The Guernsey Saga Box Set

by Diana Bachmann

  Sue had expected Stephanie to be furious that they had fetched her home, but after the initial shock of seeing them there, she said she didn’t mind too much as she didn’t really like the boy she was necking with that evening, anyway. Sue and Stephen had looked at each other with mouths hanging open.

  “It’s all right for you lot on holiday,” Stephen said, grabbing an umbrella from the stand in the hall. “Some of us have to get back to work. What about you, Roddy? You did say you would like to come in to the office with me this week and try your hand on the drawing board.”

  “I’m ready.” Roddy drained his cup and stood up. “Am I suitably dressed?” He was wearing his school grey flannels and jacket.

  “Fine. Let’s go.” Both Sue and Stephen were delighted that Roddy was showing so much interest in architecture, seeming set to join the latter in the profession after leaving university. He was certainly an odd ball, had few friends, apparently being uninterested in socialising, and though he played a little golf and tennis he showed little aptitude in either. Although he was now seventeen, his frame remained slight, despite Sue’s efforts to nourish him; he certainly didn’t square up to Justin Tetchworth’s stature, or even to the boys in Stephanie’s circle of friends.

  At the offices, Stephen left Roddy under the watchful eye of a kindly, older member of staff who had been with the firm forever, then went off to his own office to tackle his Monday morning desk. The mild sunburn of yesterday burned through the back of his shirt, a comforting feeling as he gazed through the haze of drizzle across the harbour towards the invisible Herm and Jethou islands.

  There was a tap on his door which opened to admit his secretary. “Good morning, Mr Martel. Did you have a good weekend?”

  “Hallo, Daphne. Yes, super. Went to Herm for the day. What about you?”

  “We went down to Fermain and nearly got roasted alive. It was really too hot. Here, the post is early this morning.” She deposited the pile of mail on his desk.

  They discussed the anticipated workload for the day and she had only returned to her office two minutes when she called him on the phone. “I have an Englishman on the phone who insists he must speak to you only. Name of Blaydon.”

  “What is it about?”

  “He won’t say.”

  Stephen sighed. “You’d better put him through.”

  “Martel?”

  “Speaking.”

  “I’m told you specialise in up-dating old Guernsey houses.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m thinking of buying one. If I do I would like you to submit some plans along the lines I would give you, but I imagine it would be better for you to see the place to discuss feasibility before I go ahead. Could we make an appointment with the agent for later this morning?”

  “I’m sorry but I have two interviews this morning plus a site meeting. Could we make it this afternoon?”

  “I’d prefer this morning if you could rearrange your diary,” Blaydon pressed.

  Stephen didn’t like his tone, but thought the work could be lucrative. “I might be able to change the timing of the interviews but I can do nothing about the site meeting. I have clients flying in especially. What’s the time now, nine-fifteen. Shall we say nine-forty-five, providing I can make it. I can get my secretary to call you back within ten minutes.”

  “Hmm! Seems you’re too busy to accommodate me!” There was a slight sneer in the voice.

  Stephen was a mild, gentle man, never quick to rise to a baiting. But he was annoyed. “Sir, as I am sure you are aware, any professional man with an empty diary is a bankrupt. Happily I am not one of them. Nor, you will find, am I prepared to let down an established client on the strength of a phone call from a total stranger. However,” he continued as Blaydon attempted to interrupt, “I should be delighted to accommodate you providing my secretary is able to adjust my appointments without inconveniencing anyone.”

  “Hmm! Well! I see,” the newcomer blustered. “Then I’ll wait to hear from you within five minutes.”

  “Better make it ten. Not always possible to get people immediately. I hope we may help you. Good-bye.”

  Ted Martel was standing in the doorway as Stephen replaced the receiver. “Hallo! Someone been ruffling your feathers this early in the day?” He walked across to the window and peered down at the harbour.

  “Dammit, it’s not as though we are anti these newcomers who come to settle on the island,” the younger man growled. “But when they treat you like dirt and try ordering you about it really is a bit much.”

  “Some of them seem to think it’s the price we must pay for the tax they pay into our economy. They seem to forget that they do so purely to dodge paying twice or three times as much in England.” He sat on the window while Stephen asked Daphne to sort out his appointments. “Your mother’s friend, Mary Phillips, has a dress shop in Mill Street,” he went on. “She had a customer from Fort George the other day who spent an hour trying on just about every garment in the place.” Fort George was the glorified millionaire’s ghetto, the island’s equivalent of London’s Mayfair. “The woman finally made up her mind she wanted a dress, providing Mary knocked off a massive discount. Mary refused, the woman argued, and finally Mary said, very quietly, ‘Can you please explain to me how you, with your obvious wealth, can justify trying to force me, with my fractional comparative income, into giving you money for nothing?’ Well, this was going on in front of other customers and the woman felt an absolute fool. She turned tomato red, said something about it being worth a try, wrote a cheque and left.”

  Stephen laughed. “The big question is, did the cheque bounce?”

  “I haven’t heard that it did. But it certainly wouldn’t be the first to do so written by these big spenders!”

  Daphne knocked and came in. “I’ve been able to change those appointments for you. I’ll adjust the times in your diary.”

