The Guernsey Saga Box Set

by Diana Bachmann

  *

  “I don’t think your mother approves of me,” Neal commented as they sat together on the bench putting their racquet covers back on.

  “Whatever makes you say that?”

  “Her cool politeness, mostly.”

  “You don’t want to take any notice of that. She was like that with Justin. I think she would be like that to anyone I associate with.”

  Neal’s eyes slid sideways to study her. There was no doubt in his mind that he was heavily drawn to Debbie: she was so sweet and soft, so unsophisticated . . . so different from Annabel. The latter had impressed him so much when he was younger, with her sharp mind and air of confidence. Now, looking back, he could see that she had made up her mind that he would make a suitable partner for her, a man in the shadow of her ambitions. She had set out to woo him, ensnare him, dominate his life regardless of his own ambitions or feelings. And he had been fool enough to feel flattered by her attentions; fell for her line and married her without thinking through the forthcoming scenario. His euphoria had failed to outlast the honeymoon. Making love to Annabel had been equivalent to making love to a rubber dolly, he imagined, though not so bouncy on her almost anorexic frame. Her response, if any, had been a polite act. It was hard to imagine the same applying to Debbie . . . if they ever got round to it. If. Could she ever want to make love to anyone again, after finding his atrocious step-sister in bed with the beloved Justin? There was no doubt the poor kid was still hurting.

  Zip cover fastened and tennis balls stowed in the tube, Debbie looked up and saw Neal’s eyes on her. She smiled. “Penny for your thoughts?”

  “I was just thinking what a kind and gentle creature you are.”

  Debbie’s eyebrows shot up. He could say that when she had just given him one hell of a pounding on the court?

  He laughed, reading her mind. “Yes, I mean it. Tennis apart!” He stroked her arm. “What shall we do now? Feel like a swim?”

  “Mmm,” she nodded. Anything to prolong their being together. Somehow, she felt so safe with Neal. This was no handsome and conceited Apollo with women galore falling at his feet: just a genuine person who seemed to enjoy her company. She tucked her hand into his as they left the court.

  Sue watched them go, wondering.

  *

  “Dad? Can I bring Uncle George round for a chat after work?”

  Greg frowned into the receiver. “Of course, Richard. But what’s up? What’s on your mind?”

  “I’ll explain to you both when we get there. See you later.”

  The line went dead and Greg drifted away from the phone with a deep frown on his forehead.

  *

  The three men sat round the kitchen table with mugs of tea.

  “Hard to know where to begin,” Richard said. “But I have to tell you I’m not happy about these boat deals of Billy’s.”

  “In what way?” George asked.

  “Well, I didn’t pay too much attention when the first boat’s registration didn’t quite gel. These things happen. There were discrepancies on the second, too, but that could have been purely coincidence. But now that Billy’s been missing for so long without telling anyone where he was going or why . . . well, I must admit the hairs on the back of my neck are beginning to rise.”

  “Billy’s gone off like this before,” George began.

  “With his rent overdue and without even cancelling the milk?”

  Greg cleared his throat. “Come on Richard, out with it. What are you suggesting?”

  “I don’t want to suggest anything . . .”

  “Well, then tell us your suspicions. You’ve obviously got some or you wouldn’t have called this meeting.”

  Richard ran a forefinger round inside the neck of his shirt, then scratched his ear. “What I’m wondering is how much we know, or don’t know about the history of these boats? Can we be sure that there was no . . . foul play along the line?”

  “Foul play?” George rubbed the whiskers on his bald head.

  “He means, were they stolen?” Greg guessed.

  “Stolen! Billy wouldn’t . . .”

  “No. No doubt he wouldn’t.” Richard agreed. “But just how scrupulous has he been in checking out where they came from before he bought them from the French yard?”

  “You mean that the French yacht broker may have obtained them dishonestly?” George asked.

