The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society (22 page)

Sam said, ‘Well—not as to say real well, but I liked her. She and Eben's girl Jane used to come up here together to that very tombstone. They'd spread a cloth and eat their picnic—right on top of Mr Mulliss's dead bones.' He told me that the girls were always up to mischief—they tried to raise a ghost once and scared the living daylights out of the Vicar's wife. Then he looked over at Kit at the church gate and said, ‘That's surely a sweet little girl of hers and Captain Hellman's.'

I pounced on that. Had he known Captain Hellman? Had he liked him? He glared at me and said, ‘Yes, I did. He was a fine fellow, for all he was a German. You're not going to take that out on Miss McKenna's little girl, are you?'

‘I wouldn't dream of it!' I said.

He wagged a finger at me. ‘You'd better not, Miss! You'd best learn the truth of certain matters before you go trying to write a book about the Occupation. I hated the Occupation, too. Makes me angry to think of it. Some of those blighters was purely mean—they'd come into your house without knocking
and push you to the ground. They was the sort to like having the upper hand, never having had it before. But not all of them was like that—not all, not by a long shot.'

Christian, according to Sam, was not. Sam liked Christian. He and Elizabeth had come across Sam in the churchyard once, trying to dig a grave when the ground was ice-hard and as cold as Sam himself. Christian picked up the shovel and threw his back into it. ‘He was a strong fellow, and he'd finished as soon as he'd started,' Sam said. ‘Told him he could have a job with me any time, and he laughed.' The next day Elizabeth turned up with a Thermos jug full of hot coffee. Real coffee from real beans Christian had brought to her house. She gave Sam a warm sweater, too, that had belonged to Christian.

‘To tell the truth,' Sam said, ‘as long as the Occupation was to last, I met more than one nice German soldier. You would, you know, seeing some of them as much as every day for five years. You couldn't help but feel sorry for some of them—stuck here knowing their families at home were being bombed to pieces. Didn't matter then who started it in the first place. Not to me, anyway.

‘Why, there'd be soldiers on guard in the back of potato lorries going to the army's mess hall—children would follow them, hoping potatoes would fall off into the street. Soldiers would look straight ahead, grim-like, and then flick potatoes off the pile—on purpose. They did the same thing with lumps of coal—my, those were precious when we didn't have enough fuel left.

‘There was many such incidents: just ask Mrs Godfray about her boy. He had the pneumonia and she was worried half to death because she couldn't keep him warm nor give him good food to eat. One day there's a knock on her door, and when she opens it she sees an orderly from the German hospital.
Without a word, he hands her a phial of that sulphonamide, tips his cap, and walks away. He had stolen it from their dispensary for her. They caught him later, trying to steal some again, and they sent him off to prison in Germany—maybe hanged him. We'd not be knowing.'

He glared at me again suddenly. ‘And I say that if some toffee-nosed Englishwoman wants to call being human Collaboration, they'll need to talk to me and Mrs Godfray first!'

I tried to protest, but Sam turned his back and walked away. I gathered Kit up and we went home. Between the wilted flowers for Amelia and the gravedigging for Sam Withers, I felt I was beginning to know Kit's father—and why Elizabeth must have loved him.

Next week will bring Remy to Guernsey. Dawsey leaves for France on Tuesday to fetch her.

Love,

Juliet

From Juliet to Sophie
21st July 1946

Dear Sophie,

Burn this letter: I wouldn't want it to appear among your collected papers.

I've told you about Dawsey, of course. You know that he was the first here to write to me; that he is fond of Charles Lamb; that he is helping to bring up Kit; that she adores him. What I haven't told you is that on the very first evening I arrived on the Island, the moment Dawsey held out both his hands to me at the bottom of the gangplank, I felt an unaccountable jolt of
excitement. Dawsey is so quiet and composed that I had no idea if it was only me, so I've struggled to be reasonable and casual and
usual
for the last two months. And I was doing very nicely—until tonight.

