Perhaps I’ve written over-long about him, but I wanted you and Mr Hastings to know how much the books have given me to think about, and what pleasure I find in them.
I like the story from your childhood—the bell and the hay. I can see it in my mind. Did you like living on a farm—do you ever miss it? You are never really away from the countryside in Guernsey, not even in St Peter Port, so I cannot imagine the difference living in a big city like London would make.
Kit has taken against mongooses, now that she knows they eat snakes. She is hoping to find a boa constrictor under a rock. Isola dropped in this evening and sent her best wishes—she will write to you as soon as she gets her crops in—rosemary, dill, thyme and henbane.
Yours,
Dawsey Adams
From Juliet to Dawsey
18th April 1946
Dear Mr Adams,
I am so glad you want to talk about Charles Lamb. I have always thought Mary’s sorrow made Charles into a great writer—even if he had to give up poetry and work for the East India Company because of it He had a genius for sympathy that not one of his great friends’ could touch. When Wordsworth chided him for not caring enough about nature, Charles wrote, ‘I have no passion for groves and valleys. The rooms where I was born, the furniture which has been before my eyes all my life, a bookcase which has followed me about like a faithful dog wherever I have moved—old chairs, old streets, squares where I have sunned myself, my old school—have I not enough, without your Mountains? I do not envy you. I should pity you, did I not know, that the Mind will make friends of any thing.’ A mind that can ‘make friends of any thing’—I thought of that often during the war.
By chance, I came upon another story about him today. He often drank too much, far too much, but he was not a sullen drunk. Once, his host’s butler had to carry him home, slung over his shoulder in a fireman’s hold. The next day Charles wrote his host such a hilarious note of apology, the man bequeathed it to his son in his will. I hope Charles wrote to the butler too.
Have you ever noticed that when your mind is awakened or drawn to someone new, that person’s name suddenly pops up everywhere? My friend Sophie calls it coincidence, and Reverend Simpless calls it grace. He thinks that if one cares deeply about someone or something new one throws a kind of energy out into the world, and ‘fruitfulness’ is drawn in.
Yours ever,
Juliet Ashton
From Isola to Juliet
18th April 1946
Dear Juliet,
Now that we are corresponding friends, I want to ask you some questions—they are highly personal. Dawsey said it would not be polite, but I say that’s a difference between men and women, not polite and rude. Dawsey hasn’t asked me a personal question in fifteen years. I’d take it kindly if he would, but Dawsey’s got quiet ways. I don’t expect to change him, nor myself either. You wanted to know about us, so I think you would like us to know about you—only you just didn’t happen to think of it first.
I saw a picture of you on the cover of your book about Anne Bronte, so I know you are under forty years of age—how much under? Was the sun in your eyes, or does it happen that you have a squint’ Is it permanent’ It must have been a windy day because your curls were blowing about. I couldn’t quite make out the colour of your hair, though I could tell it wasn’t blonde—for which I am glad. I don’t like blondes very much.
Do you live by the river? I hope so, because people who live near running water are much nicer than people who don’t. I’d be cross as a snake if I lived inland. Do you have a serious suitor? I do not.
Is your flat cosy or grand? Be fulsome, as I want to be able to picture it in my mind. Do you think you would like to visit us in Guernsey? Do you have a pet? What kind?
Your friend,
Isola
From Juliet to Isola
20th April 1946
Dear Isola,
I am glad you want to know more about me and am only sorry I didn’t think of it myself, and sooner.
Present-day first I am thirty-two years old, and you were right—the sun was in my eyes. In a good mood, I call my hair chestnut with gold glints. In a bad mood, I call it mousy brown. It wasn’t a windy day; my hair always looks 4ike that Naturally curly hair is a curse, and don’t ever let anyone tell you different. My eyes are hazel. While I am slender, I am not tall enough to suit me.
I don’t live by the Thames any more arid that is what I miss the most about my old home—I loved the sight and sound of the river at all hours. I live now in a flat in Glebe Place. It is small and furnished within an inch of its life, and the owner won’t be back from the United States until November, so I have the run of his house until then. I wish I had a dog, but the building management does not allow pets! Kensington Gardens aren’t far, so if I begin to feel cooped up I can walk to the park, hire a deck chair for a shilling, loll about under the trees, watch the passers-by and children play, and I am soothed—somewhat…
81 Oakley Street was demolished by a random V-l just over a year ago. Most of the damage was to the row of houses behind mine, but three floors of Number 81 were shorn off, and my flat is now a pile of rubble. I hope Mr Grant, the owner, will rebuild—for I want my flat, or a facsimile of it, back again just as it was—with Cheyne Walk and the river outside my windows.
Luckily, I was away in Bury when the V-l hit. Sidney Stark, my friend and now publisher, met my train that evening and took me home, and we viewed the huge mountain of rubble and what was left of the building. With part of the wall gone, I could see my shredded curtains waving in the breeze and my desk, three-legged and slumped on the slanting floor that was left. My books were a muddy, sopping pile and although I could see my mother’s portrait on the wall—half gouged out and sooty—there was no safe way to recover it. The only intact possession was my large crystal paperweight—with Carpe Diem carved across the top. It had belonged to my father—and there it sat, whole and unchipped, on top of a pile of broken bricks and splintered wood. I could not do without it so Sidney clambered over the rubble and retrieved it for me.
I was a fairly nice child until my parents died when I was twelve. I left our farm in Suffolk and went to live with my great-uncle in London. I was a furious, bitter, morose little girl. I ran away twice, causing my uncle no end of trouble—and at the time I was very glad to do so. I am ashamed now when I think about how I treated him. He died when I was seventeen so I was never able to apologise.
