in England, and Aunt Ethel’s in New Zealand.”

  John started to argue, but Edna held up a hand. “Half a mo! Aren’t we jumping the gun a bit? Aline may be ill but she is still alive, as far as we know.”

  John and Sue grinned sheepishly.

  “And what’s more, won’t Bertrand challenge that Will? How do we know there isn’t a subsequent one? And,” she waved her hand over the things on the table, “he will want to know where all this has gone. We can’t have him accusing that poor nurse!”

  John looked at Sue. “She is right, you know. Tell you what, why don’t I take all this to Advocate Mahy and let him sort it out. He was Dad’s lawyer before the war.”

  *

  Aline died three days later.

  Much to Bertrand’s fury, Advocate Mahy insisted that all the family should be allowed to attend her funeral and, apart from Bertrand, they all went on to Val du Douit after the ceremony, including William and Ethel who had flown over especially. The elderly widower was also furious about Aline’s Will, but it was her last, so everything was to be shared out as Sue requested.

  They were standing in their old family home, little changed since they had played there as happy, carefree children, when John asked for silence. “I want to propose a toast, folks.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to happy, united families, free from suspicion, bitterness and jealousy. And here’s to Sue, whose generous nature has helped us to attain that freedom.”

  *

  Jessica had volunteered to sit in while Sue went off to Sybil’s dinner party. She was sitting by the fire reading aloud, the three children squatting on the hearth rug in their pyjamas, when car tyres scrunched on the gravel, a door slammed and the bell rang.

  “I’m ready. I’ll get it,” Sue called from her bedroom. Sybil had promised to organise a lift so she wouldn’t have to drive herself in evening shoes. But as she hurried down the hall the door swung open . . . and Stephen stepped inside.

  “Oh! Are you my lift?” Her face turned scarlet; it was the first time she had seen him for months.

  “Do you mind?”

  Did she? She hadn’t a clue but shook her head, anyway. “No. Of course not,” she smiled weakly, mentally cursing Sybil. No doubt she had been planning this all along, but she could have warned her. “I must say goodnight to the children before leaving.” She headed for the sitting room.

  Stephen followed, appreciating her slim figure encased in a slinky green grosgrain suit, her dark hair swinging in soft waves onto her shoulders.

  “Uncle Stephen!” Story forgotten, the children leapt up at him, hugging him and peppering him with questions.

  Jessica remained in her chair, smiling, hoping, fingers lying crossed in her lap.

  The drive to Bordeaux was brief and the conversation general: enquiries about health, parents and business, conveniently occupying the time.

  Sir Gordon opened the door. “Hallo, you two. Good to see you. Let me take your coats. Oh! Thanks very much,” he added as Stephen handed him a bottle of claret. They separated immediately, mingling with other guests.

  “Rat!” Sue hissed at her hostess at the first opportunity. “And you can take that innocent look off your face. It won’t wash!”

  Sybil smothered a giggle. “Well, someone had to do it.”

  The Banks were enthusiastic collectors of antiques, and Sue looked round the dining room with interest at the latest additions. She was seated between Stephen and an old army crony of Gordon’s called Quinton.

  “You are, admittedly, only the second female in your family whom I have met, so far, but tell me, are you all so devastatingly beautiful?”

  Quite a forceful opening gambit, Sue thought, trying to keep her face straight. “Only the legitimate ones,” she responded solemnly, “the others are painfully ugly.”

  Quinton threw back his head and bellowed.

  The meal was perfect and the evening continued as brightly as it began.

  Sue tried to keep her mind off Stephen, the feel of his arm brushing hers, the deep resonance of his voice. Their conversation was limited to general politenesses, chiefly because Quinton was appropriating most of her attention.

  It was not until Stephen was driving her home that he felt able to talk privately. “How have you felt about this evening?” he began.

  “You mean getting out into the social whirl?”

  “With me.”

  It was several moments before she spoke. “Difficult to say.” In the darkness she blushed with the embarrassment of her non-committal reply.

  “Don’t you feel there is anything between us any longer?”

  “I honestly don’t know. My thinking has been so confused since Jonathan died. He was . . . so good and kind, towards the end, and I . . .”

  “. . . felt so guilty?” he prompted.

  “Yes.”

  “Me too. Until after the funeral when Collard told us about Jonty’s illness. He always knew I was keen on you, but he couldn’t have minded, otherwise he would never have suggested I should take you out that famous evening.”

  “He never realised how seriously you felt.”

  “Or how seriously you felt, too?” He swung the car off the road onto the grass verge overlooking the sea. “Could you ever feel that seriously again?”

  After a pause she said, “I would like to. We had something so precious, so wonderful, once.”

  “We could again.” He took her hand. “Want to try?”

  “Only if we could start again from the beginning. Not from where we left off. I wasn’t free then; I was cheating my crippled husband, committing adultery.”

  “But . . .”

  “Believe me, I know all the buts, better than anyone. So can you understand why I want a fresh start?”

  “Yes, my dearest Sue. Of course I can. And I promise I won’t rush you. You can have all the time in
the world.”

  She felt the gentle caress of his fingers through her glove. “Dearest Stephen. I don’t think I’ll need that long.”

  She leaned across the handbrake to kiss his cheek.

  Suddenly she knew she was free.

  WINDS OF CHANGE

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One – Children’s Games

  Chapter Two – Fledglings

  Chapter Three – Generation Games

  Chapter Four – Storm Clouds

  Chapter Five – Attitudes

  Chapter Six – Consultations

  Chapter Seven – Allegiances

  Chapter Eight – Balance of Power

  Chapter Nine – Veering with the Tide

  Chapter Ten – A United Family

  I shall sleep, and move with the moving ships,

  Change as the winds change, veer in the tide.

  The Triumph of Time, Algernon Charles Swinburne

  Chapter One – Children’s Games

  “Another shot like that and you’ll smash Mum’s greenhouse!” Debbie yelled.

  “Eh? What? What did you say?” Sue spluttered.

  “See! You’ve woken her again with your shouting,” Roddy scolded.

  “Can’t you train one of your dogs to fetch the balls when they go out?” Justin frowned across at the Golden Retrievers who were lying at the foot of the verandah steps.

  Troilus, who always knew when someone was talking about him, even when the person was rude enough not to use his name, raised his head to give the offender a critical glare and went back to sleep. Cressida, who never appeared to sleep, and had seen the ball sail over the netting, didn’t move a muscle.

  “Troilus would never do anything so demeaning,” Debbie said, laughing, “And Cressida, who is ball mad, knows she mustn’t touch one which has not been given to her as her own. I’ll get it when this game is over.”

  Suzanne Martel yawned and sat up. “I find watching a tennis ball passing to and fro over a net quite hypnotic.”

  Aunt Filly moved slightly in the rocking chair and nodded. “Though frankly, I fall asleep after lunch almost daily.”