The Soldier’s Wife

CHAPTER 4

I walk with Evelyn to Angie’s house, up one of the narrow lanes that run the length and breadth of Guernsey, their labyrinthine routes scarcely changed since the Middle Ages. High, wet hedgebanks press in on either side of the lane; red valerian grows there, and toadflax, and slender, elegant foxgloves, their petals of a flimsy, washed-out purple, as though they’ve been soaked too long in water. I have Alphonse in a basket, and a bag of Evelyn’s clothes.

The climb exhausts Evelyn. We stop at the bend in the lane, where there’s a stone cattle-trough, and I seat her on the rim of the trough to catch her breath for a moment. Sunlight splashes through leaves onto the surface of the water, making patterns that hide whatever lies in its depths.

‘Is it much further, Vivienne?’ she asks me, as a child might.

‘No. Not much further.’

We come to the stand of thorn trees, turn in at the track to Les Ruettes. It’s a solid whitewashed farmhouse that’s been here for hundreds of years. There’s an elder tree by the door: islanders used to plant elder as a protection against evil, lest a witch fly into the dairy and the butter wouldn’t form. Behind the house are the glasshouses where Frank le Brocq grows his tomatoes. Chickens scratch in the dirt; their bubbling chatter is all about us. Alphonse is frenzied at the sight and smell of the chickens, writhing and mewing in his basket. I knock at the door.

Angie answers. She has a headscarf over her curlers, a cigarette in her hand. She sees us both there, and a gleam of understanding comes in her eyes: she knows I have made my decision. Her smile is warm and wide and softens the lines in her face.

‘So. You’ve made your mind up, Vivienne.’

‘Yes.’

I’m so grateful to Angie, for helping me out yet again. She’s always been so good to me—she makes my marmalade, smocks Millie’s dresses, ices my Christmas cake—and I know she’ll be welcoming to Evelyn. There’s such generosity in her.

She puts out a hand to Evelyn.

‘Come in, then, Mrs de la Mare,’ she says. ‘We’ll take good care of you, I promise.’

We enter the cool dark of her kitchen. Angie takes Evelyn to the settle by the big open hearth. Evelyn sits on the edge of the seat—tentative, as though she fears it won’t quite take all her weight, her hands precisely folded.

I put her bag on the floor. A chicken scuttles in and starts to peck at the bag. I keep tight hold of Alphonse’s basket.

‘I don’t know how to thank you, Angie,’ I say.

She shakes her head a little.

‘It’s the least I could do. And never doubt that you’re doing the right thing, Vivienne. With those two young daughters of yours, you don’t know what might happen.’ Then, lowering her voice a little, ‘When they come,’ she says.

‘No. Well …’

She leans close to whisper to me. Her skin is thickened by sunlight and brown as a ripening nut. I feel her warm nicotine-scented breath on my cheek.

‘I’ve heard such terrible things,’ she says. ‘I’ve heard that they crucify girls. They rape them and crucify them.’

‘Goodness,’ I say.

A thrill of horror goes through me. But I tell myself that this is probably just a story. Angie will believe anything. She loves to tell of witchcraft, hauntings, curses: she says that hair will grow much quicker if cut when the moon is waxing, that seagulls gathering at a seafarer’s house may presage a death … Anyway, I ask myself, how could such atrocities happen here, amid the friendly scratching of chickens, the scent of ripening tomatoes, the summer wind caressing the leaves—in this peaceful orderly place? It’s beyond imagining.

Maybe Angie sees the doubt in my eyes.

‘Trust me, Vivienne. You’re right to want to get those girls of yours away. She’s right about that, isn’t she, Frank?’ I turn. Frank, her husband, is standing in the doorway to the hall, half dressed, his shirt undone and hanging loose. I can see the russet blur of hair on his chest. I’m never quite sure if I like him. He’s a big man, and a drinker. Sometimes she has black eyes, and I wonder if it’s his fists.

He nods in response to her question.

‘We were saying that only last night,’ he says. ‘That you’d want to keep an eye on your girls, if you’d decided to stay. You’d want to watch your Blanche. She’s looking quite womanly now. I don’t like to think what might happen—if she was still here when they came.’

He’s looked at Blanche, noticed her—noticed her body changing. I don’t like this.

‘It would be a worry,’ I say vaguely.

He steps into the kitchen, buttoning up his shirt.

‘Vivienne, look, I was thinking. If it would help, I could give you a lift to the boat.’

I feel an immediate surge of gratitude for his kindness. This will make everything more straightforward. I’m ashamed of my ungracious thought.

‘Thank you so much, that would be so helpful,’ I say.