  “Precisely. I mean, the man may be some kind of fence.” Richard hated to see the alarmed expressions on the two elderly men. He felt responsible. After all, it was he who had put Billy’s suggested deals to them in the first place. “Maybe he has returned to the Brittany yard, discovered the truth and, well, just been scared stiff and done a runner.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Well, how are we going to find out?”

  “Maybe we should take a closer look at the paperwork on the yacht we’ve got in hand at the moment. That might give us a clue.”

  “Haven’t you done that already?” Greg asked with a half grin, having guessed the answer.

  Richard nodded. “Yes, I have. Not that there was anything obviously wrong. But I wasn’t entirely happy. That’s why I wanted to warn you. And I think we ought to decide a plan of action in case the whole thing blows up in our faces.”

  The older men looked at each other, shrugged, and agreed. Suddenly they looked desperately worried. A plan of action!

  The discussion went on for an hour, none realising that the whole matter would be taken right out of their hands within the week.

  *

  While Jane Tetchworth’s fingers scampered over the keyboard of her electric typewriter there was a happy smile on her face. Having done all necessary research in the laboratories at university and made all relevant notes there, she was completing the final copy of her thesis in micro-biology before submitting it for, hopefully, a PhD. She had enjoyed the research, worked very hard, long hours and was now looking forward to relaxing with . . . Roderick?

  She had never spent much time thinking about the opposite sex. They made her nervous. And it seemed that her brother Justin had more than a fair share of the family’s sex hormones. His exploits made her shudder and she hoped never to get herself involved with anyone like him. Not that that was likely: his sort always finished up with girls with lashings of sex appeal, and she was intelligent enough to realise that that was not a commodity she oozed in abundance. In fact, boys at college had usually given her a wide berth, unless they were equally unattractive and covered in pimples. So it had come as quite a surprise when Roderick Martel, who’s parents lived next door, asked her out for a drink, twice, which was nice, and to dinner with a group of friends at the Marina, which was fun, then suggested they play tennis together, which was not because she was hopeless at all sports except riding. And yesterday evening he had rung up to ask if she would like to go round to his place for supper tonight! She liked Roderick: he was sensible about things, not a bit flippant. He didn’t waste conversation in trying to be clever with flashy repartee, but preferred intellectual discussion. He was a perfect example of the way she thought all men should be . . . as unlike her brother as humanly possible.

  Rolling the last page out of the typewriter, Jane removed the carbon and copy, placed the pages on their appropriate piles and carefully lined up the separate stacks of foolscap sheets before stapling them. She tidied her desk, put the cover on her typewriter and slid the stapled papers into their respective folders. The pens and pencils were in a stone jar, reference papers filed in the cabinet drawers. She checked that that area of her bedroom was immaculate before moving over to the dressing-table.

  The mirror image staring back at her was far from beautiful, but fortunately Roderick seemed to seek her company more for her brains and intelligence, than for her looks.

  In fact, if she could be bothered to pluck her eyebrows a little and wear a bit of rouge and mascara, she could make herself really quite attractive. But she didn’t want to create the wrong vibes. He mustn’
t get the idea that she wanted him for anything but his interesting company. However, she might try a little . . .

  She heard his car wheels on the gravel sharp at seven-thirty.

  “Ready?” he asked when she opened the door.

  “Of course. Good-bye, Mummy,” she called over her shoulder. “I may be late, so don’t wait up.”

  Roderick steered her out to his car. He liked the sort of girl who was on time, and had her life under total control. “You don’t mind me not wearing a tie, do you?” It was more of a statement than a question.

  “Not in the least,” she assured him, glad that she had decided not to change out of her cotton dress and cardigan. “Tell me, have you been toiling over a hot stove?”

  “No! I’ve got a melon and a couple of steaks which have to be barbecued on the patio.”

  “Definitely my kind of food.”

  *

  Richard had wanted to go straight to the police and voice his doubts. George had said no, it might go badly for Billy who had been in trouble with them years ago and police had long memories.

