Before the man drives off, he glances up at my bedroom window. Almost as if he knows I am looking, expects me to be looking. My heart thuds. I draw back into my room.
Chapter 15
AUGUST. THE ISLAND has never been lovelier, all our gardens lavishly flowering, the sky high and bright, a fresh salt wind off the sea. The Belle de Crécy roses are blooming in my back garden, drowsy with bumblebees, the flowers opening helplessly wide and spreading out their perfume.
Before the war, on such beautiful days I’d have taken the girls to the beach—perhaps to Petit Bôt with a picnic, Millie perched in my bicycle basket. Blanche and I would cycle down the lane that leads to the shore, a lane that is shadowed and secret with branches that meet overhead and musical with the singing of the streams that run down to the water there; and then suddenly we would come out into light at the end of the lane, to the beach that is held between tall cliffs like a jewel cradled between cupped palms, to the sleek wet sand and the glistening jade-green clarity of the sea.
But now the beaches are forbidden to us. They’re mined by the Germans, in case our army comes to take our island back—something that none of us thinks will happen. Our island is a prison.
Every evening I turn on the BBC news on the wireless, listening with a weight of lead in my chest—the news is all terrible. The Luftwaffe are bombing English airfields. Churchill calls it the Battle of Britain: he says that the Battle of France is over, and the Battle of Britain has begun. Evelyn listens with me, though I don’t know whether she understands. Sometimes as she listens her face seems to melt and tears spill over her face. Her emotions are always so near, as though with the passing of the years some defense she had, some outer protective shell, has been scoured and worn away in her. “That’s terrible, Vivienne,” she’ll say. “Yes, I’m afraid so,” I tell her. “But we mustn’t give up hope.” I don’t know why I say that, when I have given up hope myself. Sometimes in the evening we hear the Nazi bombers coming over from France, and then their fighter planes going up from the Guernsey airfield, to escort the bombers over England. When we hear them, I think we all send up a quick, fervent prayer for our air crews who will meet them—even those of us who’d never normally pray. Will they hold off the Luftwaffe? How long can they hold out against the invasion of England? How long before Hitler crosses the Channel? We know it must happen sooner or later. It’s only a matter of time.
Often I think about Eugene, wondering where his division is, praying that he’ll be kept safe. But at these times when I think of him, he feels almost a stranger to me. I tell myself it’s because he’s so far away now, and because we don’t receive any letters or any news of our men. Most women with husbands at war must feel this—the sense of distance, of separation. I don’t entirely acknowledge, even in the deeps of my mind, that it was like that when he lived here too. When he’d sit at the breakfast table fenced off behind his newspaper, as though I were nothing to him, as though I didn’t exist. When he’d say, We’re rehearsing tonight, don’t wait up, I could be home on the late side. . . . Sounding so easy and casual, yet I’d sense the sharks darkly circling under the surfaces of his words. When he’d lie in our bed, turned away from me, never touching. I don’t admit that we were strangers long before he left.
MILLIE SEEMS MOSTLY unbothered by the Occupation, though sometimes I hear her reprimanding her rag doll: “If you’re naughty, I’m going to tell the Nazis. And when I tell them they’ll come and bomb you to bits.” But Blanche is still unhappy that we didn’t go on the boat. She spends too much time in her room. Mostly she listens to her Irving Berlin records, but one day I go in and she’s just sitting there, pulling at a fraying thread on her cuff—not doing anything, just staring blankly in front of her. A sudden sadness tugs at me, grief for the things she is missing out on because of the Occupation—dressing up, being taken to dinner, being bought flowers, that whole gorgeous charade of courtship. She worries me. Sometimes I almost wish she were little again, like Millie. When they’re small, it’s so simple: you only have to buy them a bun or some aniseed balls, and they’ll be content.
One day at the end of August, she does some shopping for me, at Mrs. Sebire’s grocery shop, up on the main road near the airfield. She comes home bright-eyed, hair flying, a smile unfurling over her face: everything about her is smiling.
