Spring 1940
Olive was both nervous and excited. Today was her wedding day and that night…well, she would become a real woman. She knew what to expect, of course she did. A farmer’s daughter like her had seen the animals doing ‘it’ enough. Her mother had never bothered to explain the finer details, like love and how good it made you feel to have a man share your bed. Olive was left to imagine that bit after talking to married girlfriends. And her soon-to-be husband wasn’t exactly the romantic type who bestowed copious kisses and waxed lyrical about her beauty. No, Bill was the down-to-earth type who had chosen her more for her experience of farming than her looks. Even though other men had given her the wink as they admired her long curly brown hair, wide hazel eyes and youthful curves.
As she picked up her wedding dress and held it in front of her, Olive wondered, not the first time, why she had agreed to marry Bill. She knew it wasn’t for love. Oh, he was attractive all right, tall with dark hair and eyes and as well-muscled as any farmer would be. But she had never felt a lurch in her stomach when he bothered to give her a kiss, like it said in the romance novels she read. She trembled at the thought of their first night together. Would he be gentle with her? Olive had to admit the signs were not good, Bill wasn’t known for his gentleness. He had a terrible temper on him and liked to get his own way. She had seen the way he treated the lads on his farm and shivered, this time with fear. So why had she said yes to his brief and most unromantic proposal?
‘Look here, Olive, I need a wife to help me run the farm. What do you say?’
She had been speechless. He had given no clue as to his intentions when he turned up at her parents’ farm that day six weeks before. Olive had noticed previously how his eyes had that funny look men had when they fancied a woman. But he’d not said anything. Until now. What was she to say? Her mind raced. No-one else had shown serious interest and with most of the young men off to join the forces, the choice was limited to the infirm or old. She cursed the war for the lack of suitors. With her looks she could have taken her pick. Even though people said the war would be over soon, it would be foolhardy to bank on it if she didn’t want to end up an old maid. She was already eighteen and people married young on the island.
If she said yes to Bill she would have her own house and be someone of account, he having inherited his father’s flourishing farm near Rocquaine. Much bigger than her parents’ farm, it even possessed a bathroom. She’d be secure for life.
Mentally crossing her fingers she said, ‘Yes, Bill, I’ll marry you.’
He nodded, grabbed her and pushed his tongue between her lips. The smell of beer and sweat nearly made her gag.
Looking back now to that proposal, Olive was inclined to run and tell her father she’d changed her mind. But before she could move, her mother came into the bedroom carrying a small posy of wild flowers for her bouquet.
‘Why are you not dressed, girl?’ she cried, throwing the flowers on the bed before tugging at Olive’s work clothes. ‘Let’s get you ready. I know brides are supposed to keep their grooms waiting, but I don’t somehow think your Bill would be too pleased.’
Olive shivered. No, she didn’t think he would be.
The next morning Olive woke feeling sore and dispirited. Bill had been pretty drunk when he came into their bedroom at the farm and seemed keen to get it over with so he could sleep. She, on the other hand, had made an effort to look enticing, wearing a pretty silk nightdress her mother had made for her bottom drawer. Olive had taken a bath and dabbed some of her precious perfume on her neck and between her breasts. Bill smelt of beer, whisky and sweat and he lunged at her, almost ripping the silk in his eagerness to pull the nightdress over her head.
‘You won’t be needing this, girl. I like to see what I’m getting, not have it covered up. Now lay still and I’ll make you a proper wife.’
He plunged into her and as pain shot through her body, she gritted her teeth to hold back a cry. It was over in moments, possibly seconds, and with a grunt, Bill rolled off her and promptly fell asleep, his snores taking the place of the sweet nothings Olive had hoped for. Brushing away the tears, she turned on her side, a sticky wetness clinging to her thighs. It wasn’t until daylight she realised some of the wetness was blood. Her only consolation was that she might now be pregnant. Something to make being married to Bill more bearable, if not entirely worthwhile.
Olive hadn’t conceived that night, her period arriving the same day as the Germans at the end of June. Both occurrences were a disaster as far as she was concerned. If she hadn’t been married she could have evacuated with other women and children earlier that month. As it was, she was stuck. Stuck with Bill and stuck with the bloody Germans, she thought, as she dressed ready to go into St Peter Port. It wasn’t fair! They’d been assured by Britain the Germans wouldn’t bother with the Channel Islands and all military personnel had been withdrawn. Bill had moaned about them being thrown to the wolves, and for once she agreed with him. Being only a dozen miles from the Normandy coast, they were an easy target for that blighter Hitler, Bill had said.
