The Guernsey Saga Box Set

by Diana Bachmann

  When her sister arrived the visitors, anticipating more of the same, were silenced by the difference: Coralie was as skinny and flat-chested as Amanda and her mother were well-endowed, plain and sexless. She had a strangely faded look as though someone had washed all the colour out of her thin, short hair and pale blue eyes.

  “Coralie is mad on horses,” Carol said, as though she felt some explanation was needed. “And she’s just finished an advanced course in flower arrangements.”

  Sue failed to see a connection between the two. “Which do you prefer?”

  “Flowers,” said Coralie, who loved horses but was scared stiff of riding them. “I’m hoping to start up a business over here. I particularly like dried flowers. Don’t you?”

  Sue didn’t but offered a polite reply. She had a constant urge to look at her watch, wondering how much longer she and Stephen would be obliged to stay. “And what about you, Amanda? What are your interests?” Apart from men! Sue thought tartly.

  “Acting. I’m resting at present but have a couple of auditions coming up soon.” She didn’t mention that the possible parts were as film extras, and fortunately Sue didn’t ask.

  Eventually Stephen saved Sue’s sanity. “Good Lord! Look at the time! We really must be getting back to the family.” It was only seven-thirty but though the family had absolutely no need of them, he too had had enough.

  “I thought you said they improved with knowing,” Sue accused on the way home.

  “Well, he does. She’s his second wife and he’s her third husband. One has to wonder what on earth his first wife could have been like for him to have swapped her for this one!”

  “I imagine it more likely that she was the one who decided to swap!”

  *

  A freezing north-easterly wind was delaying the advance of spring: the soft green fingers of compound leaves on the horse chestnut tree in the front garden were regretting emerging so early from their buds, the last of the camellias were torn from their beds and tossed face-down on to the ground and the black-stocking chimney-pots on Les Rocquettes de Bas streamed smoke. Indoors, Troilus and Cressida lay on their hairy hearthrug in front of the fire where Stephanie had joined them.

  She adored the dogs; the dogs adored her. They loved the feel of her fingers combing through their coats and scratching round their necks and ears, prompting her with wet-nosed nudges if she stopped. But, perhaps even more important, they showed no resentment when she absented herself for hours, when she returned just allowing her to resume where she left off. They seemed totally indifferent to what she was wearing or the state of her hair, never criticised the chaos in her bedroom and only once objected to one of the boyfriends she brought home, chiefly because he happened to own, and smell of, a boxer. Troilus and Cressida could not stand boxers.

  Stephanie was lying stretched on the rug between the Golden Retrievers, propped on one elbow, hair strewn over her heavily made-up face, half woman, half child. “Who’s a daft old fellow, then?” she crooned at Troilus. Cressida raised her head and nudged a beloved tennis ball into the girl’s back. Stephanie reached over, grabbed the ball, pretended to throw it and, whilst the excited bitch dashed to retrieve it, she hid it under the rug. Troilus watched the game for a while as his mate hunted round the furniture, and eventually dragged himself to his feet, fetched the ball from where he had seen it placed, and lay with it conspicuously visible between his paws. When Cressida saw it she bounced up and was brought up short by the dog’s playful growl: he had no intention of relinquishing it till he became bored with the game.

  “Troilus, you old spoil-sport!” Stephanie gave him a shove, which he ignored.

  Sue was in her armchair, supposedly knitting, but in reality the half-finished navy-blue sleeve lay in her lap while she watched her daughter with the pets. Strange, how relaxed and natural the girl could be at times: with animals, with young Bobbie and with strangers; with her friends, male and female, one could hear them laughing and joking together. With people who did not make her feel threatened. Threatened? Who was threatening her for heaven’s sake? Sue picked up the knitting, focusing her eyes on the wool and needles, trying to hide her disappointment and hurt that her daughter could not share the same laughter and intimacy with herself. She felt so cut off: a mother amputated from her daughter’s feelings.