  Greg suggested making a trip down the Brittany coast with George in the latter’s boat. They could go into the yard where Billy bought the boats and try to find out more about their origins.

  “If they were guilty they wouldn’t admit to anything and all it would achieve would be to warn the yachtbroker to cover his tracks,” Richard told the older men.

  So in the end they had done nothing: decided nothing, and Richard was standing on the deck of a repaired local boat as she was lowered into the water, directing the operation, when he noticed a stranger wandering along the pier behind the crane, watching.

  The yacht swayed perilously and Richard clung to the halliards as she broke the surface, then he bent to put a couple of reverse turns on the warps, fastening them to the cleats fore and aft. He had released the ring on one end of the thick, webbed forward strap which had circled under the hull bow and was making his way aft to undo the same on the stern, when a French voice called to him from above.

  “Monsieur Schmit?”

  Richard looked up at the stranger. “No. I am a business associate of his. Can I help you?” he called back.

  “I telephone Monsieur Schmit because I wan’ to speak wiv Billy Smart. You know ’im?”

  Richard’s feet were sweating in his Docksiders. “Yes. I know him.”

  “You tell me where I find him?”

  “Just one moment.” Unscrewing the bolt to release the stern strap gave him time to think, but it didn’t help. Who was this guy? The French yachtbroker? Or some bloke who had lost a boat? He straightened. “Okay,” he shouted to the workmen who were waiting. “Draw them up.”

  The crane driver thrust his gears and the straps slid up the side of the pier and were swung ashore to the men.

  “Thanks, boys,” Richard said as he climbed the vertical ladder. “I’ll be in touch. See you.” Then he walked up to the Frenchman. “I’m afraid Billy is away at the moment. Is there anything I can do?”

  “For ’ow long ’e is away?” The man looked alarmed. He was short, thickset, and wearing a shiny blazer whose sole button was strained to the limit. He also looked angry.

  “I don’t know. Possibly a few weeks.”

  “But does ’e not work for Monsieur Schmit? Does Monsieur Schmit not know?”

  “If you would care to come back to the boatyard with me you can ask him yourself.” The dockside was rather too public for what might follow.

  George was in his house, adjacent to the yard. He came out immediately, wiping cake crumbs out of his moustache. “Shall we go into the office?” he suggested. He didn’t want Gelly to overhear what might be said. He led the way, indicated an ancient chair and the Frenchman sat down, none too willingly. “Now would you care to explain who you are and what your problem is?”

  “Je suis Gaston le Sauvage. I am a vendor of boats, comprennez?”

  George nodded. “Yes. And have you sold a boat to Billy?”

  “Oui, oui! Many monfs past! And he does not give me ve monnaie!” He spread his arms wide in furious exasperation.

  “What sort of boat was it?” Richard asked.

  The waving of his hands did little to help the Frenchman’s audience follow his description, but after a few minutes they agreed he could possibly be referring to the first boat they, or rather Billy, had purchased.

  “Pour quelle prix? Er, what price? Dammit,” Richard turned to George, “He’s got me talking double Dutch, now!”

  Neither of them could interpret the answer so they made their guest write it down.

  George and Richard stared at the pad. The figure was not remotely near what they had paid.

  George shook his head. “No. No idea what boat that is.”

  “You ’aven’t seen ’her?”

  “No. Did Billy pay you any of the money?”

  “Oui, oui! Demi. ’Alf le prix. ’E say other ’alf after two monfs. Maintenant, is nearly six monfs!” The collection of papers, pens and miscellaneous objects bounced as his fist hit the desk.

  Richard shook his head. “The deal you describe had nothing to do with this yard. Nothing to do with Monsieur Schmit.”

  The visitor flushed with anger. “But yes—”

  “But no. We have not seen it here.”

  “Ven I go to ve police. Yes?” He was on his feet.