‘My pleasure.’

He tucks in his shirt. A faint sour smell of sweat comes off him.

‘The other thing is …’ I say, and stop. I’m embarrassed to be asking more: they’re already doing so much. ‘I was wondering if you could maybe look after Alphonse? I ought to have had him put down, but Millie was distraught.’

‘Bless her tender heart. Of course she would be,’ says Angie. ‘Of course we’ll take poor Alphonse in. He’ll be company for Evelyn, with all of her family gone.’

‘Thank you so much. You’re a saint, Angie. Well, I’d better be off …’

I go to kiss Evelyn.

‘You look after yourself,’ I say.

‘And you, Vivienne,’ she says, rather formally. She’s sitting there so stiffly, as if she has to concentrate or she might fall apart. ‘Give my love to the girls.’ As though she didn’t say goodbye to them just before we left. As though she hasn’t seen them for weeks.

I pat her hand, and thank Angie again, and hurry back down the hill. I can’t help thinking about what she said, about what the Germans could do. I tell myself she’s wrong—that it’s just a salacious story. In the Great War we heard that the Germans were cutting the hands off babies, but it proved to be just a terrible rumour.

Yet the pictures are there in my mind and I can’t push them away.

CHAPTER 5

The streets of St Peter Port are quiet. Some of the shops are boarded up, and there’s a lot of litter lying and shifting slightly in little eddies of air. The sky has clouded over, so it has a smudged, bleary look, like window-glass that needs cleaning. It’s a grey, dirty, rather disconsolate day.

Frank drops us at the harbour, wishing us luck.

We see at once why the streets were empty: all the people are here. There’s already a very long queue of silent, anxious islanders, snaking back from the pier and all along the Esplanade. We go to a desk set up on the pavement, where a flustered woman ticks off our names on a list. She has a pink, mottled face, and disordered hair that she keeps distractedly pushing out of her eyes.

We join the queue. People are sweating in woollen coats too cumbersome to pack up: they take out their handkerchiefs, wipe the damp from their skin. On this clammy summer day, the winter colours of the coats look sombre, almost funereal. Some people don’t have suitcases, and have tied up their belongings in neat brown-paper parcels. A bus arrives, and children spill down the steps; most of them have labels carefully pinned to their coats. They have a lost, dazed look in their eyes. Older children officiously clutch at younger brothers and sisters, responsibility weighing on them, clasping at a coat collar or the cuff of a sleeve.

Millie stares at the children. She frowns. She holds very tight to my hand.

Blanche is wearing her coral taffeta dress beneath her winter coat. She unbuttons her coat and runs her hand over her skirt, trying to smooth out the creases in the glossy fabric.

‘Oh, no, Mum,’ she says suddenly.

Her voice is full of drama; my heart pounds, hurting my chest.

‘What is it?’ I say sharply.

‘I think I’ve forgotten my Vaseline. My skin will get all chapped.’

I feel a little cross with her, that she frightened me like that.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say. ‘We’re all sure to have forgotten something.’

‘It does matter, Mum. It does.’

We stand there for what seems like a very long time. The queue is orderly, subdued: nobody talks very much. Seagulls scream in the empty air above us, and there are many boats at anchor; you can hear the nervous slap and jostle of water round their hulls. The sun comes briefly out from the cloud, throwing light at everything, then rapidly snatching it back; where the sun isn’t shining on it, the sea looks black and unspeakably cold. I can’t see the boat that will take us to Weymouth—it must be moored out of sight. The only vessel that’s moored to this part of the pier is quite a small boat, not much bigger than the fishermen use, tied up where stone steps lead down from the pier to the sea. I wonder vaguely who it belongs to.

More and more people come, with their coats, their suitcases, their bulging parcels of precious belongings: with the fear that seems to seep like sweat from their pores.

‘Will I have my own room at Auntie Iris’s?’ Blanche asks me.

‘No, sweetheart. It’ll be a crush. You’ll probably have to sleep in the back bedroom with the boys.’

‘Oh,’ she says, digesting this. It isn’t quite what she’d hoped for. ‘Well, I don’t mind. It might be quite fun, really, sharing a room.’

‘What does London look like?’ says Millie.

‘You’ll love it,’ says Blanche. She relishes being asked this—she loves being the expert on London. ‘The women have beautiful clothes, and the trains go under the ground, and there’s a park with pelicans …’

I understand Blanche’s yearning for London: sometimes I long for it too, even after all these years away, remembering the thrilling hum of the city, the people so different from island people, so much more vivid and purposeful, the yellow lamplight on smoky streets, the slow brown surge of the Thames. I remember too the sense of possibility—of a world that’s freer, wider, more open than this island. I share her excitement for a moment, allowing myself a spark of hope—that there could be good things about this, in spite of the war. A new freedom.