Dawsey came over to borrow a suitcase for his trip to Louviers—he is going to collect Remy. What kind of man doesn't even own a suitcase? Kit was sound asleep, so we put my case in his cart and walked up to the cliffs. The moon was rising and the sky was coloured in mother-of-pearl, like the inside of a shell. The sea for once was quiet, with only silvery ripples, barely moving. No wind. I have never known the world to be so silent, and it dawned on me that Dawsey himself was exactly that silent too, walking beside me. I was as close to him as I've ever been, so I began to take particular note of his wrists and hands. I wanted to touch them, and the thought made me light-headed. There was a knife-edgy feeling—you know the one—in the pit of my stomach.

All at once, Dawsey turned. His face was shadowed, but I could see his eyes, very dark, watching me, waiting. Who knows what might have happened—a kiss? A pat on the head? Nothing?—because in the next second we heard Wally Beall's horsedrawn carriage (our local taxi) outside my cottage, and Wally's passenger called out, ‘Surprise, darling!' It was Mark—Markham V. Reynolds, Junior, resplendent in his exquisitely tailored suit, with a swathe of red roses over his arm.

I truly wished him dead, Sophie.

But what could I do? I went to greet him—and when he kissed me all I could think was,
Don't! Not in front of Dawsey!
He deposited the roses on my arm and turned to Dawsey with his steely smile. So I introduced them, wishing I could crawl into a hole—I don't know why, exactly—and watched stupidly
as Dawsey shook Mark's hand, turned to me, shook my hand, and said, ‘Thank you for the suitcase, Juliet. Goodnight.' He climbed into his cart and left. Left, without another word, without a backward glance.

I could have cried. Instead I invited Mark in and tried to seem like a woman who had just received a delightful surprise. The cart and the introductions had awakened Kit, who looked suspiciously at Mark and wanted to know where Dawsey had gone—he hadn't kissed her goodnight. Me neither, I thought to myself. I put Kit back to bed and persuaded Mark that my reputation would be in tatters if he didn't go to the Royal Hotel at once. Which he did, but with a very bad grace and many threats to appear on my doorstep the next morning at six.

Then I sat down and chewed my fingernails for three hours. Should I take myself over to Dawsey's house and try to pick up from where we had left off? But where
did
we leave off? I'm not sure. I don't want to make a fool of myself. What if he looks at me with polite incomprehension—or worse still, with pity?

And anyway, what am I thinking? Mark is here. Mark, who is rich and debonair and wants to marry me. Mark, whom I was doing very well without. Why can't I stop thinking about Dawsey, who probably doesn't give a fig about me? But maybe he does. Maybe I was about to find out what was on the other side of that silence.

Damn, damn and damn.

It's two in the morning, I haven't a fingernail to my name and I look at least a hundred years old. Maybe Mark will be repulsed by my haggard appearance when he sees me. Maybe he will spurn me. I don't know that I will be disappointed if he does.

Love,

Juliet

From Amelia to Juliet (left under Juliet's door)
23rd July 1946

Dear Juliet,

My raspberries have come in with a vengeance. I am picking this morning and making pies this afternoon. Would you and Kit like to come for tea (pie) this afternoon?

Love,

Amelia

From Juliet to Amelia
23rd July 1946

Dear Amelia,

I'm terribly sorry, I can't come. I have got a guest.

Love,

Juliet

P.S. Kit is delivering this in the hope of getting some pie. Can you keep her for the afternoon?

From Juliet to Sophie
24th July 1946

Dear Sophie,

You should probably burn this letter as well as the last one. I've refused Mark finally and irrevocably, and my elation
is indecent. If I were a properly brought-up young lady, I'd draw the curtains and brood, but I can't. I'm
free
! Today I bounced out of bed feeling frisky as a lamb, and Kit and I spent the morning running races in the field. She won, but that's because she cheats.

Yesterday was horrible. You know how I felt when Mark appeared, but the next morning was even worse. He turned up at my door at seven, radiating confidence and certain that we'd have a wedding date set by noon. He wasn't the slightest bit interested in the Island, or the Occupation, or Elizabeth, or what I'd been doing since I arrived—he didn't ask a single question about any of it. Then Kit came down to breakfast. That surprised him—he hadn't really registered her the night before. He had a nice way with her—they talked about dogs—but after a few minutes, it was obvious that he was waiting for her to clear off. I suppose, in his experience, nannies whisk the children away before they can annoy their parents. Of course, I tried to ignore his irritation and made Kit her breakfast as usual, but I could feel his displeasure billowing across the room.

