The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society (27 page)

Then, behind me, I heard an awful gulping gasp: a deep gagging that went on and on. I can't describe it. I turned and saw that it was Remy; she was bent over almost double and vomiting. Dawsey had caught her and was holding her as she went on vomiting, deep spasms of it, over both of them. It was terrible to see and hear. Dawsey shouted, ‘Get that dog away, Juliet! Now!'

I frantically pushed the dog away. The woman was crying and apologising, almost hysterical herself. I held on to the dog's collar and kept saying, ‘It's all right! It's all right! It's not your fault. Please go. Go!' At last she did, hauling her poor confused pet along by his collar. Remy was quiet then, only gasping for breath. Dawsey looked over her head and said, ‘Let's get her to your house, Juliet. It's the nearest.' He picked her up and carried her, I trailing behind, helpless and frightened.

Remy was cold and shaking, so I ran her a bath, and once she was warm again, put her to bed. She was already half-asleep, so I gathered her clothes into a bundle, and went downstairs.

Dawsey was standing by the window, looking out. Without turning he said, ‘She told me once that those guards used big dogs. Riled them up and deliberately let them loose on the
lines of women standing for roll call—just to watch the fun.
Christ!
I've been ignorant, Juliet. I thought being here with us would help her forget. Goodwill isn't enough, is it, Juliet? Not nearly enough.'

‘No,' I said, ‘it isn't.' He didn't say anything else, just nodded to me and left. I telephoned Amelia to tell her where Remy was and why and then started the washing. Isola brought Kit back; we had supper and played Snap until bedtime.

But I can't sleep. I'm so ashamed of myself. Had I really thought Remy well enough to go home—or did I just want her to go? Did I think it was well time for her to go back to France—to just get on with It, whatever It might be? I did—and it's sickening.

Love,

Juliet

P.S. As long as I'm confessing, I might as well tell you something else. Bad as it was to stand there holding Remy's awful clothes and smelling Dawsey's ruined ones, all I could think of was what he said:
Goodwill isn't enough, is it?
Does that mean that is all he feels for her? I've chewed over that errant thought all evening.

Night Letter from Sidney to Juliet
4th September 1946

Dear Juliet,

All that errant thought means is that you're in love with Dawsey yourself. Surprised? I'm not. Don't know what took you so long to realise it—sea air is supposed to clear your head. I want to come and see you and Oscar's letters for myself, but I can't get away till the 13th. All right?

Love,

Sidney

Telegram from Juliet to Sidney
5th September 1946

You're insufferable especially when you're right
STOP
Lovely to see you anyhow on the 13th
STOP
Love Juliet

From Isola to Sidney
6th September 1946

Dear Sidney,

Juliet says you're coming to see Granny Pheen's letters with your own eyes, and I say it's about time. Not that I minded Ivor; he was a nice fellow, though he should stop wearing those little hairbow ties. I told him they didn't do much for him, but he was more interested in hearing about my suspicions of Billy Bee Jones, how I shadowed her and locked her up in the smokehouse. He said it was a fine piece of detective work and Miss Marple couldn't have done better herself! Miss Marple is not a friend of his, she is a lady detective in fiction books, who uses all she knows about HUMAN NATURE to work out mysteries and solve crimes that the police can't.

He set me thinking about how wonderful it would be to solve mysteries myself. If only I knew of any. Ivor said skulduggery is everywhere, and with my fine instincts, I could train myself to become another Miss Marple. ‘You clearly have excellent observational skills. All you need now is practice. Note everything and write it down.'

I went to Amelia's and borrowed a few books with Miss Marple in them. She's a caution, isn't she? Just sitting there quietly, knitting away; seeing things everybody else misses. I could keep my ears open for what doesn't sound right, see things from the sides of my eyes. Mind you, we don't have any unsolved mysteries in Guernsey, but that's not to say we won't one day—and when we do, I'll be ready.

I still cherish the head-bump book you sent me and I hope your feelings are not hurt that I want to pursue another calling. I still trust the truth of lumps; it's just that I've read the head bumps of everyone I care for, except yours, and it can get tedious.

