Spring 1943
The day had not started well for Olive. Bill was in one of his black moods – brought on by an unacknowledged hangover – and had been annoyed she hadn’t got round to mending his shirts. As if she had the time amongst all her other chores! He had lashed out at her and Olive had stumbled and hit her head on the chair as she fell, leaving her dazed. Shouting, ‘I’m off to catch me some rabbits,’ he grabbed his cap and stormed out.
Olive pulled herself up and collapsed in the chair. His chair. She waited until her head stopped spinning before filling a glass of water at the sink. Her face smarted from his hand and she knew from experience there would soon be a bruise. How she hated him! He was getting worse by the month and Olive found it hard to admit they had only been married three years. In fact, she did a quick calculation, their wedding anniversary was that very day. Not that Bill would have remembered and she only wanted to forget. If it hadn’t been for the war, she could have left him and returned to her parents, who might well have still been alive. They’d have taken her in, not wanting her to be so ill-used. Now she’d have to wait. If Bill was being unfaithful, she could apply for a divorce when life returned to normal and hope Ross would allow her home.
The beating he’d given her after Nell’s wedding had made her determined to leave him one day, no matter how difficult it might prove. She would have to face the social stigma of being divorced, but it would be worth it. Anyway, she was convinced he did have another woman, spending more nights away than ever. It suited her if it meant he left her alone. Her twenty-first birthday had been the week before, but sometimes she felt fifty. Older than her poor mother was when she died.
Brushing away a tear, she pulled herself up straight and went upstairs to check the damage to her face. The old foxed mirror in the bedroom showed a vivid red mark prominent on her pale skin. She patted on a tiny amount of make-up in a futile attempt to hide it. Her long dark hair looked matted and unkempt and Olive dragged a brush through it, ashamed at letting herself go. She had always been proud of her hair, once glossy and with a natural wave envied by other girls. Olive decided she would go out sticking and get some fresh air. They were low on wood and with the nights still chilly it would be a good excuse.
Minutes later Olive was in the yard attaching a basket to her battered bike. Old it may be, but she loved her bike. It wasn’t comfortable to ride now, the shops having run out of puncture repair kits; like other cyclists Olive had to use hosepipe for tyres, making it hard on her legs. Without her mother for company, Olive had paired up with friends when she wanted to go to the cinema or a show. Bill, of course, wasn’t happy about her ‘jaunts’, as he called them, but so far hadn’t tried to stop her. She guessed it gave him extra time to see his fancy woman. Olive had an idea it was a woman from Torteval, known to have been unfaithful to her much older husband for years.
The sun was warm on her back as she pedalled down the lane, heading towards her friend Elsie’s place. Near her house, Olive suddenly stopped. Her face! She didn’t want Elsie to see what Bill had done and reluctantly decided to go sticking alone. She and Elsie found it great fun, searching underneath the trees at Pleinmont and the surrounding fields for dead wood lying on the ground. It was one chore she was happy to undertake as they made a game of it, seeing who could collect the most. And the wood was even more vital for warmth and cooking now there being no coal on the island. The only drawback was wood burned so fast, it needed replenishing more than coal did.
Olive skirted round Elsie’s cottage and headed towards The Imperial, perched on the most south-westerly point overlooking Rocquaine Bay. No longer a hotel and bar, it had been commandeered for the use of German officers and Olive dismounted and pushed her bike along the track to Pleinmont. Strictly speaking she wasn’t allowed to enter the area as it contained a barrack for soldiers, but once she and Elsie had explained, with a great fluttering of eyelashes, that they were only collecting firewood, they had been allowed in by the smitten soldiers. It was now their favourite place for sticking and sometimes the bored soldiers lent a hand. Elsie was single and, with the shortage of suitable Guernseymen, enjoyed a light flirtation with the young soldiers, some not much more than boys. Olive didn’t exactly flirt, but she did enjoy the attention. It was harmless, neither of them meant anything by it, not like those women they saw in Town with their German soldiers.
She had only pushed her bike a few yards into the woods when a voice shouted, ‘Stop!’ in English. She turned round smiling, expecting to see one of the soldiers pretending to be officious for once. Her smile faltered when she saw an officer, one she’d never seen before. His face was partly in shadow and he stood with his arms behind his back, ramrod straight. She panicked.
‘Oh. I’m sorry, have I done something wrong?’ She smiled, nervously.
‘You should know, Fräulein, you are not permitted to enter this area. What is your purpose in coming here?’
‘I was going sticking.’ She saw him frown. ‘I mean collecting firewood. Only the odd bits on the ground. I…I’ve been before and was told it was all right as long as I stayed away from the barracks.’ She nodded towards the grey building a few hundred feet away. ‘I…I need the wood for cooking and heating and I’m not doing any harm.’ The words came out in a rush and she fluttered her eyelashes as she’d seen Elsie do and crossed her fingers.
The man came closer, allowing Olive to see his face clearly. Her eyes were drawn to his. A brilliant, almost turquoise blue, they seemed to bore into her very soul. She stood rooted to the spot.