1941–1942
The year dragged painfully towards the end, the biting cold draining Olive’s energy, together with her fellow islanders. Supplies struggled to get through from France leaving the shops virtually empty. It was set to be a miserable Christmas and Olive took the bold decision to spend it with her mother rather than Bill. She didn’t expect to be missed and knew there’d be no exchange of presents, just like the last time. They’d given up any pretence of caring about each other; the farm and the animals were all that kept them under the same roof.
On Christmas Eve Olive told Bill she’d be leaving for her mother’s after the morning milking the next day. He would need to take over the evening session.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be back early on Boxing Day for the milking and I’ll leave you some fresh soup to heat up and there’s cake in the larder.’
Bill looked up from his plate of vegetables and a thin slice of ham, his fork held out in front of him.
‘Soup? Is that all you can offer me at Christmas? Where’s the meat and veg?’ His eyebrows were drawn together in a scowl.
‘I’m sorry, Bill, but I couldn’t get any in Town, the butcher had sold out before I reached the end of the queue. It’s the same for everyone, you only have to ask around.’
He grunted and continued chewing the meagre supper, washed down with weak beer. As they went upstairs to their respective bedrooms, he said, grabbing her arm, ‘Just you make sure you’re back early for the milking. There’ll be trouble for you if you’re not.’ Olive nodded and slipped into her room, thankful to be having a whole day and night away from him.
Olive cycled along the coast road towards her mother’s farm, a freezing wind bringing tears to her eyes. Wearing her thickest clothes, she still felt the numbing cold. The time spent in the barn milking the cows hadn’t helped and the heavy, threatening sky looming above matched her mood. At least it wasn’t raining and her mum had promised to have the fire going for when she arrived. A kind neighbour had given Edith some logs from old trees they’d cut down and the house promised to be warmer than her own. Smoke curled from the chimney as she arrived in the yard and she smiled. Mum had been up early as promised. She stored her bike in the woodshed and went through the back door into the kitchen. The fire sparked and spat in the large inglenook and Edith, sitting in her chair, had set up a spit on irons. The smell of roasting chicken wafted towards her and her stomach rumbled as she moved towards the fire. Her mother looked more content than for a long time.
‘Happy Christmas, Mum. My, what a treat! I never thought we’d have chicken.’ She bent down to kiss her mother who tapped her nose, smiling.
‘I managed to barter for it with some of the wood. It was an old bird so might be a bit tough, but better than nothing, eh? You’ve brought the veg and potatoes?’ Olive nodded, holding up her sack, thankful as ever that she could grow them and not have to compete with other housewives for the little in the shops.
‘We’ll have a feast, Mum. I’ve made a version of carrot cake that doesn’t taste too bad and I’ve brought some whipped cream to go with it.’ She sighed, adding, ‘Wish we could have a proper Christmas cake like you used to make, loaded with fruit and soaked in brandy. Going without makes you appreciate what you used to have, doesn’t it?’ Olive peeled off the layers and started preparing the vegetables while her mother made cups of bramble tea. The vegetables ready, she joined Edith by the fire and drank her tea, mesmerised by the revolving chicken crisping on the spit.
The dinner, poor by their old standards, tasted delicious and they chatted over old times, relaxed in the warmth of the kitchen. In the evening Edith produced some oat biscuits and a piece of ham, saying she had something special to wash it down. Olive was intrigued. Had her mother bought some black-market alcohol? Edith took two cut glass tumblers from the dresser and rooted around in the bottom cupboard, lifting out a bottle of the single malt Olive’s father used to drink.
‘I never used to be fond of whisky myself, but I tried a wee drop the other night and I’ve discovered a taste for it. It’ll put a fire in our bellies, for sure.’ She poured a small measure in each glass and passed one to Olive.
‘Merry Christmas!’
