by Janet Tanner
Mama, of course, had no idea that Dieter had progressed from being ‘a friend’ to being her ‘boyfriend’. Sophia knew without being told that if Lola suspected for one instant she would put a stop to the outings. She had very strict views on what was proper and Sophia knew she would consider thirteen to be much too young to have a relationship – she had heard her say as much plenty of times when discussing other girls.
‘Going out with boys at her age – it’s asking for trouble!’ she would say severely, her huge violet eyes, a shade darker than Sophia’s, flashing dangerously. ‘Sixteen is quite young enough, don’t you think, Charles?’ And Papa, who never argued because he liked the quiet life and knew only too well how volatile Mama could be if aroused, would nod and agree.
Dieter too seemed to realise that any relationship with his employers’ daughter would be frowned upon and Sophia felt that in a strange way he felt responsible for her, although of course it could simply be that he was exactly what he seemed – the perfect gentleman. Whichever, both of them behaved with the utmost discretion, never giving Lola the slightest cause for suspicion. But inside Sophia glowed with the wonderful excitement that came from being in love – and somehow she knew that Dieter did too.
Only one shadow lay over the magic world they shared, and as she lay in the scratchy murmuring grass it crept up again on the edges of Sophia’s mind like a cloud drifting over the sun. She reached out for a tall grass, snapping the stem, then running her fingers up the length of it to scatter the seeds burgeoning at the top while the unspoken fear nagged her.
At last she could keep silent no longer. She tossed the denuded grass aside.
‘Dieter … you don’t think …?’
He turned his head, looking along at her lazily.
‘What?’
‘You don’t think … there’s going to be a war?’
She felt him stiffen.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘A war. Between Germany and France. And perhaps England too.’
‘Certainly not.’ His tone was cold and she felt uncomfortable suddenly and almost guilty for spoiling the idyllic atmosphere.
‘But I heard Mama say …’ She broke off, realising she would only make things worse if she repeated what Lola, with her scornful attitude towards Hitler and the Nazi party had said. ‘Well, if Germany invades Czechoslovakia there’s bound to be trouble,’ she finished lamely.
‘Why?’ Dieter demanded. ‘It’s no one else’s business, is it? Besides France wouldn’t take on Germany, and neither would England. They know they would never win.’
Sophia was silent. In spite of the warmth of the sun she was cold suddenly. It wasn’t just the threat of war. Dieter was probably right when he said they wouldn’t fight – after all, hadn’t Austria allowed Germany to move in and take them over and even seemed quite pleased about it if the newspapers were to be believed, cheering Adolf Hitler as he drove into Vienna and ringing the church bells? No, it was the change in Dieter that frightened her. If he had leaped up and punched the air in a Nazi salute he could scarcely have made his feelings more obvious.
Desperate to rekindle the happy mood of a few minutes earlier she picked another grass and tickled his ear with it.
‘Hey, Dieter, don’t be a crosspatch! Smile!’
There was still a small frown tucking between his eyebrows, narrowing those very blue eyes, but after a moment his features relaxed and he made a grab for her wrist, pinning her to the ground.
‘Now, Miss Carteret, we shall see who is the victor!’ he taunted playfully and as he bent his head to kiss her once more Sophia thought that in all honesty she really did not care very much.
She was in love with Dieter – that was all that mattered.
‘I think it is high time Dieter went home to Germany.’
Lola Carteret peeled off her stockings, rolled them neatly together into a ball and glanced at Charles, her husband, who was already in bed and hunched comfortably into the pillows.
‘What? Are you mad?’ He shifted himself a little grumpily – he was tired and more than ready to go to sleep. A late night discussion with Lola, who always seemed to come to life in the small hours no matter how long her day had been, was the last thing he wanted. But he could hardly let a statement such as she had just made go unchallenged.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ Lola argued. ‘I know what you are going to say, Charles – that the season won’t be over for another month or more and we are still booked solidly, but I can’t help that. The way things are I am not happy about having the boy here any longer. In fact I very much wish I had gone along with my instincts when he applied for the job and not had him here in the first place.’