‘Can we go and see Buckingham Palace?’ says Millie.

She has a Buckingham Palace jigsaw that Evelyn gave her for Christmas.

‘I’m sure we will,’ I say.

To my relief, the queue begins to edge forward. Then I see that the people at the front are going down the steps from the pier and over a gangplank onto the boat. The small boat. It can’t be. They can’t expect us to go in that, all the way to England.

‘What is it, Mum?’ says Blanche, urgently. She’s heard my quick inbreath.

‘Nothing, sweetheart.’

She follows my gaze.

‘It isn’t a very big boat, Mum.’ A little uncertain.

‘No. But I’m sure it will be fine. I’m sure they know what they’re doing …’

She hears the apprehension in my voice. She gives me a questioning look.

The queue inches forward, silently.

In front of me is a solid middle-aged woman. Round her neck she wears a fox fur, which has a glass-bead eye, a predatory mouth, a lush russet tail hanging down. Millie is intrigued: she stares at the fox. A smell of mothballs hangs about the woman; she will have taken her best winter clothes out of storage. Next to her is her husband, who seems rather passive and cowed. You can tell she’s the one who makes the decisions.

‘Sorry to bother you,’ I say.

She turns and gives a slight smile, approving of my children.

‘It was just that I was wondering—is that the boat?’ I say.

‘Well—that’s what it looks like,’ she says.

She obviously takes trouble over her appearance; she has plucked her eyebrows out then pencilled them carefully in, and her face is heavily powdered. Her hat is fixed with a silver hatpin like a pansy flower.

‘We’ll never all get on that,’ I say. ‘They should have sent something bigger. Didn’t they realise how many of us there would be?’

The woman shrugs.

‘To be honest—excuse my language—but I don’t think they give a damn about us, in England,’ she says.

‘But—you’d think they’d have sent some soldiers. I mean, there’s no protection for us. We could meet anything on the journey …’

‘We’re expendable, let’s face it,’ says the woman. ‘They’ve given us up for lost. Well, I suppose Mr Churchill’s got an awful lot of things on his mind.’

She’s sardonic, resigned. I wish I could be like that—perhaps it’s a good way to be: not to expect very much, not to struggle against what is happening. But she doesn’t have children with her.

She pulls out the pansy hatpin and fans her face with her hat. Sweat has made thin runnels in the powder on her face. She turns back to her husband.

Panic moves through me. Millie’s hand is so tiny and helpless in mine: everything feels so unguessably fragile, so opened up to disaster—the bodies of my children, the flimsy little boat. I have to protect my children, I have to keep them safe; but I don’t know how to do that. I think of the boat, packed tight with all these people, edging its way across the wideness of sea, all that shining waste of water between us and Weymouth; of the dark secret threat that lurks in the depths of the sea.

I’m scarcely aware of the moment of decision—as though I perform the action almost before I think the thought. I find myself pulling Millie out of the queue, dumping the bags down beside her.

‘Stay there,’ I tell her.

I go to grab Blanche’s arm.

She’s startled. She turns to me jumpily.

‘Mum. What on earth are you doing?’

‘We’re going back home,’ I tell her.

She ignores what I say, or doesn’t hear me.

‘Mum.’ Her voice is splintered with panic. ‘We’ll lose our place in the queue.’

‘We’re going home,’ I say again.

‘But, Mum—you said we had to go now, or we couldn’t go at all.’ Her eyes are wide, afraid.

Millie tries to pick up her carpet bag, but she’s only holding one handle. The bag falls open and all her things tumble out—her knickers and liberty bodices, her candystripe pyjamas, her beloved ragdoll—all her possessions, intimate, lollipop-bright, spewing out all over the grubby stone of the pier. She starts to cry—shuddery, noisy sobs. She’s frightened and cross, and ashamed that she made the things spill.

‘Shut up, Millie. You’re such a crybaby,’ says Blanche.

Millie, outraged, sobs more loudly. There’s a slight cold drizzle of rain.

I gather up Millie’s things and try to brush the dirt off them. Everyone’s eyes are on me.

‘Mum, you can’t do this,’ hisses Blanche, in an intense whisper. She’s torn—desperate to make me listen, yet mortified at being involved in such a public scene. ‘We’ve got to get to England.’

‘The boat’s too small. It isn’t safe,’ I say.

The rain comes on more heavily. Rainwater soaks my hair, runs down my parting, runs down my face like tears.