They touched glasses. Olive had never tried whisky either, but as the smooth peaty liquid flowed down her throat, she enjoyed the sensation of warmth and ease it produced. The whisky, soon topped up, made them maudlin and Edith told Olive of how she and Larry had met and the days of their courtship. By the time she’d finished, they were both wiping tears from their eyes, before reaching again for the whisky. Finally, feeling tipsy, Olive roused herself to stand up, saying, ‘I’d best be off to bed, Mum. I’ve to leave as soon as the curfew finishes at six, to milk the cows. You have a lie-in and I’ll be back soon.’
The next morning Olive woke to find her mother shaking her.
‘Wake up, girl! It’s gone seven!’
Olive opened her eyes and groaned. Her head pounded and her mouth tasted horrible. Trying hard to focus on her mother’s anxious face, realisation dawned. ‘The cows! Oh my God! The cows!’ She scrabbled around for her clothes and her mother left her to dress. Two minutes later she was downstairs and splashing her face in cold water at the kitchen sink.
‘I’ve made some tea–’
‘Thanks, Mum, but I’d better go. You take care of yourself, all right?’ They kissed goodbye and Olive rushed outside and dragged her bike out of the shed. As she jumped on the saddle her heart thumped in her chest. Bill wouldn’t be best pleased.
As soon as Olive opened the barn door she knew she was in trouble. The cows stood in their stalls, contentedly chewing on their feed. Bill must have finished the milking!
Her heart in her boots, she pushed open the kitchen door. Bill turned in his chair and stood up. His face was puce as he advanced towards her.
‘Bill, I’m so sorry–’
He threw a vicious punch at her and she fell onto the granite floor, barely conscious. She tasted bile in her mouth and wanted to be sick.
‘I told you to be back in time, didn’t I? Don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’m off now and I expect a meal on the table when I come back tonight.’ She felt his boot land hard on her hip and bit back a groan, trying to appear unconscious. A minute later she heard him pick up his coat and slam the door behind him. Olive lay still for a moment longer before she pulled herself up, staggered to the sink, and was promptly relieved of yesterday’s meal. She drank a glass of water and refilled it. Her head felt as if it had been crushed between two unyielding forces and her legs were refusing to support her weight. Stumbling to Bill’s chair, she held her head in her hands as the tears fell. She knew she only had herself to blame, but the message was clear. From now on she’d have to tread carefully with Bill – or else.
The winter dragged on and Olive kept away from her husband as much as possible. She went about her chores with a hardness in her heart, knowing she had no choice. In March she was round her mother’s one day when Edith showed her the local paper.
‘See that? What’s the world come to when they arrest our policemen.’
Olive read of the arrest of eighteen Guernsey policemen accused of stealing from the stores of rations for both Germans and locals and selling the goods on the black market. She looked up, shocked. ‘Surely this can’t be true? Those men wouldn’t steal from their own. Do you think this is some made-up charge by the Germans?’
Edith pursed her lips.
‘It’s what I’ve heard, except they did take the supplies, but only as revenge against the Germans. They hid all the goods they took and didn’t sell them. Wonder who tipped off the Germans, eh?’ She shook her head. ‘Hunger and greed make bad bed-fellows in times like this. By the time this war is ended, a lot of bad apples will be found, you mark my words. We’re all being tested and I’m not sure what will become of our islands when it’s over. Not that I’m likely to be around to see it,’ she added, quietly.
‘Mum! Don’t say that! You’ve seemed better lately and you’re no age yet.’
Edith twisted her hands and Olive noticed how the veins stood out against the pale skin. Giving her a closer look she realised the clothes were hanging a bit looser than a few weeks ago. ‘Mum, are you ill?’
‘I…I don’t feel like I should. I get tired more quickly and my appetite’s not what it was. Not that anyone has much to eat, of course.’ She smiled wanly.
A spasm of fear clutched at Olive’s stomach. Having become such friends only recently, she realised how much she needed her mother. She was all she had.
‘Have you seen the doctor?’
‘You know I don’t hold much truck with doctors and anyways, he’d be far too busy seeing people who are really ill. I’ll pick up again in the spring, when it’s warmer. I never was one for winters.’
