Daughter of Riches (34 page)

‘There's no time now. I'll explain tomorrow,' was all she said.

It was a nightmare, a nightmare from which she could not wake. It followed her around every moment of the day and disturbed what little sleep she was able to get at night. The terrible events of that evening had left her body sore and bruised and her nerves raw, and added to this was the constant terrible anxiety for Dieter. She had not heard what had happened to him, no one seemed to know anything beyond the gossip and speculation that was bound to follow the shooting of an officer of the Feldgendarmerie on a public highway, and Sophia was afraid to ask too many questions in case she aroused suspicion and put Catherine in some kind of danger.

But oh, the wondering was sheer agony. Did they know it was Dieter who had shot the officer? Had he been caught, or was he on the run? Might he turn up at the cottage seeking shelter? She didn't think so – he had been as anxious to protect her as she was to protect Catherine, but supposing he did – what would she do? The questions plagued her, running round and round inside her head until she thought she was going mad. And always the most important one of all – will I ever see him again? Will we ever be together again?

Deep down Sophia knew she could expect nothing but the worst. Yet still she hoped. And the hope seemed to be the greatest torture of all.

She heard the news at the village shop when she was queuing for what meagre rations were available. A German had given himself up in connection with the roadside shooting at St Peter – just gone to his commanding officer and given himself up. He had heard there were bound to be repercussions in the district if the culprit was not caught, it was said, so for some reason he had simply admitted it. Goodness only knew why – after all, he was bound to be executed for such a serious crime.

The words seemed to echo in her head and Sophia held tight to the handle of her shopping basket as if it were a lifeline. Execution. Dieter was going to be executed. For a moment Sophia thought she was going to faint then she thought she was going to cry. She turned and blundered out of the shop, oblivious to the curious stares that followed her, wanting nothing but to get home.

She half ran, half walked, legs trembling, breath coming in harsh uneven gasps. Out of the village, along the lane … and suddenly she remembered she had to pass the spot where it had happened.

It was not the first time, of course, but somehow on the other occasions she had managed to screw herself up and look the other way. Even when the Feldgendarmerie had been there examining the grass verge for clues she had managed to hold her head high and walk by. Not today. Today the dark stain on the gravel where they had not quite washed the blood away seemed to leap out at her. Here Dieter had shot the officer who had raped her. And for that Dieter was now going to be executed.

For days Sophia had felt nauseous, now it gripped her stomach with an iron hand. Tearing her eyes away from the dark stains on the roadside she began to run, but she was still within sight of the scene of the shooting when the sickness overcame her and she doubled up, vomiting into the hedgerow while the helpless tears ran down her cheeks.

‘Sophia, are you pregnant?' Catherine asked. Sophia started, taken by surprise by the directness of the question. Ever since she had begun to suspect it herself she had known the moment, must come, of course, but she had delayed it, dreading the look of revulsion she would see on Catherine's face, dreading the fact that talking about it would make it somehow more real. ‘Well?' Catherine demanded. ‘Are you?'

She was no longer a child, Sophia thought. The war had made her grow up very quickly. But even so there was no easy way to say this – and, with Catherine's eyes upon her like twin searchlights, no way to lie either.

‘Yes. I think I am,' she said quietly.

‘Oh Sophia!'

‘I know – I know. It's a nightmare. I keep telling myself I can't be … but I know I am.'

The girls were silent for a moment, looking at one another. Then Catherine asked: ‘ What are you going to do?'

Sophia shook her head. ‘I honestly don't know.'

Another silence. Then Catherine said: ‘You know what they'll call you, don't you?'

‘Yes. I know.'

‘A Jerry Bag. My sister. How
could
you? I'll die of shame!'

‘How do you think I feel?'

‘You should have thought of that before you started associating with Germans. Oh yes. I know what you'll say – what you always say. It was only Dieter. But Dieter was a German and you can't trust them.'