She stood up, slithering out of her petticoat and into an ivory silk wrap that had seen better days, and Charles thought irrelevantly what an attractive woman she still was. Although she had borne four children her breasts were still firm and voluptuous and her hair, though etched with silver at the temples, fell thick and luxuriant to her shoulders now that she had released it from the neat elongated bun at the nape of her neck which was her habitual daytime style. In the soft lamplight her face too looked smooth and unlined, the ivory skin taut and unblemished over her beautiful high cheekbones, and Charles thought that in some ways she looked younger now than she had done ten years ago when the children were all small and demanding her attention and they had been struggling to make the guest house pay without any help except for an old woman who came in to wash the dinner dishes. Then there had been hollows in her cheeks and dark smudges of tiredness beneath her violet eyes, and he had worried sometimes that it was all too much for her and he would lose her to consumption or pneumonia or one of the other killer diseases that struck down those who worked such long hours with too little rest.
He need not have worried. Lola was made of sterner stuff and he should have realised that, he thought with a wry smile. What else would one expect of a White Russian, daughter of an army officer who had supported Tsar Nicholas and then fought with General Denikin in a desperate attempt to thwart the Bolsheviks? When he had realised the hopelessness of his cause, Lola’s father had smuggled her out of Russia, and it was then that Charles had met her. He was a petty officer on the ship that brought her to England and he had fallen madly in love with the beautiful and spirited Russian girl. Before the ship docked he had asked her to marry him – and to his amazement been accepted. For years he was to wonder in his mild way how he had managed to be so lucky, never grasping the truth that Lola was as much attracted by his steady solid strength as he was by her volatile nature. Secretly afraid she had accepted his proposal only as a way of providing herself with a home and a British passport and terrified that once she knew she was safe she would leave him, he had left the Navy as soon as he could and taken Lola home to Jersey. But how to support her? Charles had joined the Navy straight from school; he knew no other life.
To begin with he had found himself a job in the docks in St Helier, but the hours were long and unaccountably Charles felt ashamed of himself. There was nothing wrong with what he was doing, he told himself, but somehow he failed to be convinced. As a petty officer he had had a standing he now lacked and besides Sophia was too good to be the wife of a dock labourer. With her proud, almost haughty, bearing she was out of place amongst the other wives, and Charles resolved to find something better for her.
Their first son, Nicholas, was a year old, however, before the opportunity presented itself. Charles’ grandfather died at the ripe old age of ninety-one and his will left everything to Charles – his cottage, a small leaky rowing boat and more money than Charles, or anyone, had ever guessed he had, all hidden beneath the mattress and in jars scattered around the cottage.
‘Knowing Grandpa it all came from smuggling, more than likely,’ Charles told Lola, almost too stunned by his good fortune to be able to believe it. ‘Well, at least it means we shall have a place of our own to live instead of having to share with my parents.’
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Lola’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully and he hurried on: ‘ I know it’s not much of a place but at least you’ll have your own kitchen … and I can make love to you at night without thinking they can hear every sound. And besides, it’s not fair on them when the baby cries. At their time of life they don’t want that.’
‘Is true, but all the same I do not think is what I want,’ Lola said carefully.
‘Oh sweetheart!’ He put his arm around her. ‘ I know I haven’t been able to give you much of a life – certainly not what you were used to in Russia. But at least now I have Grandpa’s money I shall be able to buy you a few little extras … and Nicky too. You know that rocking horse you always wanted for him? I don’t see why he shouldn’t have it now.’
‘No,’ Lola said. Her voice was very firm and her shoulders were rigid beneath his touch.
‘No? But why?’ he asked, puzzled.
‘We must not …’ she paused to think of the right word, ‘we must not fritter this money away. Maybe it’s the only chance you will ever have to get out of the docks. I think, Charles, that we should use your Grandpa’s money to set us up in business.’
‘Business!’ He laughed, then tried to sound serious as he saw her hurt expression. ‘Lola, sweetheart, I don’t know anything about business. I’m a sailor, remember?’