  Had her own mother felt like this, she wondered? Had the intimacy and understanding they shared shortly before Sarah died made up for the terrible gap in their relationship after the war? And had the war really been to blame? Or was this perhaps a common phenomenon across the generations?

  Sue felt a constant need to discuss the situation with someone. Sybil? She was a dear but one got the feeling of being a dreadful bore repeatedly raising the problems of one’s relationship with one’s children with her, especially as she and Gordon had no children of their own. Aunt Filly had often proved a staunch ally in the past, but being of her mother’s generation she was too far removed from current mores amongst the young. Of course it was Stephen’s ear she most wanted. But he was so busy nowadays . . .

  *

  “You do understand, don’t you,” Stephen said for the umpteenth time, “that if you want to extend the kitchen out this way, instead, we have to draft a whole new set of plans to submit to the States for approval and licences? That can take months more of delays.”

  “Shuddup, Carol. The bloody kitchen is perfectly okay as it is and if you don’t like it after agreeing it was fine earlier, then hard bloody cheese! You can bloody well lump it!” Cyril Blaydon left his wife sulking in the back of their Daimler while he led Stephen by the elbow back to the lovely old house he had had virtually gutted. “No good listening to women, they’ll always whinge that something is wrong. Never bloody satisfied. Now,” he examined the footings where part of the extensions would rise, “Tell me again why this inspector bloke won’t play ball.”

  Counting to ten, Stephen took a deep breath and went through the entire problem for the third time, hoping that his client could finally assimilate the details. At least when he got home tonight he would be able to reveal to Sue just how this character had made his fortune: war surplus and scrap metal, primarily, plus a lucky choice of business partners thereafter. They supplied the brains while he supplied the brass. And Blaydon had hung on to his share till his partners bought him out, expensively.

  Sue would love to hear the story, providing he could stay awake long enought to tell it.

  *

  “You still having problems with the Blaydon’s boat?” George asked.

  “It’s all these modern gadgets they want. The first lot they ordered wouldn’t fit, not without carving up the saloon. So I’m still waiting for the more sensible replacements to arrive.” Richard laughed, rubbing his forehead with an oily hand. “The ones I suggested they have in the first place.”

  “Never mind. The delays in our yard are no worse than those on the QE II. Her maiden voyage has been delayed for months,” George remarked.

  “And she’ll be out of date, anyway, when they’ve got this Concorde plane in service. They say she’ll cross the Atlantic in three and a half hours! Quicker than the speed of sound!”

  “There’s one thing sure: you’ll never get me on one of those things. Never for all the tea in China!” George Schmit stomped away, shaking his head.

  *

  “How did it go today, Steps?”

  Stephanie slammed the front door and came into the sitting-room, throwing her school bag onto the settee before flopping onto the floor with the dogs.

  “Tell me then, dear!” Sue snapped, irritated at being ignored.

  “Certainly, when you stop calling me Steps! The best thing you ever gave me was my name, and for some reason you keep ruining it.”

  Sue hissed. “Very well. How did you get on in your exam, Stephanie!”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea, Mother!” The girl rolled over onto her back, arms folded under her head. “It was one of those papers that give you a choi
ce of three subjects in each section, on which to expound. Whether my expounding will appeal to the examiner will doubtless depend entirely on what he or she, or it, has had for breakfast that morning.” She really wasn’t terribly interested in comparing seventeenth-century English history with that of France and Spain, anyway.

  “Yes, you’re probably right. Those sort of papers depend so much on the personal opinion of the examiners. By the way,” Sue said as sweetly as she could, “don’t you think you ought to get up, dear? Your uniform is getting covered in dog hairs.”

  Stephanie rolled on to her knees to scowl at her mother before snatching up her bag and disappearing off to her bedroom.

  Damn, I seem to have done it again! Sue thought. Should I have worded it differently? Or said nothing and waited till she’d changed into mufti, then collected her uniform and brushed it all down? Because sure as God made little apples, there is no way Stephanie would brush her clothes herself!

