The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society (14 page)

Of all the sights I saw the day they left, there is one picture I can't get out of my mind. Two little girls, all dressed up in pink dresses, stiff petticoats, shiny shoes—as if they were going to a party. How cold they must have been crossing the Channel.

All the children were to be dropped off at the school by their parents. It was there we had to say our goodbyes. Buses came to take the children down to the pier. The boats, just back from Dunkirk, had to cross the Channel again for the children. There was no time to get a convoy together to escort them. There was no time to get enough lifeboats on board—or life jackets.

That morning we stopped first at the hospital for Eli to say goodbye to his mother. He couldn't do it. His jaw was clamped shut so tight, he could only nod. Jane held him for a bit, and then Elizabeth and I walked him down to the school.
I hugged him hard and that was the last time I saw him for five years. Elizabeth stayed because she had volunteered to help get the children inside ready.

I was walking back to Jane in the hospital, when I remembered something Eli had once said to me. He was about five years old, and we were walking down to La Courbière to see the fishing boats come in. There was an old canvas bathing shoe lying in the middle of the path. Eli walked round it, staring. Finally, he said, ‘That shoe is all alone, Grandpa.' I answered that yes it was. He looked at it again, and then we walked on. After a bit, he said, ‘Grandpa, that's something I never am.' I asked him, ‘What's that?' And he said, ‘Lonesome in my spirits.'

There! I had something happy to tell Jane after all, and I prayed it would stay true for him.

Isola says she wants to write to you herself about what happened at the school. She says she was witness to a scene you will want to know about as an authoress: Elizabeth slapped Adelaide Addison in the face and made her leave. You do not know Miss Addison, and you are fortunate in that—she is a woman too good for daily wear.

Isola told me you that might come to Guernsey. I would be glad to offer you hospitality.

Yours,

Eben Ramsey

Telegram from Juliet to Isola
23rd April 1946

Did Elizabeth really slap Adelaide Addison
STOP
If only I had been there
STOP
Please send details
STOP
Love Juliet

From Isola to Juliet
24th April 1946

Dear Juliet,

Yes, she did—slapped her right across the face. It was lovely.

We were all at the St Brioc School to help the children get ready for the buses to take them down to the ships. The States didn't want the parents to come into the school itself—too crowded and too sad. Better to say their goodbyes outside. One child crying might set them all off.

So it was strangers who tied up shoelaces, wiped noses, put a nametag around each child's neck. We did up buttons and played games with them until the buses came. I had one bunch trying to touch their tongues to their noses, and Elizabeth had another lot playing that game that teaches them how to lie with a straight face—I forget what it's called—when Adelaide Addison came in with that doleful mug of hers, all piety and no sense.

She gathered a circle of children around her and started to sing ‘For Those in Peril on the Sea' over their little heads. But no, ‘safety from storms'
wasn't enough
for her. She set about ordering the poor things to pray for their parents every night—who knew what the German soldiers might do to them? Then she said to be especially good little boys and girls so that Mummy and Daddy could look down on them from Heaven and BE PROUD OF THEM.

Honestly, Juliet, she had those children crying and sobbing as though their hearts were breaking. I was too shocked to move, but not Elizabeth. No, quick as an adder's tongue, she grabbed Adelaide's arm and told her to SHUT UP.

Adelaide cried, ‘Let me go! I am speaking the Word of God!'

Elizabeth, she got a look that would turn the devil to stone, and then she slapped Adelaide right across the face—nice and sharp, so her head wobbled on her shoulders—and dragged her over to the door, shoved her out, and locked it. Old Adelaide kept hammering on the door, but no one took any notice. I lie—silly Daphne Post did try to open it, but I got her round the neck and she stopped.

It is my belief that the sight of a good fight shocked the fear out of those babies, and they stopped crying, and the buses came and we loaded the children on. Elizabeth and me, we didn't go home, we stood in the road and waved till the buses was out of sight.

