February 1941
Olive threw the spade down in disgust. The frosty ground was proving too hard to penetrate and the more she tried the more the blisters on her hands hurt. She pushed her sore hands under her armpits in an effort to soothe and warm them. The freezing February air conspired against her and Olive stomped off towards the barn for a much needed respite. She needed to check on the chickens anyway, she reminded herself.
The barn was only marginally warmer, numerous holes in the roof and gaps around the doors let in piercing cold draughts, but at least it offered protection from the worst of the wind. Olive continued to stamp her feet and swung her arms in a good imitation of a windmill, trying to get the circulation pumping through her frozen body. A mass of feathers half-buried in the straw parted to reveal the hens woken from their slumber by Olive’s stamping. A lone cock perched in haughty isolation on a roof beam.
‘Morning, girls. I hope you’ve laid plenty of eggs today as they’re needed by our customers, they are. Let me take a look, now. Give me some space.’ Olive waved her arms at them and began searching the usual places. Each hen had a favourite spot to lay their eggs and it could take a while to check them all. Olive carried a basket in one hand and smiled as she spotted the first egg. By the time she had finished the final count was a round two dozen, not bad for her modest flock.
‘Thank you, girls. I’ll leave you to rest now.’ She knew it was odd to talk to them, but somehow it was a comfort to talk to something. Bill never talked to her, except to issue orders or complain about his dinner or something she hadn’t done. The hens gathered round when she talked to them and cackled away as if in reply. Olive left the barn and strode towards the farmhouse, anticipating with pleasure the warmth of the kitchen. She pushed open the door to be met with the glowering face of her husband.
‘What are you doing back here? You’re supposed to be digging up the parsnips.’ He was ensconced in his chair by the range, warming his hands over a hotplate.
Olive’s heart sank. So much for enjoying a peaceful cup of tea on her own.
‘I couldn’t get the spade in the ground, Bill. It’s too hard. Thought I might try later if it warms up a bit. Or perhaps you could make a start for me? You’re so much stronger than I am.’ She had learnt early on to try flattery. Olive placed the eggs carefully on the table and picked up the kettle. ‘Fancy a cup?’
Bill nodded and leant back in his chair, a comfortable padded affair with arms. Hers was a wooden ladder-back with a seat cushion. He wanted her to know her place.
‘You carry on with the digging; I’ve got to go out for a while. You’re probably not trying hard enough, woman. Getting lazy, you are.’ He scowled at her and she bit back a reply. It was Bill who was getting lazy and she was sure he was meeting up with his pals to share a jar or two of some black-market liquor.
Once he had gone Olive allowed herself a few more minutes by the range, sitting in his chair, before wrapping up her hands in old cloths to protect them. She dragged herself back into the cold to attack the digging, knowing it would be the worse for her if she didn’t. Money and food was scarce and what they earned from their vegetables, milk and eggs kept them from starvation. Life had continued to offer more challenges since the Occupation. As Olive forced the spade into the resistant earth, her mouth twisted in a bitter smile. If she had known what was to happen, she would have chosen to stay at home with her parents and not marry Bill. Her vision of freedom, her own farmhouse and a comfortable life had disappeared even before the jackboots marched into St Peter Port and the German flag raised at the Royal Hotel.
As the Occupation dragged on the need for home-grown food grew stronger and Olive had to plant on a bigger scale to help feed the hungry islanders. Bill ploughed the field next to the farmhouse but left it to Olive to plant, only giving her a hand when it suited him.
Leaning on the spade she let her eyes focus on the landscape spread out before her. Heavy, dark clouds loomed over the sea looking as grey as the sky. Even the fields and trees had been leached of colour and the effect made Olive more depressed. She had never liked winter and this past one under German rule had been worse, thanks to the shortage of food, clothing and fuel. She had been so desperate for warm clothes she’d raided the attic where Bill’s late parents’ stuff had been stored. Sorting through his mother’s old clothes she had found heavy-weight skirts, jumpers and jackets which she’d altered to fit her much slimmer figure. The muddy colours didn’t suit her and the old wool scratched her skin, but at least the clothes offered warmth. Olive’s vision of being able to shop in town for new clothes when she wanted was soon scotched, firstly by Bill’s meanness and then, since the Occupation, by the lack of stock in the shops.
As she painfully dug up the reluctant parsnips, Olive’s eyes glistened with threatening tears. She missed her father. He was the one she ran to as a child when upset or hurt. He’d sit her on his lap and cuddle her, while she poured out her woes. Her mother, on the other hand, had idolised her brother, Ross. He was definitely the blue-eyed boy. Olive had long given up trying to win her mother’s love but was happy her father made such a fuss of her. He and Ross didn’t see eye to eye as Ross grew into manhood and Olive was secretly pleased. She resented the fact her mother always took Ross’s side in any quarrel between them. Ross was the adored first-born and couldn’t possibly have done anything as nasty as aiming his catapult at the cat, causing it to jump in terror and rush up a tree where it stayed for hours until her father had managed to coax it down.
Olive had been only too happy to encourage Ross to sign-up when war was declared, but their mother was devastated.
‘No, you can’t go, Ross. We need you here on the farm, your father can’t manage without you, can you, Larry? Tell him he has to stay.’ Her mother stood in the kitchen, twisting a tea cloth in her hands, despair painted on her face. Olive watched her father fidget uncomfortably in his chair and crossed her fingers.
‘Well, now m’dear, I’m sure I could manage if I have to. I wouldn’t want no-one thinking my son was a coward and afraid to go off and do his duty for king and country, like. I did my bit in the last war and came back, didn’t I? So who’s to say our Ross won’t return when it’s all over? And they do say it won’t last long, anyways.’ Larry didn’t meet her eyes, but nodded at his son, pacing around the kitchen floor in his impatience.
‘Thanks, Dad, I knew you’d understand. Although I’m old enough not to need your permission, I’d like your blessing.’
Olive, smiling inwardly, watched her mother’s face crumple. Perhaps now she’ll love me, she thought. But there had been little more warmth from her mother after Ross left to join the army, only showing more interest in her after Bill proposed. Before then, Olive’s workload on her parents’ farm had increased and she began to regret being eager for Ross to go. And when Bill seemed to offer salvation in the form of her own home and lads working on the farm, it had not been a difficult decision.
Her bitterness at the unfairness of it all – the awful, awful marriage and the Occupation by the Germans – caused Olive to attack the soil with increased vehemence. Each time she forced the spade into the soil, she imagined she was battering either Bill or anonymous Germans. If only this war would end! The trouble was they had little news coming in. They’d had to hand in their wirelesses on pain of imprisonment and the Germans issued news bulletins full of their own victories. Some brave souls had either secretly hidden their wirelesses or made crystal sets and some news filtered through that way. Unfortunately, this wasn’t enough to raise their spirits as the Germans seemed to be winning on all fronts.
Olive could have coped with all the hardships if only she had been blessed with a child. It was the continuing hope that she would fall pregnant which sustained her while Bill had his way with her. You couldn’t call it love-making, she thought bitterly. His rough approach made her feel like a brood mare, not a wife, leaving her sore in mind and body. Self-pity engulfed her and the tears flowed down her numb cheeks as she continued to dig.