The Granville Sisters

by Una-Mary Parker

  ‘Please, Candida. Do this for me, for …’ Margaux begged, her cheeks awash. ‘I am an old woman and I must stay to look after this place, but he will be made a prisoner of war …’ She broke down, sobbing now, her fat fingers covering her face.

  ‘You have put us in danger by not warning me sooner,’ Candida exploded. She glanced at Gaston, who was regarding her with narrowed eyes. ‘What happens when we get to England? He can’t stay with me.’

  Margaux looked stricken. ‘For the love of God, just take him with you, where he will be safe. He is a young man. He will find work. And somewhere to live.’

  Gaston put his arm around her shoulders, whispering something in her ear. She straightened up, her expression fearful.

  ‘Mon Dieu! You must hurry or you’ll miss the boat. Already, Gaston says, there are many people trying to get on board.’

  ‘What a pity you didn’t think of that a week ago,’ Candida retorted icily, angry with herself for being such a fool as to prolong their departure.

  Then she turned to Marina and Louise. ‘Go and pack now. This moment,’ she ordered. ‘Just grab what you can. I’ll be up in a sec.’

  As Louise and Marina tore up the stairs, taking them two at a time, Candida turned to Margaux, ignoring Gaston. ‘Please order us a taxi.’

  ‘This is the end of everything,’ Margaux sobbed, ignoring her request. ‘I’m losing my son, my livelihood and soon my country.’

  ‘A taxi, Margaux!’ Candida ordered, fiercely. Then she too hurried up to pack.

  Clothes and shoes and games were thrown into cases, with books and damp, sandy towels. She couldn’t stop Gaston tagging along, but she did not intend to be responsible for him when they arrived in England.

  Ten minutes later they were all back in the lobby, dragging their cases behind them.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Candida.

  Margaux flung up her fat arms in distress. ‘There are no taxis. Word has got out the boat is leaving and everyone is heading for St Malo. Even my people! What can we do?’ she wailed.

  Louise spoke, her voice surprising for its steadiness. ‘Couldn’t we take the tram that runs down the middle of the road? Or the bus? We’ve gone to St Malo before by bus.’

  Gaston, who had so far remained silent, spoke. His English was not as good as his mother’s, and he had a bad accent. ‘I saw a bus go. It ’as left. There is no bus again, for thirty minutes.’

  His complacency infuriated Candida. It was obvious now that Margaux had known of the emergency, but had kept them here until the arrival of her beloved son.

  ‘For God’s sake, don’t just stand there!’ she snapped at him. ‘Someone must have a car?’

  Margaux’s expression changed, as if she’d just thought of something. ‘Wait!’ She turned to rush back into the kitchen.

  ‘Waiting is a luxury we don’t have,’ Candida shouted at her retreating back. Then she swung on Gaston. ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘I came from Amiens, on my bicycle.’

  Candida stared at him, recognizing with shock her own grey eyes and, even more disturbing, Henry’s hands, resting on the reception desk.

  ‘Dear God!’ she muttered, turning away, confused and shaken.

  Margaux came rushing back. ‘You are saved! The baker will take you all in his van. He will be here in two minutes.’

  Candida sprang into action. ‘Marina, Juliet, let’s get our luggage into the road, so there’ll be no more delays.’ As she spoke, she dumped a bundle of French notes on to the reception desk. ‘I think this will cover our hotel bill,’ she said curtly.

  ‘Merci,’ said Margaux, knowing they’d never see each other again, and knowing she wouldn’t be able to renew their new-found friendship, even if they did.

  As they stood waiting by the roadside, Margaux embraced her son, pushing him towards the others, but clinging to him at the same time, as if she couldn’t bear to let him go.

  Watching them, Louise felt a lump in her throat, and scalding tears pricked her eyes.

  ‘Au revoir, maman,’ Gaston murmured, patting her shoulder, his face grave.

  At that moment the little white van swung into view and stopped abruptly by the curb with a screech of brakes.

  ‘Quickly, throw your cases in first,’ Candida ordered the girls. A minute later they’d jumped into the van, sitting on their cases or on the floor, all of them covered with white flour from the dusty interior.