Juliet says you're coming next Friday. I could meet your plane and take you to Juliet's. Eben is having a party on the beach the next evening, and he says you are most welcome. Eben hardly ever gives parties, but he said this one is to make a happy announcement to us all. A celebration! But of what? Does he mean to announce nuptials? But whose? I hope he is not getting married hisself; wives don't generally let husbands out by themselves of an evening and I would miss Eben's company.

Your friend,

Isola

From Juliet to Sophie
7th September 1946

Dear Sophie,

At last, I mustered my courage and told Amelia that I wanted to adopt Kit. Her opinion means a great deal to me—she loved Elizabeth so dearly; she knows Kit so well—and me, almost
well enough. I was anxious for her approval—and terrified that I wouldn't get it. I choked on my tea but in the end managed to get the words out. Her relief was so visible I was shocked. I hadn't realised how worried she'd been about Kit's future.

She started to say, ‘If I could have one—' then stopped and started again. ‘I think it would be a wonderful thing for both of you. It would be the best possible thing—' She broke off and pulled out a handkerchief. And then, of course, I pulled out my handkerchief. After we'd finished crying, we plotted. Amelia will come with me to see Mr Dilwyn. ‘I have known him since he was in short trousers,' she said. ‘He won't dare refuse me.' Having Amelia on your side is like having the Third Army at your back.

But something wonderful—even more wonderful than having Amelia's approval—has happened. My last doubt has shrunk to less than pinpoint-size. Do you remember my telling you about the little box Kit carried, tied up with string? The one I thought might hold a dead ferret? She came into my room this morning and patted my face until I woke up. She was carrying her box.

Without a word, she began to undo the string. She took the lid off, parted the tissue paper and gave the box to me. Sophie—she stood back and watched my face as I turned over the things in the box and then lifted them all out on to the bedcover. The articles were a tiny, eyelet-covered baby pillow; a small photograph of Elizabeth digging in her garden and laughing up at Dawsey; a woman's linen handkerchief, smelling faintly of jasmine; a man's signet ring; and a small leather book of Rilke's poetry with the inscription,
For Elizabeth, who turns darkness into light, Christian
. Tucked into the book was a much-folded scrap of paper. Kit nodded, so I carefully opened it and read, ‘Amelia—kiss her for me when she wakes
up. I'll be back by six. Elizabeth. P.S. Doesn't she have the most beautiful feet?'

She was showing me her treasures, Sophie—her eyes didn't once leave my face. We were both so solemn, and I, for once, didn't start crying, I just held out my arms. She climbed into them, and under the covers with me—and went straight to sleep. Not me! I couldn't. I was too happy planning the rest of our lives.

I don't care about living in London—I love Guernsey and I want to stay here, even after I've finished Elizabeth's book. I can't imagine Kit living in London, having to wear shoes all the time, having to walk instead of run, having no pigs to visit. No fishing with Eben and Eli, no visits to Amelia, no potion-mixing with Isola, and most of all, no time spent with Dawsey.

I think, if I become Kit's guardian, we could continue to live in Elizabeth's cottage. I could take my vast profits from
lzzy
and buy a flat for Kit and me to stay in when we visit London. Her home is here, and mine can be. Writers can write on Guernsey—look at Victor Hugo. The only things I'd really miss about London are Sidney and Susan, the nearness to Scotland, new plays, and Harrods Food Hall.

Pray for Mr Dilwyn's good sense. I know he has it, I know he likes me, I know he knows Kit is happy living with me, and that I am solvent enough for two at the moment—and who can say better than that in these decadent times? Amelia thinks that if he does say no to adoption without a husband, he will gladly grant me guardianship.

Sidney is coming to Guernsey again next week. I wish you were coming, too—I miss you.

Love,

Juliet

From Juliet to Sidney
8th September 1946

Dear Sidney,

Kit and I took a picnic out to the meadow to watch Dawsey rebuilding Elizabeth's stone wall. It was a wonderful excuse to spy on Dawsey and his way of going at things. He studied each rock, felt the weight of it, brooded, and placed it on the wall. Smiled if it accorded with the picture in his head. Took it off if it didn't and searched for a different stone. He is very calming to the spirit.

