by Janet Tanner
‘I expect so. As you can imagine, I’ve had Daddy on the telephone already insisting we evacuate immediately. He says he is arranging to rent a manor house in Essex for us and wants me to organise a flight straight away.’
Viv turned cold with horror, her mind flying, as it always did, to Nicky. If they went dashing off to Essex how would she ever get news of him? He wouldn’t even know where to find her!
‘We’re not going, are we?’ she asked.
Loretta shrugged. ‘ Well, I expect so, eventually. But I did tell your father no strutting little German was going to panic me into simply turning on my heel and running. I need a few days at least to decide what to take with me and arrange for everything we are leaving behind to be stored.’
Viv almost wept with relief. Thank heavens for her mother’s stubbornness and panache! It offered her a small reprieve at least. But the days slipped by and as the arranged departure date of the last Saturday in June came closer with no word of Nicky desperation began to grip her once more. She had no alternative but to go with her mother. But before she went at least she could swallow her pride and visit Nicky’s family to try and find out if there was any news and leave a forwarding address. They were not a very friendly lot and the prospect was a daunting one but Viv shrugged off the slightly nervous feeling they instilled in her. Nothing mattered except contacting Nicky and besides she already knew which of the family she was going to see. It certainly would not be Lola, who did nothing to hide her disapproval and dislike of Viv. But Charles had an office in town and Charles was far more accessible. Besides, Viv had always felt a good deal more confident dealing with men than with women. If anyone could tell her something about Nicky it was Charles.
And so, late on the afternoon of Friday, 28th June, Viv took her open-top tourer and set out for St Helier. As she drove, a little too fast, through the narrow lanes a German plane skimmed overhead leaving a white vapour trail in the clear blue sky but she thought nothing of it. German planes had been cruising over the island for the past few days now – this was probably just another one.
Viv pursed her lips and put her foot down hard on the accelerator, far more concerned with what she would say to Charles Carteret than with any inquisitive German. She could get around him, she thought. Provided he was still here!
She began to tremble suddenly, wondering why it had not occurred to her before that the Carterets themselves might have decided to evacuate. Perhaps it was because they seemed so much part of the island – it was impossible to imagine St Helier without them. But now that she came to think about it what point would there be in their staying? They wouldn’t have much of a business left now. Who would be able to take a holiday on an island occupied by the enemy?
Oh, let them still be here! Viv prayed. And let them tell me Nicky is safe! In St Helier she parked the tourer, got out and walked along Conway Street looking for the offices of Carteret Tours.
The Carterets had not left Jersey though there had been plans at first for the children at least to be evacuated to safety.
They had talked about it on the afternoon that the news had broken that the island was to be demilitarised, a hasty family conference around the scrubbed pine table in the kitchen of the ‘annexe’.
‘Is ridiculous – ridiculous!’ Lola had stormed. ‘How can they wash their hands of us in this way? And to think I was glad that Winston Churchill was in charge instead of Chamberlain! He’s as bad – worse! What are we supposed to do, I’d like to know?’
Charles poured himself a straight whisky – unusual enough for him to drink anything stronger than home-brewed beer, unheard of at this time of day!
‘You could go to England, you and the children,’ he said. ‘You’d be safe there.’
Sophia’s interest had quickened. She had never left Jersey in the whole of her life.
‘What about you?’ Lola demanded. ‘Would you come with us, Charles?’
‘Me?’ Charles sounded surprised. ‘Oh no, someone has to stay and keep an eye on things here. Jersey is my home. I wouldn’t go and leave it to the Germans.’
‘Then neither shall I,’ Lola said stoutly. ‘You are right, Charles. We shouldn’t run away. I ran once before – I am not going to do it again. But I think the children should go. I would feel much happier if I knew they were safe.’
‘I’m not a child,’ Paul objected. ‘I don’t see why I should miss out on all the fun.’
‘Fun!’ Lola exploded. ‘You think it will be fun? Don’t talk such nonsense, you stupid boy!’
‘But if you and Papa are staying …’
‘That is quite different. Besides your sisters will need you there to look after them. No, Paul, not another word. I have better things to do than argue with you. I am going down to the pier now to book you all on to a boat. When I get back I shall expect to find you packed and ready to go.’
Paul scowled but said nothing. Though he was now almost sixteen years old and hated it when she treated him like a child he still had a healthy respect for his mother. The fits of rebelliousness he sometimes experienced at the almost dictatorial way she ran all their lives were almost always undermined by an equally strong desire to please her. From childhood he had learned that Lola expected total obedience and when she got it she was warm, generous and loving. But cross her and all hell was let loose. Her quick volatile temper flared and a sharp smack on the legs or a cuff around the ears was almost inevitable. But the physical reprisal, very rare nowadays, was the least of it and always had been. Much worse was the feeling of guilt she was able to generate, the almost unreasonable sense of having somehow let her down. Paul adored Lola, and however angry and resentful he might be initially when she laid down the law or enforced some rule that he considered stupid or unfair, or chastised him for a piece of naughtiness it was never long before he was crumbling inside, longing for her approval and measuring himself against it – or the lack of it.
