The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society (28 page)

Friday

It works—not staring headlong works. I went with Dawsey, Juliet, Remy, and Kit in Dawsey's cart to the airfield to meet dear Sidney. Here is what I observed: Juliet hugged him, and he swung her around like a brother would. He was pleased to meet Remy, and I could tell he was watching her sideways, like I was doing. Dawsey shook Sidney's hand, but he did not come in for apple cake when we got to Juliet's house. It was a little sunk in the middle, but it tasted good.

I had to put drops in my eyeballs before bed—it is a strain, always having to skitter them sideways. My eyelids ache from having to keep them halfway down, too.

Saturday

Remy, Kit, and Juliet came with me down to the beach to gather firewood for this evening's picnic. Amelia was out in the sun too. She looks more rested and I am happy to see her so. Dawsey, Sidney, and Eli carried Eben's big iron cauldron down. Dawsey is always nice and polite to Sidney, and Sidney is pleasant as can be to Dawsey, but he seems to stare at him in a wondering sort of way. Why is that?

Remy left the firewood and went over to talk to Eben, and he patted her on the shoulder. Why? Eben was never one to pat much. Then they talked for a while, but sadly out of my earshot.

When it was time to go home for lunch, Eli went off beach-combing. Juliet and Sidney each took hold of one of Kit's hands, and they walked her up the cliff path, playing that game of ‘One Step. Two Step. Three Steps—LIFT UP!' Dawsey
watched them go up the path, but he did not follow. No, he walked down to the shore and just stood there, looking out over the water. It suddenly struck me that Dawsey is a lonely person. I think it may be that he has always been lonely, but he didn't mind before, and now he minds. Why now?

Saturday Night

I did see something at the picnic, something important—and like dear Miss Marple, I must act upon it. It was a brisk night and the sky looked moody. But that was fine—we bundled up in jumpers and jackets, eating lobster, and laughing at Booker. He stood on a rock and gave an oration, pretending to be that Roman he's so wild about. I worry about Booker: he needs to read a new book. I think I will lend him Jane Austen.

I was sitting, senses alert, by the bonfire with Sidney, Kit, Juliet, and Amelia. We were poking sticks in the fire, when Dawsey and Remy walked up to Eben and the lobster pot. Remy whispered to Eben, he smiled, and picked up his big spoon and banged on the pot. ‘Attention all,' Eben shouted, ‘I have something to tell you.'

Everyone went quiet, except for Juliet, who drew in her breath so hard I heard her. She didn't let it out again, and went all over rigid—even her jaw. What could be the matter? I was so worried about her, having once been toppled by appendix myself, that I missed Eben's first few words.

‘… and so tonight is a farewell party for Remy. She is leaving us next Tuesday for her new home in Paris. She will share rooms with friends and is apprenticed to the famous confectioner Raoul Guillemaux, in Paris. She has promised that she will come back to Guernsey and that her second
home will be with me and Eli, so we may all rejoice in her good fortune.'

What an outpouring of cheers from the rest of us! Everyone ran to gather round Remy and congratulate her. Everyone except Juliet—she let out her breath in a whoosh and flopped backwards on to the sand, like a gaffed fish!

I peered round, thinking I should observe Dawsey. He wasn't hovering over Remy—but how sad he looked. All of a sudden, IT CAME TO ME! I HAD IT! Dawsey didn't want Remy to go, he was afraid she'd never return. He was in love with Remy, and too shy in his nature to tell her so.

Well, I'm not. I would tell her of his affections, and then she, being
French
, would know what to do. She would let him know she'd find favour in his suit. Then they would marry, and she would not need to go off to Paris. What a blessing that I have no imagination and am able to see things clearly.

Sidney came up to Juliet and prodded her with his foot. ‘Feel better?' he asked, and Juliet said yes, so I stopped worrying about her. Then he led her over to congratulate Remy. Kit was asleep in my lap, so I stayed where I was by the fire and thought carefully.

Remy, like most Frenchwomen, is practical. She would want evidence of Dawsey's feelings for her before she changed her plans willy-nilly. I would have to find the proof she needed.

A little bit later, when wine had been opened and toasts drunk, I walked up to Dawsey and said, ‘Daws, I've noticed that your kitchen floor is dirty. I want to come and scrub it for you. Will Monday suit?'