  ‘Quick as you can,’ Candida urged the bemused driver. ‘There’ll be a good tip for you if you get us there before the boat leaves.’

  As the van rattled and jiggled along the tree-lined boulevards, Louise and Marina got the giggles, which soon became unstoppable, almost hysterical, because it was such a relief to be on their way. Gaston watched them with an amused expression.

  Candida looked morose. She’d blamed Margaux for their predicament, and now she regretted it. It was her fault. Her sanguinity had placed them in danger, not only Marina but her niece too. Henry had told her repeatedly to return to England, and she’d called him a fusspot.

  Then she looked at Gaston. It was a damned nuisance having him come with them, but at least an extra pair of strong arms wouldn’t come amiss with the luggage. Though what she was going to do with him when they reached Southampton she had no idea.

  Nine

  ‘There’s no answer,’ Henry groaned, replacing the receiver. ‘There must be someone at the Château Forêt?’

  It was September 1st, and there’d been no word from Candida for the past two days.

  ‘There’s nothing more you can do, Henry,’ Lady Anne reasoned. ‘If there’s no answer, then they can no longer be there.’

  ‘God, I wish Candida wasn’t so obstinate. Where the hell are they?’

  ‘We’d have heard if anything had happened to them, my dear. Try not to worry.’

  Henry’s face was drawn. ‘The worst part is not knowing; I feel so bloody helpless, and Liza is driving me mad because she still believes there won’t be a war. If only she read the newspapers! Or saw one of the leaflets that have been distributed, telling us what to do in an emergency when it starts.’ He sighed deeply, filled with anguish, so that his voice croaked. ‘Did you read in the newspapers that seven thousand dogs and five thousand cats have been put down in London in the past week, to prevent them suffering when the bombing starts? And that thousands of children have already been evacuated to the country?’

  Lady Anne looked anxiously at her son, and spoke briskly.

  ‘Well, we don’t need both you and Liza panicking, for goodness’ sake! Amanda and Charlotte are too young to be told the full horror of what’s happening, which I know only too well, seeing I’ve lived through both the Boer War and the Great War,’ she added drily.

  Henry couldn’t help looking at her with admiration. She sat upright, her hands folded in her lap, looking serene, determined not to be ruffled by the likes of Hitler.

  ‘You’re right, Mother. But God knows what the future holds, and I can’t help worrying about the girls.’ He went and stood in the window, looking out at the two younger sisters. They were playing on the lawn, Charlotte with her new hoop, and Amanda trying to master a yo-yo. They looked as if they hadn’t a care in the world, and at their age, that was rightly so.

  Henry just wanted to have Louise safely back now, and until that happened he couldn’t rest.

  St Malo’s dockside was swarming with people, frantically trying to board the already crowded Dinard.

  ‘Vite! Vite!’ yelled Nico, the baker, as he and Gaston grabbed the heavy cases. Candida, Marina and Louise stayed close behind, scared of becoming separated.

  The two men pushed and shouldered their way with brutal force through the clamouring mob. The atmosphere was panicky. People with large trunks were blocking the way as they tried to get nearer the ship, and others were yelling at them to move out of the way.

  ‘Do you think we’ll ever get on board?’ Louise shouted above the din. Her face was white. She had v
isions of being stuck here for ever.

  Candida bellowed urgently to Nico, ‘I have some money … argent.’ He nodded in understanding. Bribery was the only way they were going to get on board.

  People were shouting frantically, calling out the names of relatives and friends as they were pushed aside by new arrivals. Men lifted small children on to their shoulders to prevent them getting lost or crushed. A baby started screaming. Louise saw the panicked faces around her, and thought how ugly human beings looked when they were frightened.

  Bemused fishermen with weathered faces stood and watched from a distance, their expressions implacable. Their country was under threat. But unlike all these tourists, they had no option but to stay and face the consequences.

  At last they reached the bottom of the gangplank. Candida handed Nico a wad of French notes. He started speaking, loudly and quickly, to the ship’s steward, indicating the money in his hand. It didn’t do the trick.

