The Soldier's Wife by Margaret Leroy Page A

this. And yet the sound of it stirs me, as martial music always will, regardless of who is playing it: there’s a glamour to it, an urgency, it always makes your heart pound. I find I am walking in time, my body responding to the beat, and this troubles me, as though I am conceding something.
    On the way back from town, I drop in on Gwen at Elm Tree Farm.
    We sit at her wide scrubbed table. Her kitchen has a scent of baking, so warm and welcoming, like arms wrapped around you. On the table, there are sweet peas in a white china jug; the flowers are almost over, and the jug stands in a lapping pool of silken fallen petals.
    We drink tea and eat Gwen’s homemade gâche, which is stuffed with sultanas and candied peel and has a thin, glittery crust of sugar on top. Every Guernsey housewife makes it, and I learned how when I came here, but my gâche has never tasted half as delicious as Gwen’s.
    I lick the last trace of fragrant sugar from my hand.
    â€œMmm. That’s so good .”
    â€œMake the most of it, Viv,” she says. “There won’t be all that much more of that, I’m thinking. I had to queue for the sugar. We’ll all have to tighten our belts.”
    â€œYes, I suppose so.”
    I haven’t really thought this through—where our food is going to come from. But there are no boats from England, and twice as many people on our island now.
    â€œI suppose they’ll have to get in supplies from occupied France,” she says. “But the Germans will take all the best stuff, you can be certain of that. Anyone with a bit of land is lucky—it’s the folks in the town who will suffer. You’ll be in clover, Viv, with that nice big garden you’ve got.”
    â€œYes. I suppose I ought to start working on it.”
    I think of digging up my roses and planting parsnips there. A little sadness catches at my sleeve.
    We talk about our children. I tell her about Blanche’s job with Mrs. Sebire, and the peaches.
    â€œThat’s a really good place to be working, for the times that are coming,” she says.
    â€œAnd what about Johnnie? I know you were worried,” I say.
    â€œOh, well. You know . . .” She smiles, but not with her eyes.
    â€œGwen, tell me.”
    She gives a slight mirthless laugh. “You always know what I’m thinking, Viv.”
    There’s a thread of disquiet wrapped around her voice. Anxiety snags at me. I wait for her.
    â€œThe thing is—he spends an awful lot of time with that Piers Falla,” she says.
    I feel a rush of relief, that it’s nothing worse than this. Piers Falla is an odd, awkward lad; I remember him from church, when he was younger and went to Matins with his parents. I think of his face, which has the sharpness of a kestrel, his gaze, which looks right into you, and his twisted body, the way he drags his right foot. When he was little, he got in the way of a scythe; they said he was lucky to live. I don’t understand why his friendship with Johnnie should be so troubling to Gwen.
    â€œHe’s a funny lad, Piers. To be honest, I don’t quite like him,” she says.
    â€œI don’t really know him that well,” I tell her.
    â€œHe’s too intense,” says Gwen. “He seems too old for his years.”
    â€œI suppose his life hasn’t been exactly easy,” I say.
    â€œWell, you’ve got to feel sorry for him, of course. And I know he’s really angry that he couldn’t join up. I mean, he tried, but they wouldn’t consider him. He’s old enough—he’s that little bit older than Johnnie. But I think they just took one look at him. Johnnie said he was distraught.”
    â€œYes. Poor lad. He would be . . .”
    We sit quietly for a moment. A fly crackles against the window, with an ominous sound, like a pan on the stove boiling dry.
    Gwen stirs.
    â€œYou know what I think, Viv,” she says. “This