Olive had to be content with that; her mother could be stubborn as she well knew. But she’d keep a watchful eye on her, all the same.
By May, the island was blooming; in the woods and hedgerows, nestled amongst primroses and wild garlic, bluebells waved their dainty heads in the breeze. Olive loved to see the wild flowers and would pick bunches to brighten up her kitchen. They never lasted long, though, and she was constantly replacing them. Sometimes when on her bike to collect the rations, she would head out extra early, making for the cliffs of Torteval to enjoy the sight of the yellow gorse, phlox and tiny violets nestling in the grass. One particular day, she arrived to find her usual lane blocked by what looked at first glance to be a ghostly mob of departed souls. Blinking, she realised, to her horror, they were living men, more skeletal than human, whose rags barely covered their bodies, exposing their grey flesh. A plump, officious-looking man wearing a brown uniform she’d never seen before, headed towards her, waving his arms. A badge bearing the letters ‘OT’ was sewn on his tunic and he was gripping a baton in his hand.
‘This area it is verboten, we are to build here a Geschützstellung. You must leave.’
‘But…but who are these poor men?’
‘Slave workers, scum. You do not need to worry about them. Bitte, go.’
Throwing a last glance at the men, who looked at her with deadened eyes, she mounted her bike and rode along the Route de Pleinmont, heading for St Peter Port. Olive felt chilled suddenly, even though the day was warm. She had known the slave workers had been arriving in large numbers over the past months, but hadn’t seen any, giving them little thought. Clearly they were ill-fed and probably beaten, by the look of them. Pity flowed through her. They shared something in common, but at least she still had hope for release one day, unlike the poor devils being worked to certain death.
One day in June Olive came back from Town and showed Bill the latest edition of The Star.
‘It says there’s to be a permanent ban on all radios from now, on pain of imprisonment or death. So it’s going to be even harder to know what’s happening in the war.’
‘That new underground newsletter which started last month will keep going I reckon. There’ll always be someone with a set. We’d better hand ours in, I don’t want to end up in prison.’
Olive reluctantly agreed. They’d handed in their wireless at various times since the invasion, but had always had them handed back after a few months. She’d miss listening to the news and the music programmes, but it wasn’t worth risking going to prison – or worse – for. She’d pop into her mother’s and tell her. Edith wasn’t going out much these days and Olive was worried about her.
Later that day, after the milking, Olive rode up to her mother’s farm. Along the way she saw gangs of slave workers toiling on the new railway, sweat pouring from their emaciated bodies. Men in the now-hated brown uniforms watched with steely eyes, and beat anyone who appeared to be slacking. Olive felt sick. There was little she or anyone else could do. If an islander was caught feeding or sheltering the POWs, they faced imprisonment or death. The Germans saw such aid as treason, while the islanders viewed it as compassion for men on their own side. Olive knew she wasn’t brave enough to take risks and the shame sat heavy with her. She was still heavy-hearted when she arrived at Edith’s.
She found her mother in her usual place in the kitchen, dozing in her chair. Edith sat up, startled, when she called out, ‘Hello, Mum. It’s only me.’
‘Oh, hello, love. I wasn’t expecting you and was having a little nap. Everything all right?’
Olive searched her mother’s face. She did look pale, but didn’t seem to have lost any more weight. She gave her the copy of the paper and turned to put the kettle on. Once the tea was made she sat down by her side.
‘How are you keeping, Mum? You’re a bit pale, today.’
‘I’m all right, there’s no need to fuss. I just get tired, as I’ve told you before. All I need is to rest and I’ll be fine.’
‘Hmm. I’ve brought you a cake and a couple of spider crabs, should help to build up your strength. Wish we could get proper fish, but there’s little in the shops now.’ She sipped her tea, frowning. Her mother was not being truthful, she was sure. ‘Do you want me to hand in your wireless, Mum? Save you a trip.’
Edith nodded.
‘Thanks, love. I shall miss it, though.’ She coughed into her hand. ‘Them devils are really turning the screws on us, aren’t they? Don’t want us to know what’s really happening out there and don’t mind if we starve,’ she said, shaking her head in despair.
