LIZZIE AND THE GUERNSEY GANG
by April W Gardner
copyright Astraea Press, 2011
Chapter One
British Channel Islands—May 1940
Lying on the toasty, white sand after a long morning of chores was as close to Heaven as a girl of nine could get without actually dying.
There couldn’t possibly be any place on earth more pleasant than the baque. My beach. Cobo Bay, to be exact. Not that I knew from experience, seeing I’d never been any other place on earth.
I closed my eyes against the bright Guernsey Island sun and sucked in a lungful of salty air. Perfection.
Thoughts of what tomorrow might hold interrupted the peaceful moment. Would Mum and Dad send us children to England? I longed to visit it, but how would I hold up being so far from home? My face tightened as I memorized the feel of the grainy sand against my fingers, the briny scent of the shore, and the crash of the waves against the rocks. Just in case.
My tummy fluttered at the thought of a possible upcoming holiday with my classmates. I imagined sailing up the Thames into London, waving at the Parliament building, and ducking beneath the raised arms of the Tower Bridge.
A shadow cooled my cheeks and a splash of seawater fell on my nose. My eyes flew open. There, not a foot from me, squatted my younger brother, Andre.
“Dormez-vous?” he asked, speaking in our island’s French. Water dripped from his blond curls. His drenched shirt clung to his scrawny chest.
“No, I’m not sleeping.” I sat up and wiped the droplets from my face. “Mum’s not going to be happy with your dirty trousers.”
“I couldn’t help it. There was a crab,” Andre said.
“A crab?” I kept my voice flat.
“Right, and I had to catch him.”
“And did you?”
Cousin James trotted up, laughing. “Not even close.” He dropped to his knees on the sand beside me. James outranked me in age by only a month but in height by a full head. Having no siblings close to his age and living just a few houses down, James played with us every chance he got.
“Too slow for a crab, are you, mon petit moustique?” I asked “my little mosquito” with more than a hint of challenge in my voice.
“Not too slow for you, Lizzie!” Andre leaped to his feet and flew down the beach. He pumped his six-year-old legs with determination.
“Come on. He’s going to win.” James grabbed my hand and half pulled, half dragged me to my feet.
The wind whistled in my ears and muffled James’ laughter beside me. “Very smart, Andre,” he called. “But just the same, you won’t win.”
Sure enough, with each stride we gained on him.
Andre disappeared around an outcropping of tall rocks. Moments later, James and I rounded the rocks and caught sight of him again. A lone boulder loomed ahead. It was the finish line. The same one we’d used time and again.
Andre tossed a peek at us over his shoulder. I spotted the flash of concern on his face. He must have known he still had too far to go to stay ahead of James’ long legs and my swift ones. In all our many races, he’d never won.