  *

  “Mum? Can I have a word with you?”

  Sue, on her knees weeding along the border below the verandah, smiled up at Stephanie, happy the girl sought to discuss anything with her. “Of course. What’s on your mind?”

  “A holiday with my friends.” Stephanie sat down on the parched lawn near her mother, obviously conjuring up the best words to frame her request.

  Sue’s heart sank. “What sort of holiday?”

  “Camping.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, Vanessa and Karen were wondering if I could join them in Alderney for a week.”

  “Just the three of you?”

  “Well, no. Karen’s brother and two of his friends are going, too.”

  Sue tipped back off her heels to sit beside her. “You are asking me for permission to go off and sleep in a tent with three boys?”

  “No. They have got their own tent. Karen and Vanessa are going to be there, I told you.”

  “And you can give a one hundred percent guarantee that the boys will remain in their tent exclusively, while you girls remain in yours?” Sue shook her head, holding up a hand. “No! Don’t answer that. You cannot possibly give me a satisfactory answer without fibbing. Can you?”

  Stephanie scowled at her. “Mum, I am sixteen now! Of course we would socialise with the boys and have our meals together.”

  Sue reached out her hand. “Yes, darling, you are sixteen. And surely you are old enough to realise at least some of the problems that could arise.” She grasped Stephanie’s arm affectionately. “Therefore you do understand that I couldn’t possibly agree to you going.”

  Stephanie snatched her arm away. “No I do not! You are just proving that you don’t trust me. You treat me like a baby!”

  “Oh, Steps, you know that’s not true,” Sue pleaded.

  “It is true. And please stop calling me Steps. My name is Stephanie, and funnily enough I like it!” She got up and stomped onto the verandah. “You might at least have said you’d think about it!” she called over her shoulder.

  Sue had picked up the weed basket
to take down to the bonfire, when Roddy came round the corner of the house on his bike. “What’s up with you, Mum? You look bushwacked.”

  “I feel bushwacked. I’ve just had another set-to with your sister.”

  “Oh, not again!” He leaned the bike against the wall.

  “Tell me. You were at school with her friend Karen’s brother, weren’t you?”

  “Yes?”

  “What is he like? Him and his friends.”

  Roddy shrugged. “I don’t know. In what way do you mean?”

  “Well, do you reckon there is any harm in them? As far as girls are concerned?”

  “Oh, I see. Well they’re not bad. As far as I know they are just as harmless as any randy sixteen or seventeen year olds.”

  Sue couldn’t help smiling. “Like you, you mean?”

  “I’m eighteen, in case you’ve forgotten. And girls take to me just about as much as cats take to water.” He made a moué. “So what’s this all about?”

  Sue told him. “Steps was so cross when I said no, she made me feel totally unreasonable,” she added. “Do you think I’m being too strict?”

  “I’ve never thought you were strict enough. You’ve always let her get away with murder.”

  “Oh, Roddy! Now you’ve got me completely confused.”

  “Don’t see why. I mean, she knows all about sex, and either she’s going ahead, or she won’t. Stopping her going camping won’t make any difference. And as for the boys, they may take what’s offered but I don’t imagine they’d force the issue.”

  “Even if they got themselves drunk?” Sue said doubtfully.

  “Ah! That’s another matter.”

  *

  The girls met at the end of the Albert Pier in Town, overlooking the harbour, and settled themselves on a bench seat to chat. They were discussing their respective parents’ reactions to the camping idea, and Stephanie was bemoaning the fact that hers were the most old-fashioned, narrow-minded of the lot.

  “I suppose your mother visualises you having sex morning, noon and night,” Karen remarked.

  “What about you?” Vanessa accused.

  “Have you gone all the way?” Stephanie asked Karen.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I didn’t know you had. What’s it like?”

  “A bit of a bore, really.”

  “How many times?” Vanessa wanted to know.

  “Oh, four or five,” Karen bragged. “Can’t actually remember.”

  “If it is such a bore, then why did you go on doing it again and again?” Stephanie clearly didn’t believe her. It was not that she hadn’t entertained the idea herself. She had had the urge to go on a couple of times, then lost her courage. But the idea that her friend, Karen, whom she thought she knew so well, had done it several times without telling, was hard to believe. “Do you think Caroline has done it?” she asked the others.

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  They continued to speculate about all their mutual acquaintances, male and female, before moving on to the school teachers and anyone else they could think of until they ran out of subjects. Then they went into the café for ice cream cones.

  *

  “Do you think you could face going up to the Richmond for drinks with some new clients of mine?” Stephen asked at supper.

  “When?” Sue was making a mental note to get more fish with her next order, not really concentrating.

  “They suggested after Christmas. They’ll be in London till the New Year.”

  “What are they like?”

  “Not too bad, once you get to know them.”

  “Are they formal or informal?”

  “Informal. Just wear a frock or something.”

  “Men! So you want me to meet some strangers sometime next year, wearing a frock?”

  “I do love you when you are being vague. You are all soft and cuddly.”

  “Oh, Uncle Stephen, must you?” Debbie complained. “We are trying to eat our supper!”

  “What’s their name?”