Olive left an hour later with the wireless tucked into the basket and cycled home no more cheerful than when she left home. She had a bad feeling about her mother and couldn’t shake it off.
Summer eased into autumn and still the islanders suffered. The latest upset happened in September when all English-born islanders were rounded up to be interned in German camps. Olive was particularly upset and shocked as Nell’s father was one of them. Although he’d lived on the island since a boy, he’d been born in England to English parents who moved to Guernsey before the Great War. She went round to comfort Nell, who was devastated, worried she’d never see her father again. Olive left her weeping into a sodden handkerchief, unable to offer any meaningful words of comfort. How could she? The Nazis weren’t renowned for treating prisoners properly, that she did know. The Germans on the islands weren’t Nazis and on the whole behaved decently, but still people were being sent to prisons and camps and the convicted policemen were rumoured to have been tortured before being sent to prisons abroad. Olive’s fears for her mother’s health also continued to press heavily on her. The only ray of comfort was that Bill hadn’t raised a hand to her since Christmas and spent more time away from home. Olive sent up a prayer of thanks to whoever was fulfilling his needs and calming his temper.
By November Olive knew Edith was dying. No longer able to leave her bed except for short periods, her mother looked more and more like the ghostly slave workers she’d seen. Edith had repeatedly refused to send for the doctor, but Olive took it upon herself to cycle to his house in Cobo and ask him to call. He arranged to visit the next morning and Olive would meet him there.
One of the few civilians allowed to keep his car, Doctor Le Cras drove into the yard soon after Olive arrived. She took him upstairs. Outside the bedroom door, she whispered, ‘Mum doesn’t know I fetched you, she keeps refusing to see you. So I’m sorry if she’s not best pleased, but I’ve been so worried.’
He nodded as he squeezed her arm and they went in together. Her mother lay moaning in the bed and, to Olive’s surprise, didn’t make a fuss when the doctor sat down next to her and started talking. Olive moved into the shadows, trying to be invisible but wanting to hear what was being said. But her mother’s voice was too soft to carry far and she only heard the doctor’s questions. He asked to examine her and gently ran his hands over Edith’s thin body. After a few more words he stood up, and turned to face Olive, his face grave. Motioning her to the door, they walked onto the landing.
‘I’m afraid it’s cancer and it’s so far advanced there’s nothing I can do. I’m so sorry, Olive. I think your mother’s given up since your father died and hasn’t wanted to get better. She’s known for more than a year it was serious.’
Olive’s hand shot to her mouth.
‘More than a year? Oh, my God! I should have done something, called you sooner–’
He took her arm, saying, ‘Even if you had, it might not have made any difference. We have few appropriate medicines and even surgery may not have been the solution. All I can do now is give her some morphine for the pain. And as we only have a limited supply of that…’ he shrugged, helpless.
Olive understood. Awful as it seemed, it would be better if her mother died before the morphine ran out. She brushed away the tears before going back into the bedroom with him. The doctor had a word with Edith, then took a syringe and a small bottle out of his bag. After giving her the injection, he stood, saying, ‘I’ll be back tomorrow and you should be able to sleep now.’
He said goodbye to Olive and left. She sat on the edge of the bed and took her mother’s hand.
‘Why didn’t you tell me, Mum? Why?’
Edith gazed at her with sorrow-filled eyes.
‘You know why, love. My only regret is leaving you on your own. It wouldn’t have been so bad if you’d got a good husband to take care of you, but you’ve only that bully who’s not fit to lick your boots.’ She paused, taking a deep breath. ‘And I wish I knew Ross was safe, but there’ll be no news until this blasted war is over. This’ll be his farm one day, but if he…doesn’t come back, then rightfully it’ll come to you.’
Olive hushed her. ‘Mum, don’t wear yourself out worrying about me and Ross. You rest now. Is the morphine working?’
‘Yes, the pain’s easing. You’d best be going back before the next milking.’
