Читать книгу The Soldier’s Wife - Margaret Leroy - Страница 24

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 bumble bees, 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 coming 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. Or perhaps we’d go to Roquaine Bay, where the soft sand is perfect for sandcastles, or up to the north, to Vazon, with its wide clean air, all its spaciousness, or to the Forts Roques, the savage black rocks that rise from the water like broken teeth. You could always find a sheltered spot there, a patch of sandy grass where you could spread a rug for a picnic. There’d be crickets, and rock pools with emerald crabs, and delicate tamarisk flowers.

But we can’t do these things any more. 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, the Battle of Britain has begun. Evelyn listens with me, though I don’t know whether she understands—whether what she hears makes sense to her. 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 defence 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 aircrews 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 was 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 ragdoll: ‘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, 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, the gilded time of a woman’s life. 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 round the house in 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 over-ripe 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.

Through August, I don’t see much of the Germans at Les Vinaires. I tell myself, Maybe they won’t bother with us. Maybe they scarcely think of us at all. They want a quiet life here, as Captain Richter said. But I’m wary. I never go out after curfew. When I come back from Angie’s, I’m careful always to take the track through the fields. If I’m cleaning my bedroom, I try not to look out into the lane. I don’t see the scarred man any more—not in the lane, not in the lighted window. Now, they always draw the blackout curtains early, at Les Vinaires.