“Mum. You’ll never guess what happened. Mrs. Sebire wanted to know if I’d like a job in her shop!”
“What did you say?” I ask her.
“Yes. I said yes, of course. That’s all right, isn’t it? She was really pleased. Since her daughter left on the boat, she said it’s been a struggle, and she’s sure I’ll be good at the job.”
“That’s wonderful,” I tell her.
It’s not what I’d once have hoped for. When Blanche was younger, before the war began, I’d hoped she’d go to the mainland to study—perhaps to train as a teacher. But for now, with everything in turmoil, this offer of work is a gift.
Her face is lit up; her hyacinth-blue eyes dazzle.
“I’ll be like Celeste now, won’t I, Mum?” she says.
Blanche has always seen Celeste’s job at Mr. Martel’s watch shop as the height of glamour.
I’ll miss having her around the house during the day. Evelyn seems so fragile now, so confused, that I sometimes worry about leaving her and Millie together. But it’s lovely to see Blanche happy again, and her money will certainly help. We’re just about managing for the moment—I have a little money saved, and Evelyn pays some of the bills. But every penny matters.
She starts work on Monday. She gets up early, puts on a crisp gingham Sunday-best frock and some of the lipstick I bought for her. She comes home tired but pleased with herself, with a bag of overripe peaches that Mrs. Sebire had decided were a little too bruised to sell. We eat the peaches: they are delicious.
“I’m glad you got that job,” says Millie, the sweet juice dripping down her chin.
We are all glad.
THE ISLAND IS filling up with soldiers. When I cycle into St. Peter Port to change my library book, I find there are swastikas everywhere, and German newsreels at the Gaumont, telling of Nazi triumphs. There’s a lot less food in the shops. I have to queue for bread, and there are no sweets for the girls, and I can’t find coffee anywhere. As I walk back to my bicycle, a German brass band starts marching down the High Street, past all the familiar shops, past Mrs. du Barry’s and Boots. I hate to see this. And yet the sound of it stirs me, as martial music always will, regardless of who is playing it: there’s a glamour to it, an urgency, it always makes your heart pound. I find I am walking in time, my body responding to the beat, and this troubles me, as though I am conceding something.
On the way back from town, I drop in on Gwen at Elm Tree Farm.
We sit at her wide scrubbed table. Her kitchen has a scent of baking, so warm and welcoming, like arms wrapped around you. On the table, there are sweet peas in a white china jug; the flowers are almost over, and the jug stands in a lapping pool of silken fallen petals.
We drink tea and eat Gwen’s homemade gâche, which is stuffed with sultanas and candied peel and has a thin, glittery crust of sugar on top. Every Guernsey housewife makes it, and I learned how when I came here, but my gâche has never tasted half as delicious as Gwen’s.
I lick the last trace of fragrant sugar from my hand.
“Mmm. That’s so good.”
“Make the most of it, Viv,” she says. “There won’t be all that much more of that, I’m thinking. I had to queue for the sugar. We’ll all have to tighten our belts.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
I haven’t really thought this through—where our food is going to come from. But there are no boats from England, and twice as many people on our island now.
“I suppose they’ll have to get in supplies from occupied France,” she says. “But the Germans will take all the best stuff, you can be certain of that. Anyone with a bit of land is lucky—it’s the folks in the town
who will suffer. You’ll be in clover, Viv, with that nice big garden you’ve got.”
“Yes. I suppose I ought to start working on it.”
I think of digging up my roses and planting parsnips there. A little sadness catches at my sleeve.
We talk about our children. I tell her about Blanche’s job with Mrs. Sebire, and the peaches.
“That’s a really good place to be working, for the times that are coming,” she says.
“And what about Johnnie? I know you were worried,” I say.
“Oh, well. You know . . .” She smiles, but not with her eyes.
“Gwen, tell me.”