He looked a little surprised, but he said yes. ‘It's an early Christmas present,' I said. ‘So you mustn't think of paying me. Leave the door open for me.'

And so it was settled, and I said goodnight to all.

Sunday

I have laid my plans for tomorrow. I am nervous. I will sweep and scrub Dawsey's house, keeping a lookout for evidence of his love for Remy. Maybe a poem, ‘Ode to Remy', screwed up in his wastepaper basket? Or doodles of her name, scribbled all over his shopping list? Proof that Dawsey loves Remy must (or almost must) be in clear sight. Miss Marple never really snooped so I won't either—I will not force locks. But once I have proof of his devotion to Remy, she won't get on the aeroplane to Paris on Tuesday morning. She will know what to do, and then Dawsey will be happy.

All Day Monday: A Serious Error, A Joyous Night

I woke up too early and had to fiddle around with my hens until it was time for Dawsey to leave for work up at the Big House. Then, I cut along to his farm, checking every tree trunk for carved hearts. None.

With Dawsey gone, I went in with my mop, bucket and rags. For two hours I swept, scrubbed, dusted and waxed—and found nothing. I was beginning to despair, when I thought of the books on his shelves. I began to clap dust out of them, but no loose papers fell to the floor. Suddenly I saw his little red book on Charles Lamb's life. What was it doing here? I had seen him put it in the wooden treasure box Eli carved for his birthday present. But if the red book was here on the shelf, what was in his treasure box? And where was it? I tapped the walls. No hollow sounds anywhere. I thrust my arm into his flour bin—nothing but flour. Would he keep it in the barn?
For rats to chew on? Never. What was left? His bed, under his bed!

I ran to his bedroom, fished under the bed and pulled out the treasure box. I lifted the lid and glanced inside. Nothing met my eye, so I was forced to dump everything out on the bed—still nothing: not a note from Remy, not a photograph of her, no cinema ticket stubs for
Gone With the Wind
, though I knew he'd taken her to see it. What had he done with them? No handkerchief with the initial
R
in the corner. There was one, but it was one of Juliet's scented ones and had a
J
embroidered on it. He must have forgotten to return it to her. Other things were in there, but
nothing of Remy's
.

I put everything back in the box and straightened the bed. My mission had failed! Remy would get on that aeroplane tomorrow, and Dawsey would stay lonely. I was heartsore. I gathered up my mops and bucket.

I was trudging home when I saw Amelia and Kit—they were going bird-watching. They asked me to come along, but I knew that not even birdsong could cheer me up. But I thought Juliet could cheer me—she usually does. I wouldn't stay long and bother her writing, but maybe she would ask me in for a cup of coffee. Sidney had left this morning, so maybe she'd be feeling bereft too. I hurried down the road to her house.

I found Juliet at home, papers awhirl on her desk, but she wasn't doing anything, just sitting there, staring out of the window. ‘Isola!' she said. ‘Just when I've been wanting company!' She started to get up when she saw my mops and pails. ‘Have you come to clean my house? Forget that and come and have some coffee.' Then she had a good look at my face and said, ‘Whatever is the matter? Are you ill? Come and sit down.'

The kindness was too much for my broken spirits, and I—I admit it—I started to howl. I said, ‘No, no, I'm not ill. I have failed—failed in my mission. And now Dawsey will stay unhappy.'

Juliet took me over to her sofa. She patted my hand. I always get the hiccups when I cry, so she ran and got me a glass of water for her fail-safe cure—you pinch your nose shut with your two thumbs, and plug up both ears with your fingers, while a friend pours a glass of water down your throat without stopping. You stamp your foot when you are close to drowning, and your friend takes the glass away. It works every time—a miracle—no more hiccups.

‘Now tell me, what was your mission? And why do you think you failed?'

So I told her all about it—my notion that Dawsey was in love with Remy, and how I'd cleaned his house, looking for proof. If I'd found any I'd have told Remy he loved her, and then she'd want to stay—perhaps even confess her love for him first, to soothe the way.

‘He is so shy, Juliet. He always has been—I don't think anybody's ever been in love with him, or he with anybody before, so he wouldn't know what to do about it. It'd be just like him to hide away mementos and never say a word. I despair for him, I do.'