‘But nothing’s safe any more,’ she says.

I have nothing to say to that.

‘And I want to go. I want to go to London.’ Her voice is shrill. ‘You said we were going to go. You said.’

I’m trying to gather up Millie’s things.

‘Blanche, for God’s sake, just grow up. This isn’t all about you. Can’t you think of somebody else for once?’

Immediately I’ve said it, I regret it. I shouldn’t have told her off like that. I have snatched her dream away from her: I know she’s upset, and afraid. But the words hang between us, sharp as blades, and I can’t take them back again.

I straighten up, put my hand on her shoulder. She shakes me off and stands a little aside, as though she is nothing to do with us. Her face is a papier maché mask: it’s set and white and looks about to dissolve.

I usher them back, past the queue of people. I don’t know how to get home, I haven’t thought this through, haven’t thought beyond this moment—just wanting to turn my back on the boat, the journey, the treacherous heave and shine of the sea.

We walk along the Esplanade, heading away from the pier. I don’t know if there are any buses going to St Pierre du Bois. Maybe all the buses are busy bringing the children here, to the harbour. The mist and rain are blowing in so you can’t see far over the water, the horizon edging nearer, everything closing in, closing down. They’ll have a wet, choppy crossing.

And then, with a rush of relief, I see a vehicle I recognise: it’s Angie’s brother, Jack Bisson, in his ramshackle van. Jack works as a handyman; like Angie, he’s resourceful, he can fix anything—burst pipes, loose slates, a cow that’s struggling to calve. I wave, and he comes to a stop beside us and winds his window down.

‘We were going to go and then we decided not to,’ I say.

‘She decided not to,’ Blanche mutters behind me. ‘Not us. Her.’

Jack has quick dark eyes like a sparrow and Angie’s warm wide smile. His bird-like gaze flits over us. He nods, accepting what I’ve said.

‘Mr Bisson—I know it’s an awful lot to ask—but I don’t suppose you’re going our way? You couldn’t give us a lift?’

‘Of course I could do that, Mrs de la Mare. Just you hop in,’ he tells us.

He drops us in the lane just above Le Colombier.

CHAPTER 6

We trudge down the lane towards our house.

There’s no sound but the rustle of rain on the uncountable leaves of the woods and orchards of the valley. Fat drips spill from the branches above us and soak our hair and our clothes, and I want to wipe the rain from my face, but I’m holding two bags and Millie’s hand and can’t brush the water away. Millie is tugging at me: she says her feet have blisters. All I can think is how much I want to get home.

We come to the wide five-bar gate that opens into our yard. The gate is unfastened. I must have left it like that—not noticing that I hadn’t fastened it in our rush to leave. But I’m surprised I was so careless.

I go to the door: it’s half ajar. I feel my pulse skittering off.

‘What’s the matter, Mummy?’ says Millie.

‘I’m not sure. You two can wait out here for a moment,’ I tell them.

‘Why?’ says Blanche. ‘It’s our home. And it’s raining, Mum, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

‘Just do as you’re told,’ I say.

My voice has an edge. Blanche flinches.

I step cautiously into the passage, then into the kitchen. Fear rushes through me. Someone has been here. Someone has broken into our house. My kitchen is wrecked, the cupboard doors flung open, my pottery jars broken, flour and raisins and biscuits all over the floor.

I call out.

‘Hello?’

My shrill voice echoes.

I stand silently for a moment and listen for running footsteps, my heart thudding. But the house has an empty, frail stillness: whoever did this has gone. I step warily into the living room. All my precious music is scattered, the sheets of paper like white petals from some great blossoming tree that a wind has shaken. The cabinet is open, and they’ve taken some of the china, and the Staffordshire dogs and the eggcups from the mantelpiece have gone.

The girls come cautiously into the house to find me.

‘No.’ Blanche’s voice is freighted with tears. ‘I told you, Mum. We did the wrong thing. We should never have come back,’ she says.

‘The Germans are thieves,’ says Millie severely. ‘I hate them.’

‘This wasn’t the Germans,’ I tell her. ‘The Germans haven’t come.’ I only just manage not to add yet. I swallow down the word.

‘It was the Germans,’ says Millie. It’s so simple for her. ‘They’re robbers. They’ve taken our china dogs. They shouldn’t have.’

‘No, sweetheart. It must have been someone who lives around here who did this.’

There’s the crunch of something broken, splintering under my feet. I kneel, pick up a china shard. It’s from one of the flowered teacups I brought all the way from London, that I always kept for best and only used for Sunday tea, because I was scared they might get damaged. Now, I see I was wrong: I should have made the most of the flowery cups while I could.