The Soldier's Wife by Margaret Leroy

that it was like that when he lived here too. When he’d sit at the breakfast table fenced off behind his newspaper, as though I were nothing to him, as though I didn’t exist. When he’d say, We’re rehearsing tonight, don’t wait up, I could be home on the late side. . . . Sounding so easy and casual, yet I’d sense the sharks darkly circling under the surfaces of his words. When he’d lie in our bed, turned away from me, never touching. I don’t admit that we were strangers long before he left.
    MILLIE SEEMS MOSTLY unbothered by the Occupation, though sometimes I hear her reprimanding her rag doll: “If you’re naughty, I’m going to tell the Nazis. And when I tell them they’ll come and bomb you to bits.” But Blanche is still unhappy that we didn’t go on the boat. She spends too much time in her room. Mostly she listens to her Irving Berlin records, but one day I go in and she’s just sitting there, pulling at a fraying thread on her cuff—not doing anything, just staring blankly in front of her. A sudden sadness tugs at me, grief for the things she is missing out on because of the Occupation—dressing up, being taken to dinner, being bought flowers, that whole gorgeous charade of courtship. She worries me. Sometimes I almost wish she were little again, like Millie. When they’re small, it’s so simple: you only have to buy them a bun or some aniseed balls, and they’ll be content.
    One day at the end of August, she does some shopping for me, at Mrs. Sebire’s grocery shop, up on the main road near the airfield. She comes home bright-eyed, hair flying, a smile unfurling over her face: everything about her is smiling.
    â€œMum. You’ll never guess what happened. Mrs. Sebire wanted to know if I’d like a job in her shop!”
    â€œWhat did you say?” I ask her.
    â€œ Yes . I said yes, of course. That’s all right, isn’t it? She was really pleased. Since her daughter left on the boat, she said it’s been a struggle, and she’s sure I’ll be good at the job.”
    â€œThat’s wonderful,” I tell her.
    It’s not what I’d once have hoped for. When Blanche was younger, before the war began, I’d hoped she’d go to the mainland to study—perhaps to train as a teacher. But for now, with everything in turmoil, this offer of work is a gift.
    Her face is lit up; her hyacinth-blue eyes dazzle.
    â€œI’ll be like Celeste now, won’t I, Mum?” she says.
    Blanche has always seen Celeste’s job at Mr. Martel’s watch shop as the height of glamour.
    I’ll miss having her around the house during the day. Evelyn seems so fragile now, so confused, that I sometimes worry about leaving her and Millie together. But it’s lovely to see Blanche happy again, and her money will certainly help. We’re just about managing for the moment—I have a little money saved, and Evelyn pays some of the bills. But every penny matters.
    She starts work on Monday. She gets up early, puts on a crisp gingham Sunday-best frock and some of the lipstick I bought for her. She comes home tired but pleased with herself, with a bag of overripe peaches that Mrs. Sebire had decided were a little too bruised to sell. We eat the peaches: they are delicious.
    â€œI’m glad you got that job,” says Millie, the sweet juice dripping down her chin.
    We are all glad.
    THE ISLAND IS filling up with soldiers. When I cycle into St. Peter Port to change my library book, I find there are swastikas everywhere, and German newsreels at the Gaumont, telling of Nazi triumphs. There’s a lot less food in the shops. I have to queue for bread, and there are no sweets for the girls, and I can’t find coffee anywhere. As I walk back to my bicycle, a German brass band starts marching down the High Street, past all the familiar shops, past Mrs. du Barry’s and Boots. I hate to see