‘It wasn't Dieter's fault!' Sophia argued passionately. ‘I've told you, over and over again what happened. You just don't want to listen.'

‘I've listened. And it's horrible – sordid. All I can say is it's a pity you didn't shoot the officer who raped you while you had the chance. Why didn't you do it, Sophia?'

‘I don't know. I just couldn't …'

‘I would have.'

‘You don't know that. You never know what you'll do until it happens to you. And if I had shot him I'd probably have been deported like Mama and Papa. What would happen to you then?'

‘I'd have managed. Anyway the war's nearly over. They wouldn't have deported you now. You should have shot him, Sophia. At least then you would have some pride left.'

‘All right, Catherine,' Sophia retorted, stung. ‘ Don't go on and on about it. Don't you think I wish I had done it? If I had then Dieter wouldn't have had to do it for me and he wouldn't be under sentence of God knows what. And if you say you don‘t
care
what happens to him because he's a German I swear I'll never forgive you!'

She pressed her hands to her mouth, swallowing at the lump of tears that had risen in her throat, angry with herself for seemingly being unable to control her emotions any more and angry with Catherine for her unforgiving attitude. She had been so sure her sister would understand when she explained what had happened. But all Catherine seemed to care about was what her friends would think.

‘Couldn't you get rid of it?' she said now.

Sophia blinked. ‘Get rid of it? Catherine …'

‘Well you could try. Sylvie says all you need to do is to have a bath, really hot, and drink plenty of gin. Probably a whole bottle.'

‘What does Sylvie know about it?' Sophia snapped. ‘You haven't been talking about me to her, ‘I hope?'

A faint colour rose in Catherine's cheeks. ‘No, we were just talking generally …' But she sounded unconvincing.

‘I see. Well, if all your friends already know it seems it's a little late for me to cover up my condition, even supposing I could get hold of a bottle of gin, and even supposing it worked, which I doubt.'

‘You mean … you won't even try?' Catherine looked tearful suddenly.

‘No,' Sophia said. ‘I won't.'

‘But …'

‘Look, Catherine, if I was sure that horrible man who raped me was the father perhaps I would try. But I'm not sure. It could be Dieter's baby. Don't you see? I can't take the chance.'

Catherine went even more red. ‘Dieter's baby!'

‘It could be.'

‘Well you are a dark horse, aren't you, Sophia?'

‘Catherine, please,
please
try to understand.'

‘Oh I understand all right,' Catherine said bitterly. ‘I understand my sister has been going with Germans and now everybody is going to know about it. I'm not surprised that officer came here and raped you, Sophia. He'd probably heard how easy you were. And now the rest of Jersey will hear it too.'

‘Catherine, please … you don't know how you're upsetting me talking like this.'

‘I'm upsetting you! Well, that is rich! Let me tell you, Sophia, I am ready to die of shame. You knew what people think about girls who go with Germans but you had to carry right on, didn't you? And you couldn't even stop at seeing him. You had to let him … oh, it's disgusting!'

‘It is not disgusting, Catherine. I love him!'

‘Love you call it? I call it being a Jerry Bag. A real,
real
, Jerry Bag. Well. I hope you are satisfied, Sophia. I just hope you are satisfied!'

Sophia turned away, sick at heart. This was only the beginning, she knew. There would be plenty more in the same vein. But it was no use thinking about it, no use letting it get to her. That was just a waste of time and energy. She couldn't allow herself to wallow in self-pity either. Now that she knew for certain that she was going to have a baby she had far too much thinking and planning to do.

There really was only one answer. She had known it, right from the beginning and tried not to think about it, not because it was such a terrible prospect but because it would mean that she had finally accepted she would never see Dieter again.

Besides, she did not know whether she could summon up the courage to do it. All very well for Bernard to have told her that whenever she needed him, and for whatever reason, he would be there. Sophia was fairly sure that he had not been thinking those circumstances might include her being pregnant by someone else. He would be terribly hurt, she knew. He might even, with complete justification, tell her in no uncertain terms that it was not his problem. But desperate situations call for desperate measures and in all her life Sophia had never been more desperate.