She gives a slight mirthless laugh. “You always know what I’m thinking, Viv.”
There’s a thread of disquiet wrapped around her voice. Anxiety snags at me. I wait for her.
“The thing is—he spends an awful lot of time with that Piers Falla,” she says.
I feel a rush of relief, that it’s nothing worse than this. Piers Falla is an odd, awkward lad; I remember him from church, when he was younger and went to Matins with his parents. I think of his face, which has the sharpness of a kestrel, his gaze, which looks right into you, and his twisted body, the way he drags his right foot. When he was little, he got in the way of a scythe; they said he was lucky to live. I don’t understand why his friendship with Johnnie should be so troubling to Gwen.
“He’s a funny lad, Piers. To be honest, I don’t quite like him,” she says.
“I don’t really know him that well,” I tell her.
“He’s too intense,” says Gwen. “He seems too old for his years.”
“I suppose his life hasn’t been exactly easy,” I say.
“Well, you’ve got to feel sorry for him, of course. And I know he’s really angry that he couldn’t join up. I mean, he tried, but they wouldn’t consider him. He’s old enough—he’s that little bit older than Johnnie. But I think they just took one look at him. Johnnie said he was distraught.”
“Yes. Poor lad. He would be . . .”
We sit quietly for a moment. A fly crackles against the window, with an ominous sound, like a pan on the stove boiling dry.
Gwen stirs.
“You know what I think, Viv,” she says. “This Occupation is really hard on the men. The young ones especially—like my Johnnie and Piers, who’d want to be off fighting. I mean, we women just get on with things, don’t we? We wash and cook and all that, we still know what we’re meant to be doing. But it’s terrible for the men, to be invaded like this. To have to just let it happen. Not to be able to do anything about it.”
“Yes, it must be difficult.”
But I live in a house of women; this isn’t something I see.
“It’s why I worry so much about Johnnie,” she says. “These young lads wishing that they could fight, all stuck here kicking their heels. It’s a recipe for trouble.”
I have a slight sense of disquiet when she says that.
“But they won’t do anything, surely,” I say. “How could they? It’s such a little island—there’s nowhere to hide.” I think of the German brass band marching in St. Peter Port, of the swastikas, the German presence everywhere. “I mean, there are so many of them—they’re everywhere you turn. . . .”
“You’re right, of course,” she says. “I’m probably being silly. They’ll see that, won’t they, Viv?”
“I’m sure they will,” I say.
But, cycling home, I have an uneasy feeling—just a flicker of apprehension, like some dark-winged thing fluttering in a recess of my mind.
Chapter 16
BLANCHE HAS LAID the table for tea. Everything is immaculate. She’s put out the best linen napkins, with the silver napkin rings that she and Millie were given as Christening gifts. There are roses from the garden in a cut-glass vase.
“So what’s all this about?” I ask her. “I mean, it’s a sweet thing to do, but it doesn’t happen all that often. . . .”
“Don’t you like it, Mum?”
“Yes, it looks lovely,” I say. “Thank you.”
She has an eager, hopeful smile.
“Actually, there is something,” she tells me. Her voice is a little ingratiating—smooth as Vaseline. “I wanted to ask if I could maybe go out tonight.”
“Out? Of course you can’t go out. Not after the curfew. Of course not, Blanche. What on earth were you thinking?” I say.
“The thing is . . .” She hesitates. “There’s going to be a party at Les Brehauts,” she says. I hear a little uncertainty creeping into her voice. “Celeste and me have been invited.”
I think of Les Brehauts, the Gouberts’ big whitewashed house near the church. It’s double-fronted, rather splendid, with wide sleek lawns and abundant borders and whispering poplar trees. Recently, when I’ve cycled past, I’ve seen German officers on its grounds.
“So, who’s giving this party, exactly?” I say. “I thought that Mr. and Mrs. Goubert had gone on the boat. I thought Les Brehauts had been requisitioned.”
Blanche draws in a breath, like someone about to dive into deep water.