Olive wasn’t surprised Bill refused to go into St Peter Port to see the soldiers marching down High Street, but she needed to see it with her own eyes. To see if the soldiers were the devils they’d been described. She caught a lift with neighbours in their car. As she stood waiting in the High Street it chilled her to the bone to hear the sound of jackboots on the cobbled street of Le Pollet. Then they came. Hundreds of marching soldiers bearing rifles, helmets glinting in the sun. She felt sick. The memory remained with her for days.
When Olive went into Town a few days later she found Nazi flags flying everywhere and islanders had been forbidden to fly either the Union Jack or the Guernsey flag. As she cycled along the narrow lanes German lorries and jeeps sped past, causing her to take refuge in the hedges. Bile filled her mouth at the arrogance of the invaders literally driving locals off the roads with the shortage of petrol and ban on civilian vehicles. Bill only had a horse and cart, and as a farmer was allowed to keep it, but he never allowed Olive to use it.
By Christmas Olive’s spirits were at a particularly low ebb. Olive had been too busy to see much of her parents and was shocked one day in December to get a message from her mother saying her father was ill with pneumonia and not likely to live more than a few days. She wrapped up in as many layers as she could, the wind bitter along the coast, and cycled up towards Perelle and their farm. By the time she arrived, her ears burned and her face was frozen. Throwing the bike down on the frozen ground she rushed into the kitchen.
Her mother was stirring a pot of soup on the range and turned at her entrance. Her face was etched with lines and she looked years older than her forty years.
‘How…how’s Dad?’ Her breath came in short gasps and her chest hurt.
‘Still with us, but not for much longer, the doctor said. You’d best go up. Tell him I’ll bring the soup up shortly.’ Her mother gave a brief smile. ‘He’ll be pleased to see you, for sure.’
Olive shot up the granite steps of the tourelle, a circular stone staircase common in old Guernsey farmhouses. She pushed open her parents’ bedroom door and gagged at the smell of illness, of decay. Her father, a big, strong man in his heyday, lay white and shrunken under the bedcover. He smiled as he saw her, saying, ‘There you are, my girl. A sight for sore eyes. Come and give your old dad a kiss.’
Her eyes pricked at the sight of her beloved father reduced to little more than skin and bones, and not yet forty-five. She kissed him gently on his bristled cheek, seeing a flicker of light in the dulled eyes.
‘I’d have come sooner if I’d known, Dad. Why did no-one tell me?’ A surge of anger rose in her gullet.
‘I told your mother not to bother you, thought I’d get over it soon enough. But it took hold of me and wouldn’t let go and the doc’s told me he can’t do no more for me. They’ve run out of penicillin, he says. Only the Germans have medicines and they’re waiting on more supplies.’ He broke into a spasm of coughing and Olive supported his head until it stopped.
‘This bloody war! We’d have medicines if it weren’t for the Germans. It’s all their fault!’ Hot tears dripped onto her cheek and she hastily brushed them away. The past few months had been the worst of her life. She’d had to take on the workload of the lads who’d worked for Bill when they had evacuated to enlist and now had to look after the cows and chickens, take care of the house and grow the vegetables needed by the islanders. Then in the summer she’d watched, petrified, as the ranks of German and British planes flew overhead, ready to do battle with each other, praying that no stray bombs would fall. And now Dad was ill…
Her father lay back, exhausted.
‘Don’t waste what time we’ve got being angry, Olive. I want you to tell me what you’ve been up to. And how’s that husband of yours? Treating you alright is he?’ His eyes searched her face and Olive dropped her eyes. She’d have to lie, but it was hard.
‘We’re busy on the farm as you’d expect, Dad. And Bill…he’s well enough and we rub along together just fine.’ She caught his hand and kissed it.
‘That’s good. I had my doubts about him, but if you’re happy, that’s all that counts. I can die happy if I know you’re looked after.’
She forced a smile.
‘Don’t worry, Dad, I’ll be alright. Oh, Mum said she’s coming up with the soup–’
She stopped as a deep rattling sound came from his throat. She ran to the door, shouting, ‘Mum! Come quick!’ She heard her mother clatter on the stairs, but as she turned back to her father, she saw it was too late.
He was dead.