When I was thirteen, my uncle decided I should go away to boarding school. I went, mulish as usual, and met the headmistress, who marched me into the dining room. She led me to a table with four other girls. I sat/arms crossed, hands under my armpits, glaring like a moulting eagle, looking for someone to hate. I hit upon Sophie Stark, Sidney’s younger sister. Perfect, she had golden curls, big blue eyes and a sweet, sweet smile. She made an effort to talk to me. I didn’t answer until she said, ‘I hope you will be happy here.’ I told her I wouldn’t be staying long enough to find out. ‘As soon as I find out about the trains, I am gone!’ said I.
That night I climbed out on to the dormitory roof, meaning to sit there and have a good brood in the dark. In a few minutes, Sophie crawled out—with a railway timetable for me.
Needless to say, I didn’t run away. I stayed—with Sophie as my new friend. Her mother would often invite me to their house for the holidays, which was where I met Sidney. He was ten years older than me and was, of course, a god. He later changed into a bossy older brother, and later still, into one of my dearest friends.
Sophie and I left school and—wanting no more of academic life, but LIFE instead—we went to London and shared rooms Sidney had found for us. We worked together for a while in a bookshop, and at night I wrote—and threw away—stories.
Then the Daily Mirror sponsored an essay contest—five hundred words on ‘What Women Fear Most’. I knew what the Mirror was after, but I’m far more afraid of chickens than I am of men, so I wrote about that. The judges, thrill
ed at not having to read another word about sex, awarded me first prize. Five pounds and I was, at last, in print. The Daily Mirror received so many fan letters, they commissioned me to write an article, then another one. I soon began to write feature stories for other newspapers and magazines. Then the war broke out, and I was invited to write a semi-weekly column for the Spectator, called ‘Izzy Bickerstaff Goes to War’. Sophie met and fell in love with an airman, Alexander Strachan. They married and Sophie moved to his family’s farm in Scotland. I am godmother to their son, Dominic, and though I haven’t taught him any hymns, we did pull the hinges off the cellar door last time I saw him—it was a Pictish ambush.
I suppose I do have a suitor, but I’m not really used to him yet He’s terribly charming and he plies me with delicious meals, but I sometimes think I prefer suitors in books rather than right in front of me. How awful, backward, cowardly, and mentally warped that will be if it turns out to be true.
Sidney published a book of my Izzy Bickerstaff columns and I went on a book tour. And then—I began writing letters to strangers in Guernsey, now friends, whom I would indeed like to come and see.
Yours,
Juliet
From Eli to Juliet
21st April 1946
Dear Miss Ashton,
Thank you for the blocks of wood. They are beautiful. I could not believe what I saw when I opened your box—all those sizes and shades, from pale to dark.
How did you find all those different pieces of wood? You must have gone to so many places. I bet you did and I don’t know how to thank you. They came at just the right time too. Kit’s favourite animal was a snake she saw in a book, and he was easy to carve, being so long and thin. Now she’s mad about ferrets. She says she won’t ever touch my knife again if I’ll carve her a ferret I don’t think it will be too hard to make one, for they are pointy, too. Because of your gift, I have wood to practise with.
Is there an animal you would like to have? I want to carve a present for you, but I’d like it to be something you’d favour. Would you like a mouse? I am good at mice.
Yours truly,
Eli
From Eben to Juliet
22nd April 1946
Dear Miss Ashton,
Your box for Eli came on Friday—how kind of you. He sits and studies the blocks of wood—as if he sees something hidden inside them, and he can make it come out with his knife.
You asked if all the Guernsey children were evacuated to England. No—some stayed, and when I missed Eli, I looked at the little ones around me and was glad he had gone. The children here had a bad time, for there wasn’t enough food to grow on. I remember picking up Bill LePell’s boy—he was twelve but weighed no more than a child of seven.
It was a terrible thing to decide—send your children away to live among strangers, or let them stay with you. Maybe the Germans wouldn’t come, but if they did—how would they treat us? But, come to that, what if they invaded England, too—how would the children manage without their families beside them?
Do you know the state we were in when the Germans came? Shock is what I’d call it. The truth is, we didn’t think they’d want us. It was England they were after, and we were of no use to them. We thought we’d be in the audience, like, not up on the stage itself.
Then in the spring of 1940 Hitler got himself through Europe like a hot knife through butter. Every place fell to him. It was so fast—windows all over Guernsey shook and rattled from the explosions in France, and once the coast of France was gone, it was plain as day that England could not use up her men and ships to defend us. They needed to save them for when their own invasion began in earnest So we were left to ourselves.
In the middle of June, when it became pretty certain we were in for it, the States got on the telephone to London and asked if they would send ships for our children and take them to England. They couldn’t fly, for fear of being shot down by the Luftwaffe. London said yes, but the children had to be ready at once. The ships would have to hurry here and back again while there was still time.
Jane had no more strength than a cat then, but she knew her mind. She wanted Eli to go. Other ladies were in a dither—go or stay?—and they were frantic to talk, but Jane told Elizabeth to keep them away. ‘I don’t want to hear them fuss,’ she said. ‘It’s bad for the baby.’Jane had an idea that babies knew everything that happened around them, even before they were born.
The time for dithering was soon over. Families had one day to decide, and five years to abide by it School-age children and babies with their mothers went first on the 19th and 20th of June. The States gave out pocket money to the children, if their parents had none to spare. The littlest ones were all excited about the sweets they could buy with it Some thought it was like a Sunday School outing, and they’d be back before dark. They were lucky in that. The older children, like Eli, knew better.
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 Courbiere 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 gath
ered 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.