Sea Gem Read online

  SEA GEM

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available

  This eBook published by AudioGO Ltd, Bath, 2012.

  Published by arrangement with the Author

  Epub ISBN 9781471321191

  Copyright © Wallis Peel 2004

  The right of Wallis Peel to be identified as the author of the work has been asserted herein in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  With the exception of certain well-known historical figures, all the other characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, is purely imaginary

  All rights reserved

  Jacket illustration © iStockphoto.com

  For my husband Roy—

  who explored Guernsey with me

  Towards the end of 1992, secret files on the German occupation of the Channel Islands were made public by the government mostly at the instigation of the Labour MP, David Winnick, who had campaigned for their disclosure.

  Many names on the files were blacked out before they became available at the Public Records’ Office.

  The public also learned that seven files would be held back under the One Hundred Years’ Rule and would not be available for public inspection until the year 2045.

  By this time, one hundred years will have elapsed since World War II ended after the German occupation.

  Exactly what these seven files contain can remain only a matter of conjecture but there is speculation they might contain information relating to the island of Alderney. By the time they are released, World War II will be history.

  Contents

  PART ONE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  PART TWO

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  PART THREE

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  PART FOUR

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  PART ONE – 1918

  ONE

  The sea was calm and the small steam packet, from Weymouth to Guernsey, cut through the water effortlessly, the ship’s wake a narrow, straight ribbon, only deviating in the distance where the currents broke the white into separate patches. The air was fresh with a slight breeze, overhead the clouds, high and slightly broken, drifted lazily.

  From where she sat, towards the packet’s stern, Mary Hinton’s blue eyes had an excellent view of their course. Way behind her was England and a wave of doubt rose painfully. It was incredible to think a loose boot lace was responsible for her present position. One worn lace, snapping at the wrong moment, had sent her flying on her face. A simple event which had catapulted her from dreary servitude to—to what, she asked herself? She could not yet look ahead and unexpected homesickness struck which, Mary tried to tell herself firmly, was quite ridiculous.

  How could anyone be homesick for a job? But Weymouth and its nearby villages had been her home even if the word itself encompassed living in servitude. At least, her years at the house had been a vast improvement upon the orphanage and Mrs Bateson, the cook, had not been too strict while Henson, the butler, had been as friendly as a man could be in that exalted position. It had still been servitude though and not to her liking. The years had stretched ahead, dismal and monotonously the same, until the boot lace snapped so providentially. An escape route had eventually appeared but now, her conscience prodded her, should she have taken it after all? But what other course had been open for her?

  A giggle left her compounded as much by hysteria as anything else. Her reputation had preceded her and Mrs Bateson had been highly dubious about accepting a kitchen maid who was prepared to outface her.

  The education the orphanage had given had been basic but thorough and Mary’s bright, inquisitive mind made her stand out enough to be offered a teaching post. This had lasted for two years until she felt she had had enough of the place and found a post for herself at the Oliver house. The orphanage had pointed out that domestic service was of a lower category than teaching but it had taken her to a new environment and anything fresh had to be an improvement.

  Mary had not realised the cook was desperate for help. The ample staff available before the war had dwindled to nothing as ungrateful girls left domestic service for the higher wages obtainable in factories. Even Mr Henson, too old to join the army himself, had been compelled to take boys who would never have been considered years before; not that they stayed long before the army hauled them into its fighting maw.

  For a while Mary even managed to enjoy life below stairs once Mrs Bateson had accepted she had a tongue in her head. At the orphanage this had got her into endless trouble because little girls should be seen and never heard—especially little girls who had been reared through charity; they should demonstrate suitable thanks and not be prepared to argue the toss with their elders and betters.

  Mary learned quickly and, with the excellent food, had soon filled out and shot up until she was not far short of the butler’s five feet ten inches. Then boredom struck again. The future looked bleak with a series of domestic jobs and their long hours for little money. Mary had even toyed with the idea of factory work. It paid well but she had a shrewd suspicion that the monotony there would be no better than domestic service.

  She was neither happy nor unhappy but each day seemed to be one where she moved in limbo. Sometimes she would study herself in the tiny looking glass in the room she shared with two other girls. Her features were even and of good shape but not outstanding enough to be called beautiful. Her hair, which tended to be fairer in the summer than winter, had a soft natural curl which she wore short. Mary frankly thought her eyes were her best asset. They were a deep blue, almost the colour of a spring bluebell, and she considered they topped a nice, thin nose even though her lower jaw was stiff and square.

  Her bones were large and she was strong from domestic labour with a figure which could have attracted a boy if it had not been constantly hidden beneath the long white and blue aprons required for work. Not that there were many boys around now. It was true there was a military camp only a mile away but the opportunities to meet someone and walk out were few. Mrs Bateson took her moral duties seriously and followers were frowned upon without some kind of introduction.