Juliet said, ‘A lot of men don't keep mementos, Isola. Don't want keepsakes. That doesn't necessarily mean a thing. What on earth were you looking
for
?'

‘Evidence, like Miss Marple does. But no, not even a picture of her. There's lots of pictures of you and Kit, and several of you by yourself. One of you wrapped up in that lace curtain, being a Dead Bride. He's kept all your letters, tied up in that blue hair ribbon—the one you thought you'd lost. I know
he wrote to Remy at the hospice, and she must have written back to him—but no, nary a letter from Remy. Not even her handkerchief—oh, he found one of yours. You might want it back—it's a pretty thing.'

She got up and went over to her desk. She stood there a while, then she picked up that crystal thing with Latin,
Carpe diem
, or some such, etched on the top. She studied it.

‘“Seize the Day”,' she said. ‘That's an inspiring thought, isn't it, Isola?'

‘I suppose so,' I said, ‘if you like being goaded by a bit of rock.'

Juliet did surprise me then—she turned round to me and gave me that grin she has, the one that made me first like her so much. ‘Where is Dawsey? Up at the Big House, isn't he?'

At my nodding, she bounded out the door, and raced up the drive to the Big House.

Oh wonderful Juliet! She was going to give Dawsey a piece of her mind for shirking his feelings for Remy.

Miss Marple never runs anywhere, she follows after slowly, like the old lady she is. So I did too. Juliet was inside the house by the time I got there.

I went on tippy-toes to the terrace and pressed myself into the wall by the library. The French windows were open. I heard Juliet open the door to the library. ‘Good morning, gentlemen,' she said. I could hear Teddy Heckwith (he's a plasterer) and Chester (he's a joiner) say, ‘Good morning, Miss Ashton.'

Dawsey said, ‘Hello, Juliet.' He was on top of the big stepladder. I found that out later when he made so much noise coming down it.

Juliet said she would like a word with Dawsey, if the gentlemen could give her a minute. They said certainly, and left the room.

Dawsey said, ‘Is something wrong, Juliet? Is Kit all right?'

‘Kit's fine. It's me—I want to ask you something.'

Oh, I thought, she's going to tell him not to be a sissy. Tell him he must stir himself up and go and propose to Remy at once. But she didn't.

What she said was, ‘Would you like to marry me?'

I liked to die where I stood.

There was quiet—complete quiet. Nothing! And on and on it went, not a word, not a sound.

But Juliet went on undisturbed, her voice steady—and me, I could not get so much as a breath of air into my chest. ‘I'm in love with you, so I thought I'd ask.'

And then, Dawsey, dear Dawsey, swore. He took the Lord's name in vain. ‘My God, yes,' he cried, and clattered down that stepladder, only his heels hit the rungs, which is how he sprained his ankle.

I kept to my scruples and did not look inside the room, tempted though I was. I waited. It was quiet in there, so I came on home to think. What good was training my eyes if I could not see things rightly? I had got everything wrong. Everything. It came out happy, so happy, in the end, but no thanks to me. I don't have Miss Marple's insight into the cavities of the human mind. That is sad, but best to admit it now.

Sir William told me there were motorcycle races in England—silver cups given for speed, rough riding, and not falling off. Perhaps I should train for that—I already have my bike. All I'd need would be a helmet—maybe goggles. For now, I will ask Kit over for supper and to spend the night with me so that Juliet and Dawsey can have the freedom of the shrubbery—just like Mr Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet.

From Juliet to Sidney

17th September 1946

Dear Sidney,

Terribly sorry to make you turn round and come right back across the Channel, but I require your presence—at my wedding. I have seized the day, and the night, too. Can you come and give me away in Amelia's back garden on Saturday? Eben to be best man, Isola to be bridesmaid (she is manufacturing a gown for the occasion), Kit to throw rose petals.

Dawsey to be groom.

Are you surprised? Probably not—but I am. I am in a constant state of surprise these days. Actually, now that I calculate, I've been betrothed only one full day, but it seems as though my whole life has come into existence in the last twenty-four hours. Think of it! We could have gone on longing for one another and pretending not to notice
for ever
. This obsession with dignity can ruin your life if you let it.