  Still, it could be worse. Just imagine having two daughters like Amanda and Coralie Blaydon . . . no, not Blaydon. What were their surnames? Smith and Brown, but she couldn’t remember which was which. And maybe Steps . . . Stephanie . . . was no worse than she herself had been at that age. Sue smiled, remembering how untidy she had been, how she had drifted through days on end so madly in love with David Morgan that she could think of little else. I wonder what has happened to him. Is he some business tycoon in Canada, now? At least Stephanie didn’t imagine she was in love with anyone, apart from hugging herself with glee when a particularly attractive male star appeared on the TV screen, and freely admitting “getting the hots” for various boys from time to time. If only she was a little bit more co-operative at home, showed a bit more respect for her elders and concern for family matters. If only she would dress with respect for herself, instead of getting herself up to look like a tart . . . well, at least not quite as much so as the Amanda creature.

  She looked at the clock. Time to be getting the evening meal prepared. Stephen would soon be home. And Debbie? She was late again today. But thank goodness she, at least, was sweet and stable and co-operative. Debbie was developing into a real beauty; those green eyes were fascinating, sparkling. Particularly when Justin was with her? Well, that was just girlish fantasy: he was years older than she was. Six years, in fact.

  *

  “I’ve changed my mind about going on to university, Mummy.” Debbie announced.

  “Why?” Sue’s heart sank into her sandals as she wandered along L’Ancresse beach with her daughter and the dogs. “We thought you had your heart set on a career in sport.”

  “I know. I had. But I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately and it seems to me that as I don’t know if I’ll ever be good enough to do well on the amateur tennis circuit, I would be much better to get an ordinary job on the island to cover my expenses while I play local and Hampshire county tennis, perhaps even regional, till we can see how I shape up. Don’t you agree? I really don’t want to finish up teaching beginners in a girls’ school.” She gave her mother a hopeful glance, praying for a favourable reaction. “Quality of life and all that, you know.”

  No, Sue did not agree . . . but how to say it without upsetting the girl? Without putting a barrier between them, like she had with Steps. Debbie was terribly sensitive. “Darling, I don’t know what to say. This does come as a bit of a shock. I mean, what sort of a job had you in mind?”

  Debbie picked up Cressida’s tennis ball and threw it across the wet sand. “I don’t know, really. Anything that comes along. I have no great career ambitions and I’m not artistically talented like Stephanie.”

  “Your great talent has always been your sport. You are so very athletic. But you would be bored stiff doing just any job. Surely you would need something to stretch your mind a bit. Something that needs advance training?”

  “It hardly seems worth it, Mum. All I really want to be is a good tennis player and a good wife.”

  “You’d need to find a husband for that!”

  “I already have. You surely know that Justin and I have an understanding.”

  Sue stood and stared at Debbie’s retreating back. “You have! Since when?”

  “Oh, Mummy! For years! Forever!” Debbie turned to walk back to her. “I can’t believe you didn’t know!”

  Yes, of course I knew you were infatuated with the latterday Adonis with the great tennis talent, Sue admitted to herself, but I tried not to believe it because he is so much older and . . . unsuitable? “I could see you liked Justin a lot . . .”

  “We were obviously made for each other, weren’t we?”

  Sue watched sheer joy transform her pretty daughter into an ethereal beauty; not even the splash of summer freckles could detract from the huge, dreamy green eyes, small, perfect nose and wide, pearly smile while, highlighted by the late afternoon sun, her soft, red curls formed a halo round the heart-shaped face. “Perhaps. Time will tell, dear.”

  Not a satisfactory response, as far as Debbie was concerned, but at least her mother wasn’t showing any antagonism.

  They walk on towards the Pembroke end of the bay in silence, Sue horribly aware she should be using this opportunity to get through to Debbie, get her back on track to her original plan of higher education. But how? When one thing was quite abundantly clear: Justin was the reason the girl didn’t want university. She simply did not intend to be separated from him.

  It was fortunate for the sake of Sue’s troubled confusion that she didn’t know what Debbie had really wanted to ask her this afternoon before she finally lost the courage.