He grew so accustomed to our admiring gazes that he issued an unprecedented invitation to supper. Kit had a prior engagement with Amelia, but I accepted with unbecoming haste and then fell into an absurd twitter about being alone with him. We were both a bit awkward when I arrived, but he at least had the cooking to occupy him and retired to the kitchen, refusing help. I took the opportunity to snoop through his books. He hasn't got very many, but his taste is superior—Dickens, Mark Twain, Balzac, Boswell, and dear old Leigh Hunt,
The Sir Roger de Coverley Papers
, Anne Brontë's novels (I wonder why he had those) and my biography of her. I didn't know he had that: he's never said a word—perhaps he loathed it.

Over supper, we discussed Jonathan Swift, pigs, and the trials in Nuremberg. Doesn't that reveal a breathtaking range of interests? I think it does. We talked easily enough, but neither of us ate much—even though he had made a delicious sorrel soup (much better than I could). After coffee, we strolled down to his farmyard for a pig-viewing. Grown pigs don't improve on acquaintance, but piglets are a different matter—Dawsey's are spotted and frisky and sly. Every day they dig a new hole
under his fence, ostensibly to escape, but really just for the amusement of watching Dawsey fill in the gap. You should have seen them grin as he approached the fence.

Dawsey's barn is extraordinarily clean. He also stacks his hay beautifully.

I believe I am becoming pathetic.

I'll go further. I believe that I am in love with a flower-growing, wood-carving quarryman/carpenter/ pig farmer. In fact, I know I am. Perhaps tomorrow I will become entirely miserable at the thought that he doesn't love me back—may, even, care for Remy—but at this precise moment I am succumbing to euphoria. My head and stomach feel quite odd.

See you on Friday. Feel free to give yourself airs for discovering that I love Dawsey. You may even preen in my presence—this one time, but never again.

Love and XXXX,

Juliet

Telegram from Juliet to Sidney
11th September 1946

Am entirely miserable
STOP
Saw Dawsey in St Peter Port this afternoon buying suitcase with Remy on his arm both wreathed in smiles
STOP
Is it for their honeymoon
STOP
What a fool I am
STOP
I blame you
STOP
Wretchedly Juliet

Detection Notes of Miss Isola Pribby
Private: Not to Be Read, Even after Death

Sunday

This book with lines in it is from my friend Sidney Stark. It came to me in the post yesterday. It had
PENSÉES
written in gold on the cover, but I scratched it off, because that's French for THOUGHTS and I am only going to write down FACTS. Facts gleaned from keen eyes and ears. I don't expect too much of myself at first—I must learn to be more observant.

Here are some of the observations I made today. Kit loves being in Juliet's company—she looks peaceful when Juliet comes into the room and she doesn't make faces behind people's backs any more. Also she can wiggle her ears now—which she couldn't before Juliet came.

My friend Sidney is coming to read Oscar's letters. He will stay with Juliet this time, because she's cleaned out Elizabeth's store room and put a bed in it for him.

Saw Daphne Post digging a big hole under Mr Ferre's elm tree. She always does it by the light of the moon. I think we should all go together and buy her a silver teapot so that she can stay at home at night.

Monday

Mrs Taylor has a rash on her arms. What, or who, from? Tomatoes or her husband? Look into further.

Tuesday

Nothing noteworthy today.

Wednesday

Nothing again.

Thursday

Remy came to see me today—she gives me the stamps from her letters from France—they are more colourful than English ones, so I stick them in my book. She had a letter in a brown envelope with a little open window in it, from the FRENCH GOVERNMENT. This is the fourth one she's got—what do they want from her? Find out.

I did start to observe something today—behind Mr Salles's market stall, but they stopped when they saw me. Never mind, Eben is having his beach picnic on Saturday—so I am sure to have something to observe there.

I have been looking at a book about artists and how they size up a picture they want to paint. Say they want to concentrate on an orange—do they study the shape direct? No, they don't. They fool their eyes and stare at the banana beside it, or look at it upside down, between their legs. They see the orange in a brand-new way. It's called getting perspective. So, I am going to try a new way of looking—not upside down between my legs, but by not staring at anything direct or straight ahead. I can move my eyes slyly if I keep my lids lowered a bit. Practise this!!!