The Soldier's Wife by Margaret Leroy Page B

Occupation is really hard on the men. The young ones especially—like my Johnnie and Piers, who’d want to be off fighting. I mean, we women just get on with things, don’t we? We wash and cook and all that, we still know what we’re meant to be doing. But it’s terrible for the men, to be invaded like this. To have to just let it happen. Not to be able to do anything about it.”
    â€œYes, it must be difficult.”
    But I live in a house of women; this isn’t something I see.
    â€œIt’s why I worry so much about Johnnie,” she says. “These young lads wishing that they could fight, all stuck here kicking their heels. It’s a recipe for trouble.”
    I have a slight sense of disquiet when she says that.
    â€œBut they won’t do anything, surely,” I say. “How could they? It’s such a little island—there’s nowhere to hide.” I think of the German brass band marching in St. Peter Port, of the swastikas, the German presence everywhere. “I mean, there are so many of them—they’re everywhere you turn. . . .”
    â€œYou’re right, of course,” she says. “I’m probably being silly. They’ll see that, won’t they, Viv?”
    â€œI’m sure they will,” I say.
    But, cycling home, I have an uneasy feeling—just a flicker of apprehension, like some dark-winged thing fluttering in a recess of my mind.

Chapter 16
    B LANCHE HAS LAID the table for tea. Everything is immaculate. She’s put out the best linen napkins, with the silver napkin rings that she and Millie were given as Christening gifts. There are roses from the garden in a cut-glass vase.
    â€œSo what’s all this about?” I ask her. “I mean, it’s a sweet thing to do, but it doesn’t happen all that often. . . .”
    â€œDon’t you like it, Mum?”
    â€œYes, it looks lovely,” I say. “Thank you.”
    She has an eager, hopeful smile.
    â€œActually, there is something,” she tells me. Her voice is a little ingratiating—smooth as Vaseline. “I wanted to ask if I could maybe go out tonight.”
    â€œ Out? Of course you can’t go out. Not after the curfew. Of course not, Blanche. What on earth were you thinking?” I say.
    â€œThe thing is . . .” She hesitates. “There’s going to be a party at Les Brehauts,” she says. I hear a little uncertainty creeping into her voice. “Celeste and me have been invited.”
    I think of Les Brehauts, the Gouberts’ big whitewashed house near the church. It’s double-fronted, rather splendid, with wide sleek lawns and abundant borders and whispering poplar trees. Recently, when I’ve cycled past, I’ve seen German officers on its grounds.
    â€œSo, who’s giving this party, exactly?” I say. “I thought that Mr. and Mrs. Goubert had gone on the boat. I thought Les Brehauts had been requisitioned.”
    Blanche draws in a breath, like someone about to dive into deep water.
    â€œThe thing is, Mum, it has been . . . Somebody invited us. He said it would be a good evening. There’s going to be dancing. You know how I love dancing. What could happen to us exactly?” she says.
    â€œWho is this somebody, Blanche?”
    I see her throat move as she swallows. Pink spots come to her cheeks.
    â€œHe’s called Tomas Kreutzer,” she says.
    â€œKreutzer?”
    â€œHe likes Celeste,” she goes on rapidly. “He came to the shop where she works. He wanted to get his watch mended.”
    I stare at her, not quite believing what I’m hearing.
    â€œSo, the Germans are giving this party?”
    â€œCeleste says Tomas is ever so polite. Really, Mum. He doesn’t agree with the war. He thinks Great Britain and Germany should be allies, because we’re so alike. He says we aren’t like other races.”
    I don’t say anything.
    â€œHe was going