‘Then you go back to sea and leave it to me!’ she flashed. ‘ I’ve never been in business either but I am willing to try. Is plenty of things that don’t require more than common sense and the determination to succeed.’
‘Such as?’
‘Jersey is beautiful island. Is the perfect place for people to go on holiday. Oh yes, I know, until a few years ago only the rich go on holiday. But times are changing. Transport is easier – the trains, the boats, even motor cars. Soon more people go on holiday, not just for day trip, and when they do they will come to Jersey. I think it will be good if we are ready for that. We sell Grandpa’s cottage and buy a house where we can have visitors. Then we have business. Is good idea, don‘t you think?’
Charles laughed again, not scornfully this time, but more from sheer delight at Lola.
‘A boarding establishment, you mean? I don’t see you as a landlady, cooking cabbage and keeping a lock on the bathroom door.’
Her finely arched dark brows drew together.
‘Why should I cook only cabbage? I make good food. People will like to come and stay with me. Will be very nice boarding house – you see.’
Charles had thought the idea was just a whim that Lola would soon forget, but he was wrong. A few days later when he came home from work at the docks she greeted him with the news that she had found the very place.
‘Is big house by harbour,’ she told him. ‘Dining room looks out to sea. Is room for visitors and for us.’
Charles was tired; all he wanted was to eat his tea and have a rest before going to bed, but Lola’s eyes were shining with excitement and he did not have the heart to disappoint her. He put his jacket on again, and leaving Nicky with his parents, they walked down town towards the harbour.
When he saw the house Charles was quite taken aback. It was large and square, three stories high and built of Jersey granite. The paint was peeling on the shutters that framed the windows and a tile or two was missing from the roof – blown down by the winds that gusted in from the sea, Charles supposed – but it was still a very impressive place.
‘I don’t know that we could afford anything as grand as this,’ he began doubtfully, but Lola interrupted him.
‘We can afford. I have done sums.’
‘Well, we’ll have to see …’ he hesitated. But Lola caught his arm excitedly, looking at him with those huge eyes of hers, and he knew he was lost. Just why she should be so set on running a boarding establishment and waiting on others when her regal bearing made her look as if they should be waiting on her he could not understand, but then it was because she was an enigma to him that made her so irresistible. He adored her and could refuse her nothing. Just as long as she was happy, then so was he.
La Maisott Blanche advertising itself as a ‘First Class Guest House’ opened the following spring. Lola had wanted to change its name to something with a Russian influence but Charles managed to dissuade her.
‘If we call it something foreign it might put people off.’
‘But La Maison Blanche is foreign,’ Lola protested. ‘ To me, is foreign. And to English people.’
‘But not to Jersey,’ Charles explained patiently. ‘ If they are coming to Jersey they will be prepared to accept French or even Jersey patois. But not Russian.’
At last Lola conceded the point. She was too happy with her new venture to argue for long, although giving in was not something she was in the habit of doing. Besides, she was really too tired to argue. She was working from morning to night to get the boarding house ready for guests, scrubbing floors, washing curtains, cleaning cupboards and even wielding a paintbrush to brighten up peeling window sills and skirting boards, all with Nicky, who could now crawl like lightning and even walk a few steps when he had a mind to, hanging onto her skirts.
When the first letter booking a holiday arrived she wanted to frame it and hang it on the wall but she knew that would never do. Instead she contented herself with putting it into a neat file and entering the names and dates in the thick diary she had bought especially for the purpose, then panicked madly in case the family were the only visitors that particular week – embarrassing! – or the whole of the summer – disastrous! But to her relief the bookings kept coming in a steady trickle. It was still necessary to hang a notice announcing VACANCIES over the brass knocker on the freshly painted front door, but perhaps that was not such a bad thing, Lola decided – at least it gave her the chance to get used to running a guest house a little more gradually.