One night in early December when Bernard left the Electricity Works he saw a figure huddled under the wall in the gathering gloom. He did not take much notice. Although it was only four o'clock it was almost dark and he bent his head against the biting wind. Then, as he drew level, she moved out of the shadows towards him and he stopped short, staring at her in surprise.

‘Sophia! What are you doing here?'

‘Well – I was waiting for you actually …'

‘Oh!' Nothing could stop the searing flash of love and desire that she always excited in him but nowadays he knew to treat it with caution. Sophia was not in love with him no matter how much he might wish she was and it was time he realised it and stopped behaving like a lovelorn schoolboy.

He had scarcely seen Sophia these last months. It had been back in the autumn, he remembered, when she had begun acting strangely, making all kinds of spurious excuses to put him off from visiting her, and in the end he had reluctantly come to the conclusion she did not want to see him any more and was trying to get rid of him without actually saying so. The knowledge had hurt him but he had made up his mind – he'd tried to win her, he'd given it his best shot and he had failed. Better to bow out gracefully. So he had simply stopped calling on her and when she had not made any attempt to contact him he had concluded that he must have been right in assuming she had been trying, very gently, to get rid of him.

Now, he looked at the too-thin figure shivering in an overcoat that he recognised as being one that had once belonged to Lola, and felt his heart contract. But there was no sense of rising excitement as there might have been a year ago. His confidence had taken too many knocks since then.

‘Why are you waiting for me?' he asked.

She hesitated. No sign of the self-assured Sophia today.

‘Can we talk?'

‘Here?'

‘No, not really. Could you come over?'

‘When?'

She hesitated. ‘Whenever.'

‘Would tomorrow be all right?' he asked.

She nodded. She wanted to say that no time would really be all right for what she had to do, but that now her mind was made up she would really have preferred to get it over with sooner rather than later. But she knew she had no right to demand that he should come rushing straight over. If she wanted his help it would have to be at his convenience, not hers.

‘Tomorrow then,' Bernard said. ‘About seven?'

She nodded again and he mounted his bicycle and rode off leaving her feeling slightly foolish and very effectively put in her place.

By the time Bernard arrived the following evening Sophia was dreadfully nervous. He had been so cool with her, he hadn't seemed in the least pleased to see her and she could not help wondering if his feelings towards her had changed. It was, after all, a long while since he had asked her to marry him and she really could not expect him to wait for her forever. Perhaps he had met someone else or perhaps – her stomach turned over at the thought – perhaps he had heard she had been seeing Dieter. She had been as discreet as possible but it was not easy to keep a thing like that quiet. The thought that Bernard might think she was a collaborator made her feel sick, but that in itself was illogical since if he was going to help her she would have to confess the truth in any case.

I can't do it! Sophia thought in panic. But she also knew she couldn't do any of the alternatives either and to do nothing at all would only make things worse in the long run. Oh God, please help me! Sophia prayed when she heard Bernard's knock at the door. Please help me!

To her surprise Bernard looked very smart. As it had been practically impossible to get new clothes since the occupation most islanders were now looking decidedly shabby and Sophia herself had wished she had something nicer to wear than the rather childish jersey and skirt that had been her ‘ best' in 1940, especially since she was uncomfortably aware that the skirt was beginning to strain at the waistband. But Bernard's sports jacket, although patched at the elbows, had stood up well to the test of time, as had his cavalry twill trousers and Oxford brogues. Perhaps it was because he was able to wear overalls and boots for work, Sophia thought.

They sat down by the fire – it gave out so little heat that it was necessary to sit almost on top of it to keep warm – and made small talk for a while. If only she could reach him as she used to, Sophia thought, but the barrier of reserve was still there and she did not know how to get around it.