Olive thought quickly.
‘I’ll go home to fetch some things. Bill can look after the animals for a while. I’m not leaving you alone, Mum, not now. You have a sleep and I’ll be back before you know it.’ Her mother’s eyes were closing as she spoke and she ran downstairs and jumped onto her bike. At home she found Bill repairing a section of wall which had collapsed in a gale and told him about her mother. He wasn’t happy about her going back, but could hardly refuse and she wouldn’t have taken any notice if he had. Olive threw some clothes and food into a bag and rode back as fast as she could. Her mother was fast asleep when she tiptoed into the bedroom, her expression peaceful, free of pain. Biting her lip, Olive returned downstairs and built up a fire. Her mother’s bedroom, immediately above the kitchen, would be warmed by the heat travelling up the chimney.
After a restless night, disturbed by dreams full of grey-faced slave workers advancing towards her, arms outstretched and mouths wide in silent supplication, Olive woke in a panic. Her mother! Shivering with the cold, she pulled on a dressing gown and stepped across the landing to her mother’s room. Pale morning light glimmered through the gaps in the curtains, casting eerie shadows across the bed. Hardly daring to breathe, Olive tiptoed across the room. Hearing the sound of soft breathing, she relaxed. The prone figure neatly tucked under the bedclothes looked as if she hadn’t stirred all night. Thank heavens for the morphine!
Washed and dressed, Olive went down the stairs to the kitchen to find a glimmer of embers in the fireplace. Quickly adding more wood, she stoked up the fire before putting the kettle on. Fed up with bramble tea she made some parsnip coffee, not much of an improvement, but better than nothing. Breakfast was porridge, which Olive sprinkled with cinnamon for flavour. She made enough for Edith, too, but didn’t want to disturb her so covered a bowl for later. Once she’d finished her coffee, Olive picked up an old copy of The Star left by the fire and went to sit by her mother. Edith was still asleep, and occasionally muttered something unintelligible, as if in a dream. Olive picked up her hand and kissed it. It promised to be a long day.
Doctor Le Cras called in later that morning and seemed satisfied that Edith was still sleeping. He told Olive he’d be back the next day but she was to call him if her mother woke in pain. The day limped onwards and Olive took a turn around the yard to get some fresh air, away from the smell of impending death. She recognised it from when her father had died and shuddered, pulling her coat tighter round her body. As she circumnavigated the yard, surrounded by now empty barns, Olive pondered on the future. If Ross came back, he’d have an uphill task getting the farm back on its feet and wondered if he’d bother. All the animals had been taken in by neighbouring farmers after Larry died, except for a few chickens. Once Edith had taken to her bed, Olive had taken them home with her. The eerie silence of the once bustling farm made her want to weep. It had been handed down over the generations and now…? Olive didn’t allow herself to think about the possibility of her inheriting. She didn’t want another death in the family, even her brother didn’t deserve that. And in the short-term – or longer if they won the war – the Germans would commandeer it and fill her old home with soldiers. The hateful thought drove her back indoors for a quick warm by the fire before going upstairs.
Olive spent the night by her mother’s side, curled up in a chair. She nodded off a couple of times but by early morning she was exhausted. About to go down and make a drink, she saw her mother’s eyes open and settle on her face.
‘Hello, Mum. You’ve had a wonderful long sleep. How are you feeling?’ She gripped Edith’s hand as she leant over the bed.
‘Olive! You still here? Thought you’d gone home.’
‘I said I’d be back as I wouldn’t leave you on your own. Do you want anything to eat or drink? I’ve made some porridge I can heat up.’
Edith shook her head.
‘Not hungry. Thirsty. Water, please.’
Olive had left a jug of water by the bed and now poured some into a glass, holding her mother’s head to drink it. Edith took a few sips before falling back onto the pillows. Her breathing changed, a long sigh escaped her lips, and she lay still.
‘Mum! Mum! Not yet, oh, please, not yet!’
But Edith’s eyes remained wide open.
Olive fell across her mother’s inert body and wept.