That summer was one of the most exciting – and the busiest – that she had ever known. The visitors who came were impressed by the smart appearance of La Maison Blanche and the amenities it offered. It wasn’t everywhere one could get a bath, for instance, even if it did have to be paid for as an extra (a shilling for hot water, fourpence for cold), a cup of tea or coffee could be had at any time of the day for threepence, and the food served at luncheon and dinner was good and wholesome and also different enough to be exciting. As for the landlady … more than one entranced visitor went home to tell friends and relatives about the Russian beauty who had looked after them, adding the romantic embellishment that she might even be one of the daughters of the Tsar, not murdered at Ekaterinburg after all but alive and living in St Helier.
Soon the guest house was thriving and the second season Charles gave up his job in the docks and stayed at home to help Lola. There was so much to do besides the cooking and cleaning, which she managed single-handed. There was the paperwork, which Lola found difficult because although she spoke English fluently the written word still puzzled her. There were numerous odd jobs to keep the big old house in good order and there was the garden to maintain – neat flower beds and lawns at the front and a large vegetable plot at the rear where Charles grew fresh vegetables to put on the table for the guests.
But busy as he was Charles still found time to take Grandpa’s old boat out for a sail with Nicky sitting proudly in the well. Though he had repaired it so that it was no longer in danger of sinking it still leaked to a certain extent and more often than not he returned Nicky to his mother with his little rompers soaked with sea water.
‘My baby will catch pneumonia!’ Lola would cry dramatically, but he never did. ‘ He must be the hardiest child in the whole of the Channel Islands,’ she said, but Charles only laughed and remarked that Nicky was exactly like his mother.
When Nicky was two years old Lola discovered she was pregnant again and the following year Paul was born. Where Nicky had been a good child, Paul was a scamp. Even before he could walk he was into everything, shuffling round on his bottom ‘like greased lightning’ as Charles’s mother described it and doing mo
re mischief in a morning than Nicky had done in a week. In the kitchen he was a menace – the moment Lola’s back was turned he was pulling tins and jars out of the cupboards and emptying the contents onto the floor; in the bedrooms he untucked the beds as fast as she made them; in the dining-room he had been known to pull at the corner of a tablecloth bringing knives, forks and glasses tumbling down around his ears.
‘Never again!’ Lola cried in exasperation. ‘Is my last child, Charles, you hear me? Never, never again!’
But a year later, in the summer of 1925, just when the season was at its height, the third little Carteret put in her appearance.
‘At least she is a girl. Girl will not be so much trouble,’ Lola said.
I wouldn’t bank on it, Charles thought, but since he knew Lola was holding him entirely responsible for the fact that she had had to go back on her promise to herself he did not say so.
Against all doctor’s orders Lola was back in the kitchen cooking for the visitors less than a fortnight after Sophia, as she had named the new baby, was born, and soon the strain began to tell.
Sophia was indeed quite good, but all babies mean broken nights and coupled with the long working days it was simply too much for Lola. First she became weepy and, because of her volatile nature, almost hysterical at times; then the milk dried up so Sophia had to be put on a bottle, much to the nurse’s disgust, and lastly she became so thin and drawn that Charles grew frantic with worry. The trouble was she would take absolutely no notice of him. ‘I am fine!’ she would shout at him. ‘Is nothing wrong with me. There can’t be, can there! I have too much to do to be ill!’
Her face grew steadily more gaunt, great hollows accentuating her high cheek bones, and her violet eyes looked huge and dark, but still she continued working at the same pace, like an automaton set to self-destruct.
One night Charles woke and found her missing from bed. Worried, he went downstairs in search of her and found her lying on the floor of the kitchen. At first he thought she was dead, then, because the baby’s bottle was lying beside her, he thought for a panicky moment that perhaps Sophia had been in her arms and was now lying suffocated beneath her mother’s prone body. But he soon realised neither fear was justified. Sophia was still in her cot – for the first time ever she had slept though the night – and Lola was not dead, nor even collapsed in the way he might have feared. She was asleep, deeply, completely asleep, but when at last he managed to wake her she could give no explanation for what she was doing there on the floor.