  *

  “This is spectacular!” Greg whispered to Sue as they watched the balls skim to and fro, low over the net. “Quite phenomenal! I had no idea she had come on so well.”

  “Well, we think she is exceptionally good, but the English coach who was over here recently said there were several flaws in her game that needed attention. Unfortunately, he didn’t pull his punches at all and Debbie was awfully upset.”

  “Reckon you’ve talked her back into going to college?”

  “No. She is hopelessly infatuated with that boy and won’t consider being separated from him.” Sue indicated Debbie’s handsome opponent.

  “He’s a good player, too,” Greg noted, “But his shots tend to be lazy. Needs to crispen up that forehand cross-court shot, it’s too loose.”

  “I have a feeling that’s the story of his life. But for heaven’s sake don’t repeat that to Debbie – she’d never forgive me!”

  “What does he do for a living?”

  “Nothing, yet. He has just finished at university and shows little career ambition, other than tennis. Not that one can imagine him doing anything as humble as club coaching. He flits over to London quite frequently for the high life. Loves boating and has asked his father for an aeroplane for Christmas.”

  Greg removed his panama and fanned his face. “Oh yes? And what did Daddy say?”

  “That he should find someone else and they could go halves.”

  Her father shook his head slowly. “I don’t know. What is the world coming to?”

  The young couple came off the court to join them.

  “Hello, Granpa!” Debbie bent over to kiss Greg’s cheek. “You should have come earlier and we could have played mixed doubles with Mum.”

  Justin shook his hand. “Evening, sir. Yes, pity. We could have had a game.” He did not look too disappointed.

  “I won’t be in for a meal, tonight, Mum. Justin and I are going out to dinner with friends. Okay?” Debbie looked at her watch. “In fact I must fly or I won’t be ready by the time you get back to collect me,” she smiled adoringly at Justin.

  “Get going, then,” he ordered, adding formally, “I may see you later, Mrs Martel. Good-bye sir.”

  An hour later Sue watched him roar away with her daughter in his Triumph Spitfire.

  *

  It was not a good car for necking in, so Justin took a rug out of the boot, kept there for th
e purpose, and the pair hurried down the grass bank, through waist-high bracken to their usual clearing.

  “What on earth are you wearing?” Justin asked, wrestling with her buckle.

  “It’s a jumpsuit. Blouse top and trousers all in one.”

  “Good grief. If I’d known before we left the pub I’d have stayed for another drink.”

  “Justin, darling! I didn’t know we’d be coming out here tonight or I’d have worn something else.” Debbie nuzzled against his cheek and fell back onto the rug under his kisses. Life was bliss. Justin was bliss. And she was so lucky. Lucky that the most gorgeously attractive male she had ever seen, even in films, was in love with her. “I do love you so much, my dearest,” she whispered as they broke for air. And he was such a brilliant tennis player, too.

  “And I love you, too, my little doll,” he whispered back as he negotiated the blouse buttons. “Mmmm.”

  Debbie squirmed with pleasure; the sensations he sent running through her lithe young body made her dizzy. Frantic for more . . . Yet a worry was itching at the back of her mind. She was acutely aware of the hard lump pressed into her thigh and knew what it meant. He was desperately wanting something she had not yet dared to give.

  He voiced what was on both their minds. “What about the pill? Are you on it yet?”

  “No. I haven’t been able to ask Mummy, yet. But I will, soon, I promise.”

  “You’ve been saying that for weeks.”

  “I wish we could wait until we are officially engaged. It would make it so much easier to broach the subject.”

  Justin had never officially proposed. But in the interests of advancing their necking he had referred to “when they were married they would not have to hide out in the bracken to make love” several times, and it had never failed to relax her inhibitions. On the other hand, of course, he didn’t want to get her in pod. “We cannot get engaged till you are older. Your parents wouldn’t dream of giving permission.”

  “I’d have thought it more likely to get permission for that than for the pill!”