To all the children Lola seemed like some incarnate version of St Peter on Judgement Day, ushering them through the portals to warmth, brightness and love or metaphorically banishing them to roast in the fires until they saw the error of their ways, and Paul, perhaps, was more affected by the sway that Lola held than any of them. His rebellion was always the most blatant, his remorse the most bitter. It was so difficult to continue to justify himself once the initial bravado had faded and knowing this he also knew that outright confrontation was useless. Lola always won in the end and he ended up feeling not only impotent but also ashamed of himself both for failing and for defying her in the first place. Now, though his whole body throbbed with the injustice of her arbitrary decision, his instinct for self-preservation made him hold his defiance in check until his mother was safely out of the door. Then, without much hope, for experience had also taught him that Charles very rarely overruled Lola in any matter of importance, he turned to his father.
‘I shan’t go, Papa. She can’t make me.’
Charles sighed. ‘ Oh Paul, don’t make things worse than they already are,’ he said wearily. ‘Don’t you think we have enough to worry about without adding the safety of you and your sisters to the list? Your mother is quite right. If the Germans come – and they are pretty sure to – Jersey won’t be a very good place to be.’
‘But …’
‘She knows about these things, remember. She was in Russia at the time of the revolution …’
‘I wish I had been! It must have been jolly exciting!’
‘It might seem that way to you now. That’s the trouble when you are young. War seems romantic. But I promise you the reality is different. I expect your brother could tell you that now.’
‘At least he’s had the chance to find out for himself!’ Paul said with feeling. ‘She didn’t stop him from joining the army.’
‘Paul, if the island is occupied and you are still here it won’t be your mother who stops you joining the army, it will be the Germans. They’ll turn the place into an island prison and you will have to do
as they tell you, make no mistake about that. We all shall.’ He saw the momentary doubt glimmer in Paul’s eyes and went on: ‘Now if you are in England, when you are old enough you will be free to do as you like. Surely that is much the best option.’
Paul scuffed the toe of his shoe against the leg of the table. He was beginning to see there was something in what his father said. Free to do as he liked – the prospect was an inviting one. No more Lola laying down the law and refusing to be argued with, no more curfews, perhaps no more school. But he did not want to appear to have been talked round too easily.
‘I suppose it’s not such a bad idea,’ he said grudgingly.
‘I’m glad you are beginning to see sense. Though for goodness sake don’t tell your mother what I said about you joining the army.’
For perhaps the first time in his life Paul felt a sense of kinship with his father. As a small boy he had hero-worshipped him, of course, hanging on to his coat tails and following him around, but of recent years he had come to regard him almost as an irrelevance. He was scarcely ever at home since he seemed to work all the hours that God sent at his tourist agency and when he was there he faded into insignificance beside the towering personality of Lola. If he had thought about his feelings for his father at all – and he had not, for Paul was not much given to introspection – he might have noted a certain scorn in the easy dismissal, the disdain one male feels for another who allows a woman to have the last word on virtually everything of importance in what should be his domain and everything else besides. Now, however, he looked at his father and felt that he might be looking at a mirror image of himself.
Being adult, he realised, didn’t automatically mean ruling the roost. It didn’t mean no longer having precisely the same feelings he had now – the need to be loved and approved of, the sense of guilt at causing needless pain, the moments of rebellion. But perhaps it meant knowing how to cope with them. Papa didn’t want Mama yelling at him any more than he did. He wasn’t afraid of her, of course, but a quiet life was a good deal more pleasant than a tempestuous one.
The realisation that his father might sometimes feel exactly as he did cheered Paul.
‘Don’t worry – I won’t say anything,’ he said conspiratorially. Then another thought occurred to him. ‘If I went to England I’d be able to go and see Nicky, too, I suppose.’
‘You would indeed.’
‘Well, I suppose all things considered it might be all right,’ he conceded and felt a lift of excitement at the prospect of the coming adventure.
No sooner had Paul come around to the idea of leaving for England, however, than Lola was back again having had a change of heart.
‘The whole place has gone mad!’ she exploded, setting her bag down on the table with a thud and taking off her hat. ‘ You never saw so many people – panicking, all of them! There are queues at the bank – everyone wants to draw out their money, it seems – and the queue at the pier, huh! – it is unbelievable! I should have been there all night! So I have decided. Perhaps it would be better if we all stay together.’
‘But I want to go to England, Mama!’ Catherine wailed. ‘I’ve packed my case all ready!’
‘Then you will just have to unpack it again, won’t you?’
‘I’ll go and queue up if you like,’ Paul offered.
Lola looked at him sharply. ‘You’ve changed your tune, haven’t you? Well, it’s too late, I’m afraid. Goodness knows what mischief the three of you would get up to without your mother and father to keep an eye on you. I suppose that’s what you have been talking about while I was out.’
She nodded her head briskly and Paul wondered how it was that Lola seemed to know instinctively what each of them was thinking and planning as if some sixth sense always helped her to keep them in line. It really was too bad, he thought glumly. He’d never escape now. He didn’t know how old Nicky had managed it.