I hope I never live to see another such day, even with Adelaide getting slapped. All those little children bereft in the world—I was glad I did not have any.

Thank you for your life story. You have had such sadness with your mum and dad and your home by the river, for which I am sorry. But me, I am glad you have dear friends like Sophie and her mother and Sidney. As for Sidney, he sounds a very fine man—but bossy. It's a failing common in men.

Clovis Fossey has asked if you would send the Society a copy of your prize-winning essay on chickens. He thinks it would be nice to read aloud at a meeting. Then we could put it in our archives, if we ever have any. I'd like to read it too, chickens being the reason I fell off a hen-house roof—they'd chased me there. How they all came at me—with their razor lips and rolling eyeballs! People don't know how chickens can turn on you, but they can—just like mad dogs. I didn't keep hens until the war came—then I had to, but I am never easy in their company. I would rather have Ariel butt me on my
bottom—that's open and honest and not like a sly chicken, sneaking up to jab you.

I would like it if you came to see us. So would Eben and Amelia and Dawsey—and Eli, too. Kit is not so sure, but you mustn't mind that. She might come round. Your newspaper article will be printed soon, so you could come here and have a rest. You might find a story here you'd like to tell about.

Your friend,

Isola

From Dawsey to Juliet
26th April 1946

Dear Miss Ashton,

My temporary job at the quarry is over, and Kit is staying with me for a while. She is sitting under the table I'm writing on, whispering. What's that you're whispering, I asked, and there was a long quiet. Then she commenced whispering again, and I can make out my own name amongst the other sounds. This is what generals call a war of nerves, and I know who is going to win.

Kit doesn't resemble Elizabeth very much, except for her grey eyes and a look she gets when she is concentrating hard. But she is like her mother inside—fierce in her feelings. Even when she was tiny, she howled until the glass shivered in the windows, and when she gripped my finger in her little fist, it turned white. I knew nothing about babies, but Elizabeth made me learn. She said I was fated to be a father and she had a responsibility to make sure I knew more than the usual run of them. She missed Christian, not just for herself, for Kit, too.

Kit knows her father is dead. Amelia and I told her that, but we didn't know how to speak of Elizabeth. In the end, we said that she'd been sent away and we hoped she'd return soon. Kit looked from me to Amelia and back, but she didn't ask any questions. She just went out and sat in the barn. I don't know if we did right.

Some days I wear myself out wishing for Elizabeth to come home. We have learnt that Sir Ambrose Ivers was killed in one of the last bombing raids in London, and, as Elizabeth inherited his estate, his solicitors have begun a search for her. They must have better ways to find her than we have, so I am hopeful that Mr Dilwyn will get some word from her—or about her—soon. Wouldn't it be a blessed thing for Kit and for all of us if Elizabeth could be found?

The Society is having an outing on Saturday. We are attending the Guernsey Repertory Company's performance of
Julius Caesar
—John Booker is to be Mark Antony and Clovis Fossey is going to play Caesar. Isola has been reading Clovis his lines, and she says we will all be astonished by his acting, especially when, after he's dead, he hisses, ‘Thou shalt see me at Philippi!' Just thinking of the way Clovis hisses has kept her awake for three nights, she says. Isola exaggerates, but only enough to enjoy herself.

Kit's stopped whispering. I've just peered under the table, and she's asleep. It's later than I thought.

Yours,

Dawsey Adams

From Mark to Juliet
30th April 1946

Darling,

Just got in—the entire trip could have been avoided if Hendry had telephoned, but I smacked a few heads together and they've cleared the whole shipment through customs. I feel as though I've been away for years. Can I see you tonight? I need to talk to you.

Love,

M.

From Juliet to Mark

Of course. Do you want to come here? I've got a sausage.

Juliet

From Mark to Juliet

A sausage—how appetising.

Suzette, at eight?

Love,

M.

From Juliet to Mark

Say please.

J.

From Mark to Juliet

Pleased to see you at Suzette at eight.

Love,

M.