“The thing is, Mum, it has been . . . Somebody invited us. He said it would be a good evening. There’s going to be dancing. You know how I love dancing. What could happen to us exactly?” she says.
“Who is this somebody, Blanche?”
I see her throat move as she swallows. Pink spots come to her cheeks.
“He’s called Tomas Kreutzer,” she says.
“Kreutzer?”
“He likes Celeste,” she goes on rapidly. “He came to the shop where she works. He wanted to get his watch mended.”
I stare at her, not quite believing what I’m hearing.
“So, the Germans are giving this party?”
“Celeste says Tomas is ever so polite. Really, Mum. He doesn’t agree with the war. He thinks Great Britain and Germany should be allies, because we’re so alike. He says we aren’t like other races.”
I don’t say anything.
“He was going to be an English teacher,” she says. “Well, there’s nothing wrong with that, is there? That’s good, isn’t it? To want to be a teacher? It’s not his fault this happened, Mum.”
I’m amazed that we’re having this conversation.
“Blanche. You’d be out after curfew. You could be shot,” I say.
“Of course we won’t be.” She has all the blithe certainty of youth, when you believe that nothing can touch you. “Tomas will give us a lift,” she tells me. “Tomas says it will be fine.” She comes close to me, clasps my wrist with urgent fingers. “Mum. It’s just some boys and girls wanting to have a good time. It’s just a party. What could be wrong with a party?”
“No, Blanche. You can’t go.”
“The thing is, Celeste won’t go without me.” She clears her throat. “I promised her, Mum.” She suddenly sees a new argument to try, appealing to the morality of promises. “I should keep my promises, shouldn’t I? You’ve always said that’s important. . . .”
“And what does Celeste’s mother say to all this?” I ask.
“Yes. Definitely,” says Blanche. “I know she’ll say yes. I mean, it’s not as though there’s all that much fun in our lives nowadays, is it?”
“Blanche. Of course you can’t go. I’m amazed you asked. You’d be putting yourself in danger. That’s the end of it.”
She can tell now that I’m not giving in. I see the bright blaze of anger in her.
“You never let me do anything.” Her voice is shrill. “You treat me like a baby.”
“Things are difficult, Blanche. You know that. We can’t just do what we want.”
“I’ve got a job now, Mum. You can’t treat me as though I’m still three.”
“Blanche. We’re at war, for goodness’ sake.”
“It’s your war,” she says. “It’s not our war. This stupid, stupid war . . .”
“Well, that’s what we have to live with,” I say.
I glimpse Millie open-mo
uthed in the doorway—fascinated, appalled.
Blanche’s eyes spark.
“We didn’t have to live with it.” She’s spitting out the words. “It didn’t have to be like this—we could have gone on the boat. It would all have been different if only we’d gone on the boat. I would have a life then.” Bitterly.
It hurts, because there’s truth in it. Probably we should have gone. Everyone got to Weymouth safely. Perhaps I was a coward. Perhaps I should have been braver. It all seemed to happen so rapidly—that sudden fork in the road when you choose one path above the other, and then there’s no going back.
“Blanche, I made the best decision I could.” Wanting her to understand, wanting to justify myself to her.
“Well, it wasn’t the right one, Mum. What kind of life is this, cooped up here on Guernsey?”
“I’m trying to keep us all safe,” I say.
“That’s all you care about, isn’t it? Keeping safe,” she says. Her eyes flare like blue gas flames. “You don’t care about living. . . . You can’t keep me shut away here forever. I’ve got my own life to lead.”
“Blanche—”
“I hate this stupid, stupid war.” Tears are streaming down her face. “It was just a party,” she says.
She runs off up the stairs.
TEA IS READY, on the immaculately laid table, but Blanche stays up in her room. I knock on her door, but she says, “Go away.” She sounds as though she’s still crying; there’s a choke of tears in her voice. I decide to leave her for now and let her come down when she’s ready.
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