Then he remembered the moment’s empathy he had experienced with his father and the memory cheered him once more. Perhaps Charles had his ways of getting around Lola. He might yet prove an ally. Paul made up his mind that the next time he wanted something he would talk to his father first and enlist his help. Quite apart from the prospect of getting his own way with less fuss than it took to fail, Paul found that he liked the idea of getting to know the old man.
That first week when the soldiers left was a strange unreal time of waiting, for what no one was exactly sure. The weather was perfect for June, the sun hot in a cloudless sky, and the uncertainty seemed to hang in the still warm air which occasionally reverberated with the throb of a low-flying German plane. The Union Jack still flew on the top of Fort Regent but the artillery had gone from Elizabeth Castle; the Esplanade was still busy as farmers queued for the weighbridge with their horses and carts and lorries loaded with potatoes to ship, but further along the front men were at work dismantling the criss-cross of wires that had been put across St Aubin’s Road to prevent the landing of enemy aircraft. All over the island Constables were checking abandoned houses for animals which might have been left behind and removing any perishable foodstuffs, documents which might give offence to the Germans were being removed from the offices at the States, and the islanders who had decided to remain were busy hiding away their most valuable possessions in places of safety.
Charles helped Lola to hide her hoard of sugar, dried fruit and flour in the attic and bury most of their little stock of spirit bottles along with their valuables in the garden, planting rose cuttings to mark the spots.
‘But you are not going to bury my engagement ring. If they want that they will have to cut it from my finger!’ Lola declared dramatically, and Charles, in a fit of pessimism, hoped fervently that the time would never come when they would need to sell or barter it in exchange for the necessities of life.
The mood, very unlike him, soon lifted, but he was left with the uncontestable knowledge that he would be bankrupt by the time the Germans came, if not before, unless he trimmed his expenses considerably. With no visitors on the island now he had no income to pay the rent on the tour company office and certainly none for the wages of its employees. And on that afternoon of Friday, 28th June, he decided he had better break the news to Bernard Langlois that until the war was over his service would no longer be required.
From the moment France had fallen Bernard had realised that with Jersey in considerable danger the tourist trade was bound to collapse, and with it his job. He was sorry about it but philosophical. The war wouldn’t last for ever and when it was over he would pick up where he had left off. In the meantime he thought perhaps he, like so many others, would anticipate his conscription papers and volunteer for the army.
In spite of this he felt considerable loyalty to Charles Carteret and was reluctant to tell him of his decision. But the moment Charles came into the now totally-quiet office looking serious and beginning: ‘Bernard, I’m afraid I have to talk to you,’ he knew exactly what was coming.
‘Don’t worry, I quite understand,’ he said when Charles explained that there simply was no point in trying to run a service for tourists when there were none. ‘I’m thinking of joining up anyway before they send for me. It seems the least I can do …’ He hesitated, then asked a trifle awkwardly: ‘Have you any more news of your son?’
Charles’s face darkened.
‘Not a great deal, no. He’s been moved to a hospital that specialises in spinal injuries – there’s some problem in that area from what we can make out. He was in Weymouth at first, as you know, and his mother wanted to go over and see him, but I talked her out of it, told her I didn’t think he’d thank her for it and that no doubt he’d soon be home on convalescent leave. But now I’m not sure I did the right thing. She’s worried about him but with things as they are there’s no question of travelling now, unless it’s for evacuation, and I am beginning to think he may be more seriously wounded than they’ve let on.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry …’ Bernard broke off, unsure what to say, b
ut he was saved by the deafening sound of an aeroplane approaching very low.
‘Dashed Germans! They’ve been backward and forward over the pier all day watching the potatoes being loaded,’ Charles said. ‘I don’t like it.’
Bernard went to the window, peering out, and saw a girl walking down the street, a tall, luscious girl with striking red hair escaping from beneath an emerald green headscarf, her eyes hidden behind dark glasses. Briefly he wondered who she was. And at that precise moment the world fell in.
The two explosions, one after the other, made the whole building shake and Bernard was thrown backwards across the office in a shower of glass, dust and plaster. For a moment, he was so shocked that he lay where he had fallen, unable to move or even think, then, without stopping to wonder if he was hurt, he picked himself up, rushing towards the gaping hole where the window had been.
‘Wait – there may be more!’ Charles warned, but Bernard took no notice. He could think of nothing but the girl. She must have been in the street when the bomb fell and would certainly have been caught in the blast.
He yanked open the door and ran out. There was debris and broken glass everywhere. A few yards away, tossed against a wall like a rag doll, lay the girl. Her scarf had been torn off by the blast – it fluttered in the gutter like a railway guard’s flag – and he could see that her white dress was stained with blood. He ran towards her, sick at heart, trembling with shock and the fear of what he might see when he looked into her face, but driven all the same by the need to help another human being. Then to his unutterable relief he saw her move. He reached her, went to lift her, then changed his mind, afraid of hurting her.
‘Are you all right?’ he said, knowing it was a stupid question yet saying it all the same.
Her eyes were open though they had a dazed look and her eyelashes fluttered as if she was trying to focus. A half-smile twisted her mouth and she stretched out a hand to him.
‘Nicky!’ she said.