  A violent argument followed, with the steward insisting they go to the back of the queue. Nico upped the pitch of his voice. Those who were also trying to board started shouting in protest, waving their fists, trying to push Candida and the girls out of the way.

  ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ shouted an angry English male voice. This was taken up by other English tourists, who burst into a furious chorus of ‘Wait your turn!’ and ‘Get to the back of the queue!’ Others were less polite, as French, Belgians and Americans joined in, and it began to turn into something closely resembling a lynch mob.

  ‘Oh, my ribs … my ribs are being squashed …!’ Louise wailed, frightened, as the crowds pressed closer. ‘Help me …!’

  At that moment, Nico accidentally trod heavily on Marina’s foot, and she screamed, her piercing cries of agony rending the air and making the ship’s steward wince.

  ‘OK,’ he muttered tersely, grabbing the money. A minute later they were hurrying up the gangplank to safety.

  Eight hours later, lying on deck and wrapped in an assortment of picnic rugs, beach towels and woollen cardigans, Louise and Marina lay huddled together, trying to keep warm. Candida had managed to secure a deckchair after a confrontation with a Frenchwoman who had also tried to grab it, while Gaston roamed the ship, talking to people and smoking incessantly.

  Juliet lay looking up into the thick fog that had descended over the Channel. Through the haze she could see the ship’s red and black funnel, which towered mistily over them. The Dinard was edging slowly and cautiously forward as visibility was down to a few hundred yards, and the foghorn was booming with monotonous regularity.

  Echoing horns from other ships sounded through the swirling blackness, warning of their presence, calling eerily to each other like primeval beasts in the mists of the first ages of the world.

  Louise shivered and, sitting up, turned to Candida. ‘How much longer until we’re there?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘We seem to be zig-zagging, instead of going straight?’ Louise observed.

  Gaston appeared out of the darkness, stepping over recumbent figures, his cigarette glowing in the dark.

  ‘Why are we zig-zagging?’ Candida asked him. ‘Instead of going straight?’

  ‘It’s the minefields,’ he said casually.

  ‘Minefields?’ Candida repeated, stunned. ‘What minefields?’

  ‘I ’ave been told the British laid minefields already, in the Channel. In case England is invaded.’

  ‘And we’re weaving our way around them?’ Candida asked incredulously, the enormity of their situation taking her breath away.

  ‘Oui, mais certainement.’

  ‘Right.’ She thought for a minute before saying drily, ‘It wouldn’t be very clever to be blown up by one our own mines, would it?’

  Gaston looked at her as if she was mad.

  ‘Non,’ he muttered, drawing deeply on his cigarette.

  It was obvious, she reflected, that this half-brother of hers had no sense of humour.

  Henry led the way into the village church, followed by Lady Anne and the rest of the family.

  When he was at Hartley, he always read one of the lessons, while the Granville family filled the first and second pews on the right of the aisle. Matins was a regular part of village life, and the Church of St Mary’s was always packed.

  Today was no exception. Anxiety was making everyone turn to God for comfort. People were grim-faced, clutching their black prayer books. Singing the hymns with robust fervour. Praying with profound hope that war could still be avoided.

  Rosie, sitting beside her grandmother, while Charles stayed at home with the children, saw that some of her favourite hymns were to be sung: ‘Lead us, heavenly Father, lead us’ and ‘Nearer, my God, to Thee’.

  Liza sat admiring the flower arrangements by the steps of the chancel; the autumn colouring was so pretty, she reflected, all golden and russet, shades tinged with sadness that another summer was over.

  Henry sat beside her, clenching and unclenching his jaw, as he gazed with unseeing eyes at the sixteenth-century stained-glass window. He’d hardly slept for the past two nights. If anything had happened to Louise … he knew he must keep a grip on himself, and watched with envy his mother’s serene face. Lady Anne, though also worried, had great faith in the Lord. And she believed there was nothing to do but accept His will.