  “Blaydon.”

  “I thought that was the name of the man with the tarty wife. You said they were awful.”

  “Yes. But like I say, they improve with knowing.”

  “Sounds like one mighty exhilarating evening coming up!” Stephanie commented.

  *

  “Steps, have you ever been in love?” Debbie was using her sister for tennis practice and wishing she had chosen the side wall of the house instead; at least the ball would keep coming back.

  “Don’t call me Steps or I won’t help you practice.” She thought she was doing her kid sister a great kindness. “Yes and no. Yes, I like necking, but no I’ve never fallen mind, body and soul for one bloke. How much longer do I have to keep this up?”

  “We can pack it in now if you like. Tell me, have you ever done it?”

  “Mind your own business,” Stephanie retorted, adding, after a moment’s thought, “Why do you ask? Are you in love with Justin?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can’t be at your age. It’s just infatuation.”

  “Come off it! You’re only one year older than I am!”

  Stephanie ignored the comment and finished collecting up the practice balls.

  Chapter Three – Generation Games

  A peroxide blonde with huge earrings and a voice and bosom to match, opened the door. “Oh, hi! Are you the, um . . . Martels?”

  “Yes. Are Mr and Mrs Blaydon in?” Sue responded, wondering who on earth this creature could be, while Stephen mentally kicked himself for not forewarning her.

  “We certainly are. That’s me, Carol Blaydon. You’ll have to excuse Cyril for the moment, he’s on the phone to one of his brokers. Come on in.”

  The suite in the Richmond Hotel would have been charming, but for the litter of clothes, papers and empty glasses strewn everywhere. Stephen and Sue followed their hostess across a bedroom and through an intervening door to another which was furnished as a sitting-room with a small dining table in the window, overlooking the lights of the harbour.

  Their intended host was sitting with his back to them at a small desk, rocking on the back legs of a dining chair, no doubt doing it untold damage. A telephone receiver was clamped between his shoulder and ear, a damp cigar was clamped in his teeth, in his right hand was a gold pen with which he was scribbling indecipherables on the blotter, while the fat fingers of his left hand waved, acknowledging their arrival before returning to drum impatiently on the desk. “Yes, yes, Giles old chap. So forget about the gilts for now and only sell those others if they go over four quid. I reckon that’s where they’ll peak. Now I must go, I’ve got some people arrived to see me. Cheerio.” And having disposed of the phone and the pen, he got up and extended a podgy hand towards Sue. “You have to be Suzy, Stevie’s gorgeous wife I’ve been hearing so much about.” He squeezed her hand unpleasantly tight. “I’m Cyril Blaydon,” he announced with pride, adding graciously, “Call me Cy.”

  Sue’s reaction to the pain in her knuckles and offence at being called Suzy, which she hated, was hidden behind a polite mask.

  Stephen, who had never been called “Stevie” in his life, was trying to recall ever having mentioned Sue’s name to the man.

  “Cy” lifted the phone again. “Bollinger and four glasses, as quick as you like. And plenty of nuts and crisps.”

  Sue watched him, wondering how this funny little fat man with coarse features and ill-manners had come by his money. He was virtually hairless, not only on his head, which he regularly polished with a sweaty hand gleaming with a large, diamond signet ring, but he was noticibly lacking in eyebrows and lashes. Only his nose sprouted verdant growth. “So, have you seen any more interesting properties recently?” she asked. Stephen had told her that the Island Beauties Committee had turned down all the gross alterations his prospective clients demanded him to make to the lovely old Guernsey granite houses they had wanted to buy.

  “I’ve made an offer on a hous
e which isn’t strictly on the market. The old couple don’t really want to move, but” he gave a smug grin “everything on this earth has a price.”

  Sue couldn’t resist grinning back at him, saying, “Except in Guernsey, you may find.”

  Stephen coughed and Sue got the message.

  “Do you have family with you?” she changed the subject, addressing Carol.

  “Two of the girl’s are here. Amanda and Coralie. They should be back soon. Neal is—”

  “My son,” Cy interrupted, “is in business with me. He’s an accountant. And my daughter, Victoria, is a career girl in the City.”

  “You understand that Coralie and Amanda are my daughters,” Carol explained, seeing Sue’s bemused expression, “and Neal and Victoria are Cy’s. By our previous marriages.”

  The barman arrived with a tray of champagne, nibbles and glasses, expertly removed the cork without sound or spillage, and poured.

  “You say your girls are coming in soon?” Blaydon asked his wife. When she nodded he told the barman, “You’d better bring up another bottle and two more glasses, then.”

  “Certainly, sir,” the Italian replied, accepting the generous tip for the lack of a “please” or “thank you”. And when he opened the door a young woman was standing there, waiting to enter.

  Amanda Smith was very obviously her mother’s daughter – not so much in looks as in style. In Sue’s eyes the very high heels, microscopic black leather mini-skirt and see-through blouse, topped by Rita Hayworth-length curls over her shoulders and film-set make-up, denoted a second generation vamp. Introductions made, Amanda gave her champagne glass a liberal smearing of lipstick and clawed at the crisps with red talons. She made no contribution to the conversation.