At last Kit went outside to play, and the minute the door closed behind her, Mark said, ‘Your new friends must be damned smart—they've managed to saddle you with their responsibilities in less than two months.' He shook his head—pitying me for being so gullible.

I just stared at him.

‘She's a cute kid, but she's got no claim on you, Juliet, and you're going to have to be firm about it. Get her a nice dolly or something and say goodbye, before she starts thinking you're going to take care of her for the rest of her life.'

Now I was so angry I couldn't speak. I stood there, gripping Kit's porridge bowl with white knuckles. I didn't throw it at
him, but I was close. When I could speak again, I whispered, ‘Get out.'

‘Sorry?'

‘I never want to see you again.'

‘Juliet?' He had no idea what I was talking about.

So I explained. Feeling better by the minute, I told him that I would never marry him or anyone else who didn't love Kit and Guernsey and Charles Lamb.

‘What the hell does Charles Lamb have to do with anything?' he shouted (as well he might).

I declined to elucidate. He tried to argue with me, then to coax me, then to kiss me, then to argue with me again, but it was over and he knew it. For the first time for ages—since February, when I met him—I was absolutely sure that I had done the right thing. How could I ever have considered marrying him? One year as his wife, and I'd have become one of those abject, quaking women who look at their husbands when someone asks them a question. I've always despised that type, but I see how it happens now.

Two hours later, Mark was on his way to the airfield, never (I hope) to return. And I, disgracefully un-heartbroken, was gobbling raspberry pie at Amelia's. Last night, I slept the sleep of the innocent for ten blissful hours, and this morning I feel thirty-two again, instead of a hundred.

Kit and I are going to spend the afternoon at the beach, hunting for agates. What a beautiful, beautiful day.

Love,

Juliet

P.S. None of this means anything with regard to Dawsey. Charles Lamb just popped out of my mouth by coincidence. Dawsey didn't even come to say goodbye before he left. The
more I think about it, the more convinced I am that he turned to me on the cliff to ask if he could borrow my umbrella.

From Juliet to Sidney
27th July 1946

Dear Sidney,

I knew that Elizabeth had been arrested for sheltering a Todt worker, but I hadn't known she had an accomplice until a few days ago, when by chance Eben mentioned Peter Sawyer, ‘who was arrested with Elizabeth.' ‘WHAT?' I screeched, and Eben said he'd let Peter tell me about it.

Peter lives in a nursing home near Le Grand Havre in Vale, so I telephoned him, and he said he'd be very glad to see me—especially if I had a tot of brandy about me.

‘Always,' I said.

‘Lovely. Come tomorrow,' he replied, and rang off.

Peter is in a wheelchair, but what a driver he is! He races it around like a madman, cuts corners and can turn on a sixpence. We went outside, sat under an arbour, and he tippled while he talked. This time, Sidney, I took notes—I couldn't bear to lose a word.

Peter was still living in his home in St Sampson's when he found the Todt worker, Lud Jaruzki, a sixteen-year-old Polish boy. Many of the Todt workers were permitted to leave their pens after dark to scrounge for food—as long as they came back. They were to return for work the next morning—and if they didn't, a hunt went up for them. This ‘parole' was one way the Germans had to see the workers didn't starve—without wasting too much of their own foodstuffs on them.

Almost every Islander had a vegetable garden—some had hen houses and rabbit pens—a rich harvest for foragers. And that is what the Todt slave workers were—foragers. Most Islanders kept watch over their gardens at night—armed with sticks or poles to defend their vegetables. Peter stayed outside at night too, in the shadows of his hen house. No pole for him, but a big iron skillet and metal spoon to bang it with and sound the alarm for the neighbours.

One night he heard—then saw—Lud crawling through a gap in his hedgerow. Peter waited; the boy tried to stand but fell down; he tried to get up again, but couldn't—he just lay there. Peter wheeled over and stared down at the boy.