  Richard stood, also, grateful for his several additional inches as he gazed down at Gaston le Sauvage, displaying a cool he did not feel. “Of course. If you feel it is necessary.”

  The Frenchman glanced at the phone, then changed his mind and stormed out.

  Richard and George sat stood staring at each other.

  “What do you reckon, Richard?”

  “I reckon that Billy has been visiting more than one French yachtbroker. That chap never mentioned more that one yacht.”

  George slumped into a chair again and dropped his head into his hands. “Oh dear. Gelly is going to be so upset.”

  *

  Sue parked her car in the front drive and opened the boot to collect all her shopping bags.

  “Want a hand?” Stephanie called from the front door.

  “Thanks. There is far more here than I’d expected. I got some extra meat, we can always put it in the freezer, but there seem to be so many people coming and going at the moment it’s hard to anticipate what we will need.” As she strung various plastic bags from her fingers, little Sarah appeared. “Hallo, sweetheart. Have you come to help Granny, too?”

  “Me help Ganny.”

  Stephanie handed her a bag of bread rolls. “There you are. Put them on the kitchen table, please.”

  “Heaven knows what we will have for supper tonight,” Sue groaned.

  “Well I saw you had plenty of spaghetti so I’ve knocked up a nice thick bolognese sauce with the minced meat from the fridge. Would that do?”

  “Wonderful. What a relief.” And what a different Stephanie this was from a few years ago. “I didn’t expect you to do that. I thought you and Sarah were going shopping this afternoon.”

  “We did. We found some nice pyjamas for both of us. Some socks and panties.”

  “An’ a dress for me!” squealed her happy daughter.

  They unpacked the shopping together while the kettle was coming to the boil, then sat down with their cups of tea to chat.

  “Mum, I’ve been thinking. You and Stephen have been very kind to us since we returned to the island. You haven’t complained once!”

  “You have given us nothing to complain about!” Sue protested.

  “Sweet of you to say so, but the fact remains we cannot sponge off you for all time. I have to get a job.”

  “No need to think about that yet, darling.”

  “Yes there is. We’ll soon be into September and I want to sign up for some Further Education classes. At the moment I’m not qualified to do anything but scrub floors.”

  “Surely with your artistic talents you could get a
job in an advertising agency?”

  “No way. My art is totally undisciplined and self-indulgent. Sitting down in front of a view that appeals to one and transferring it to a canvas is comparatively easy. Producing something which will appeal to a certain section of the public, make them buy and please the client, is a different matter. For that I would need some serious training.”

  “I suppose you could be right,” Sue acknowledged.

  “The job I get will have to be sufficiently well paid to support Sarah and me in a rented flat or cottage.”

  “But surely you would stay here?”

  Stephanie reached out to give her mother’s arm an affectionate squeeze. “You are a dear, but we must not outstay our welcome. We will need to be here for quite a while yet, I’m afraid, until I can convince a prospective employer of my usefulness.”

  “You know you are welcome to remain here as long as you like. After all, it is still your home.”

  “Thank you. But do you realise I am going to have to ask you if you mind sitting-in in the evenings while I’m out on my courses.”

  “That’s not a problem.”

  “I will try to help around the house as much as possible when I—”

  “You do a tremendous lot already. I had hoped you were really going to take a long rest. You still don’t look one hundred percent fit.”

  “You have been feeding me up so well I don’t think I ever felt better. Now,” Stephanie jumped up, “let’s all go upstairs. I’ll get Sarah bathed and ready for bed, while you have a wash and brush up before Stephen gets home.”

  “Fine. Let’s go.” Sue wanted to hug herself. It was so wonderful, not only to have Stephanie back home, but to wallow in this heartwarming new relationship.

  *

  “Don’t you think we should notify the police that Billy is missing?” Gelly and George were sitting in front of a welcome autumn fire in their sitting room.

  George stared at her. “I’m not sure that would be wise.”

  “Why not?”

  “We don’t know what he was up to before he left.”