  Sometimes Mary looked at the future with a sinking heart, then she would grit her teeth, clench her strong fists and refuse to stay downhearted. She was young, healthy, and the fact she had no family to interfere was, perhaps, an asset. Technically, the orphanage was still her guardian but it was a loose arrangement. The charitable institution had been thankful to get off their hands those girls old enough to work elsewhere.

  It had been a late autumn fair and Mrs Bateson had given her a precious two hours off. Eager to see fresh sights, Mary had rushed down the lane and on to the common land where tents and music beckoned. She had suddenly stumbled as the lace on her left ankle boot, clumsily tied in a hurry, caught underneath and snapped. In a second she had gone flying, sprawling inelegantly in a tumble of long, brown skirt ruffled around her knees.

  Slightly winded and feeling a considerable fool, Mary had taken a deep breath, peeped forward and faced a pair of highly polished boots and neatly wound puttees.

  ‘Well!’ a voice had drawled gently. ‘That’s not the usual way to see a fair, is it? But then, I’m not used to your English customs.’

  Mary had collected herself together, blushing scarlet as she hastily tugged her skirt down decently, then his hand had c
ome out. She had hesitated but a second and let herself be lifted to her feet.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He grinned at her engagingly and she eyed him quickly, smoothing her skirt down further, aware of a pair of nugget brown eyes twinkling with amusement. He wore his cap at a jaunty angle and looked down at her from an advantage of a few inches.

  Words had left Mary for a minute. She was conscious of him planted before her, grinning wildly, then his hand had touched hers again.

  ‘My name is Duret and I’m stationed nearby,’ he had told her, gesturing with his free hand.

  ‘Duret?’ Mary had exclaimed. ‘I’ve never heard a name like that before.’

  ‘It’s a Guernsey name,’ he had answered with a chuckle.

  Mary’s forehead had puckered. ‘Where’s that then?’

  ‘Oh! For goodness sake! You English,’ he had teased. ‘We’ve been around a long time and you don’t know our island. Come on, walk with me and I’ll tell you.’

  Mary had resisted only fractionally. She was intrigued by him and acutely conscious this was the first time she had been alone with a boy.

  ‘I cannot stop too long,’ she had replied, ‘and I’ll have to get this repaired too.’

  He eyed the offending lace then, bending and using a pocket knife, trimmed and re-threaded it while Mary stood uncertainly. She liked his attention and had a sudden crazy urge to twine her fingers in his curly, brown hair that showed where his cap had slipped.

  ‘There! Now you won’t break your neck. Do you live near here?’

  Mary found it quite natural to slip her arm into his as they strolled gently through the crowd of villagers, people from Weymouth and the many troops. She knew the locals would not miss her action but, all of a sudden, she did not care. Let Mrs Bateson disapprove. Why shouldn’t she have some fun for once?

  ‘Where do you work?’ Duret had wanted to know.

  ‘I’m in service at the Oliver house about a mile away,’ Mary had explained.

  ‘Do you like it?’

  Mary threw him an odd look, then shrugged without comment. ‘Tell me about yourself.’

  ‘I’m in the Guernsey Militia which has always had a military connection with this part of England. We are waiting to go to France.’

  There was nothing she could think of to say to that but she had flinched. He was young, wholesome, healthy and so different to other soldiers she had seen around.

  It had seemed perfectly natural then for him to walk her back to the house and have her introduce him to Mrs Bateson. The cook had been stiff to start with but had thawed a little when she realised this quiet, young man was hardly the type to go on a drunken spree and damage Mary’s morals.

  From that simple beginning had developed a gentle friendship. Whenever he could, Duret called upon Mary and they walked out. Even Henson had approved of him because the young man’s manners were good, he was respectful and polite but, above all, he was different.

  Mary knew how lucky they had been. The soldiers were still in camp six weeks later and Duret was with her every single moment they could spare. This pleased Mary but also disconcerted her. There were a number of times when she caught Duret’s eyes resting upon her like those of a trusting puppy and it was obvious what was happening. He was not openly amorous which pleased her because her feelings were confused. She liked him well enough; he was good company and there was something pleasantly delicious in walking out with a steady beau. Surely though a marriage would only be exchanging one kind of servitude for another? When she thought about it carefully, she had to admit that.

  For one in her position, the only true escape route was with money. Even Mrs Bateson, with her far superior salary, was still tied and bound to her employer’s house. So how did someone like an orphan girl expect to rise above her slot in life? Duret had talked a lot about his beloved island though little about his family. Mary learned he had been reared by a grandmother who, from the way Duret rolled his eyes, seemed formidable and strong. Where exactly this fascinating old lady stood financially was something Mary could not quite bring herself to ask.

  She might have drifted along in this state of quiet limbo indefinitely when suddenly Duret’s troop was given a short embarkation leave. They were to sail to France within a week.

  ‘Marry me,’ he pleaded one evening, holding her hands in the frosty air, looking down at her with pleading eyes, eloquent and soul searching.