From Juliet to Mark
1st May 1946

Dear Mark,

I didn't refuse, you know. I said I wanted to think about it. You were so busy ranting about Sidney and Guernsey that perhaps you didn't notice—I only said I wanted time. I've known you
two months
. It's not long enough for me to be certain that we should spend the rest of our lives together, even if you are. I once made a terrible mistake and almost married a man I hardly knew (perhaps you read about it in the papers)—and at least in that case the war was an extenuating circumstance. I won't be such a fool again.

Think about it: I've never seen your home—I don't even know where it is, really. New York, but which street? What does it look like? What colour are your walls? Your sofa? Do you arrange your books alphabetically? (I hope not.) Are your drawers tidy or messy? Do you ever hum, and if so, what? Do you prefer cats or dogs? Or fish? What on earth do you eat for breakfast—or do you have a cook?

You see? I don't know you well enough to marry you.

I have one other piece of news that may interest you: Sidney is not your rival. I am not now nor have I ever been in love
with Sidney, nor he with me. Nor will I ever marry him. Is that decisive enough for you?

Are you absolutely certain you wouldn't rather be married to someone more tractable?

Juliet

From Juliet to Sophie
1st May 1946

Dearest Sophie,

I wish you were here. I wish we still lived together in our lovely little studio and worked in dear Mr Hawke's shop and ate biscuits and cheese for supper every night. I want so much to talk to you. I want you to tell me whether I should marry Mark Reynolds.

He asked me last night—no bended knee, but a diamond as big as a pigeon's egg—at a romantic French restaurant. I'm not certain he still wants to marry me this morning—he's absolutely furious because I didn't give him an unequivocal yes. I tried to explain that I hadn't known him long enough and I needed time to think, but he wouldn't listen to me. He was certain that I was rejecting him because of a secret passion—for Sidney! They really are obsessed with each another, those two.

Thank God we were at his flat by then—he started shouting about Sidney and godforsaken islands and women who care more about strangers than men who are right in front of them (that's Guernsey and my new friends there). I kept trying to explain and he kept shouting until I began to cry from frustration. Then he felt remorseful, which was so unlike him and endearing that I almost changed my mind and said yes. But then I imagined a lifetime of having to cry to get him
to be kind, and I went back to no again. We argued and he lectured and I wept a bit more because I was so exhausted, and eventually he called his chauffeur to take me home. As he shut me into the car, he leaned in to kiss me and said, ‘You're an idiot, Juliet.'

And maybe he's right. Do you remember those awful, awful Cheslayne Fair novels we read the summer we were thirteen? My favourite was
The Master of Blackheath
. I must have read it twenty times (and so did you, don't pretend you didn't). Do you remember Ransom—how he manfully hid his love for the girlish Eulalie so that she could choose freely, little knowing that she had been mad about him ever since she fell off her horse when she was twelve? The thing is, Sophie—Mark Reynolds is exactly like Ransom. He's tall and handsome, with a crooked smile and a chiselled jaw. He shoulders his way through the crowd, careless of the glances that follow him. He's impatient and magnetic, and when I go to powder my nose I overhear other women talking about him, just like Eulalie did in the museum. People notice him. He doesn't try to make them—they can't help it.

I used to get the shivers about Ransom. Sometimes I do about Mark, too—when I look at him—but I can't get over the nagging feeling that I'm no Eulalie. If I were ever to fall off a horse, it would be lovely to be picked up by Mark, but I don't think I'm likely to fall off a horse in the near future. I'm much more likely to go to Guernsey and write a book about the Occupation, and Mark can't abide the thought. He wants me to stay in London and go to restaurants and theatres and marry him like a reasonable person.

Write and tell me what to do.

Love to Dominic—and to you and Alexander.

Juliet

From Juliet to Sidney
3rd May 1946

Dear Sidney,

I may not be as distraught as Stephens & Stark is without you, but I do miss you and want you to advise me. Please drop everything you are doing and write to me at once.