  ‘Dearly beloved brethren …’ began the local vicar, the Reverend William Temple. ‘We are gathered …’

  Amanda and Charlotte were bored and wondered what was for lunch. Looking around the church, they craned their necks to see where the Emery children, who they often played with, were sitting. Maybe they could invite them to tea? Nanny nudged them, frowning, indicating they should look straight ahead all the time.

  ‘Let us say the Lord’s Prayer,’ intoned the vicar.

  Rosie had been saying the Lord’s Prayer to herself every morning for ages now. It helped get her through another day of facing the fact that she was tied to Charles for the rest of her life.

  Morning service continued, the first hymn had been sung, and when it ended the Reverend William Temple emerged from the vestry and came and stood on the chancel steps. His face was pale and grave, and his hands shook as he looked at the words he’d jotted down on a piece of paper.

  ‘A few minutes ago,’ he began, ‘I received the news that the Prime Minister issued a second and final ultimatum at nine o’clock this morning to the German government, giving them until eleven o’clock to answer. Having received no response, Mr Chamberlain has just announced on the wireless that Britain is now at war with Germany.’

  The silence in the church emphasized the shock of the people, even though this had been expected.

  Henry wasn’t even surprised. The Prime Minister had issued his first ultimatum to Germany two days ago, on September 1st; the day Hitler had attacked Poland. The inevitable blow had already fallen. It had been only a matter of time before Britain entered the fray; and today was that day.

  A date that would go down in history and herald a greater war than even the one he’d fought in.

  Liza clasped her gloved hands in anguish; her lovely, lovely life really had fallen apart now. She’d never forgotten the last war, when she’d been a young woman of nineteen, newly married to Henry, and living in permanent fear in case he was killed. When he was invalided out of the army in 1916, because of a back injury, she’d gone down on her knees and thanked God for his return. Now, she thanked God that at least she had no sons.

  Loud weeping from the pew behind made her turn to see Charlotte, who had tears streaming down her face, her small chest rising and falling with sobs. ‘I d-don’t want there to be a war!’ she cried. ‘I d-don’t want my daddy to get killed.’

  When they returned to Hartley after church, Parsons had taken a telephone message for Henry.

  ‘It is news of Louise?’ Henry asked, turning pale.

  ‘No, sir. Mr Ian Cavendish called.’

  ‘And …?’


  ‘He phoned ten minutes ago, to say the air-raid sirens had sounded in London. He said he’d telephone you later to let you know what was happening.’

  Henry turned away without saying a word and shut himself in the library.

  Charlotte, having been comforted by the fact that, at the age of fifty and with a bad back, her father was too old to be a soldier, now clung to Lady Anne.

  ‘I’ve been working on some interesting plans, darling,’ she told the little girl, ‘and I need your help. Amanda, I need you too.’

  Holding their hands, their grandmother led them into her sitting room.

  ‘What is it?’ they chorused, looking around the prettily cluttered room as if searching for clues.

  ‘Soldiers get very cold when they’re out in the open,’ Lady Anne said, in practical tones. She went to a chest of drawers in the corner, and started taking out skeins of khaki and navy-blue wool, and several pairs of knitting needles.

  ‘I’m going to teach you how to knit warm scarves to begin with, and then we’ll knit socks and balaclava helmets …’

  ‘What’s a bala … what you said?’ asked Charlotte.

  Their grandmother produced a knitting pattern, with pictures on the front.

  Nanny, coming to fetch them to wash their hands before lunch, nodded approvingly.

  ‘That’s the ticket, M’Lady!’ she said. ‘Everybody must keep busy. We can’t let Mr Hitler get us down.’

  Liza slipped upstairs to her bedroom, and threw her hat and new mink coat on the bed. Then she sank on to the chair in front of her dressing table, and looked despairingly at her reflection in the mirror.

  Now that the terrible moment she’d been dreading for months – years even – had arrived, she felt cold and sick with the horror of it all. What was going to happen? Was her beloved London being destroyed by bombs at this very moment? Would the Germans invade Britain by landing on the south coast, only seventy miles away? What would become of her and her family? Would they be made prisoners of war? Shot? Liza covered her face with her hands and sobbed with fear.