  ‘I can’t!’ Mary gasped.

  ‘Why not? Don’t you care for me at all?’

  ‘Oh Duret! It’s not like that! I do like you. I like you very much but I don’t want to tie myself down to anyone yet. I don’t feel as I have lived,’ had been her soft cry of protest.

  His hands had held hers while his lips clamped down, suddenly surprisingly possessive and not wholly unwelcome. Her instinct had been to struggle, when she realised how fit and strong he was.

  ‘I love you,’ he had whispered urgently. ‘I can make you feel the same for me too. Please, Mary?’

  ‘No, Duret!’

  She had twisted free, backed a step and stood with one hand to her mouth when a thought crossed her mind. England offered her nothing. Guernsey could not be worse and, with luck, it might even be better. There might be potential for her there, though what this could be she had no idea. Once on Duret’s precious island might not a whole new world open for her?

  ‘I’ll go to Guernsey, if you like,’ she extemporised, then waited with a thumping heart, aghast at what she had thought and said.

  Duret considered, his head tilted a little to one side. ‘You could stay with my grandmother,’ he stated slowly. ‘The house is big enough and when I do come home finally—’ he had let the sentence hang questioningly in the air. ‘I want you for my wife. I’ve never met anyone like you,’ he had murmured, one hand stroking her pink cheek.

  This had made Mary give a nervous gulp. With awesome clarity she thought of past casualty lists. Were all soldiers incapable of considering they too might die? What if she did go to the island and Duret never returned? Her blood chilled and she could not meet his eyes.

  ‘I’ll write to grandmother,’ Duret had continued with a brisk rush as if the matter were decided. ‘I’ll pay your fare. I’ve plenty of money. I’ve spent nothing much here and it will be wonderful for me to know you are on my island waiting for me.’

  Mary blushed. ‘Duret,’ she began slowly, ‘don’t count your chickens before they hatch. You might come back from the war thinking differently. I might not like your island. Your grandmother might detest me.’

  ‘Never!’ he had vowed firmly and, grabbing her quickly, had kissed her with a demand that made her cheeks flare scarlet. ‘At least, wear my ring.’

  ‘No, Duret!’ she had repeated, feeling he was going much too quickly. She had to be honest with him. ‘I like you, Duret, but I don’t love you.’

  He was not at all deflated. ‘That will come,’ he replied confidently.

  Mary had bitten her lip and thought rapidly. A ring was a token but only that and also, her practical mind pointed out, it could provide the necessary excuse to leave her job even though she was still a minor at law. She took a deep breath. ‘All right then. I’ll wear your ring but let’s just try and be good friends with no firm commitment on either side,’ she had begged as a sudden flash of panic removed all thrill. What if she hated his island?

  He went two days later and she begged time off to watch the embarkation, her fingers touching the unaccustomed ring of one diamond which Duret had slid on her left hand. It was only when the troopship had receded to a slim, dark blur that she understood what she had done. Duret did indeed love her with a quiet intensity that, suddenly, appalled her. He would write from the trenches and no doubt weave beautiful dreams of their future life together. He had certainly given her the escape she wanted but at what cost?

  Mrs Bateson had talked to her long and seriously, as had the mistress. Even Henson had been sufficiently concerned to point out the unknow
n hazards in a strange place among foreigners.

  ‘But they are British like us,’ Mary had cried, suddenly finding it necessary to defend these unknown islanders. ‘They’re no more foreign than—Yorkshire people.’

  For a week they tried to make her see sense but the deep, obdurate vein in her character had stood unflinchingly against them. Go she would. What happened afterwards was in the lap of the gods.

  Events had moved with an astonishing speed. Duret had given instructions, paid her passage and written to his awesome grandmother until, quite suddenly, Mary had found herself sailing on the packet for St Peter Port.

  * * *

  Mary turned and walked slowly towards the bows, then gasped. While she had been daydreaming, the town had appeared, its houses climbing high, the whole place not at all what she had expected. By craning her neck, she could see great activity on the quayside in preparation for the packet’s docking. Many heads bobbed around and there were carts everywhere.

  Mary felt a cold, little finger touch her heart. Duret’s grandmother would be there to meet her and this initial meeting was crucial to their future relationship. What if she resented this English girl foisted upon her?

  She watched the docking process critically. It had not occurred to her this little capital would be such a bustling place. She stood to one side to allow other passengers to disembark first while she looked down nervously. She was suddenly aware she cut a poor figure. Her dark blue skirt hovered just above black ankle boots. It was the best she had and, she had thought, most attractive and suitable for this first, important meeting. One look around at other passengers had shown her the drab poverty of her clothing. Even her little blue coat was thin and totally unsuitable for the brisk wind that knifed across the harbour. She pulled her black shawl more tightly around her shoulders and gripped a small canvas bag. In it were her worldly possessions and, in a side pocket, her purse which contained the sum of three pounds and ten shillings. All saved painfully over the years.