Not being silent myself, I am wildly curious about people who are. As Dawsey doesn’t talk about himself—doesn’t talk at all to me—I was reduced to questioning Isola about his head bumps in order to find out about his past But Isola is beginning to fear that the bumps may lie after all, and she offered as proof the fact that Dawsey’s violence-prone node isn’t as big as it should be, given that he nearly beat Eddie Meares to death!!! Those exclamation marks are mine. Isola seemed to think nothing of it.
It seems that Eddie Meares was big and nasty and gave⁄traded⁄sold information to the German authorities in exchange for favours. Everyone knew, which didn’t seem to bother him, since he’d go to a bar to show off his new wealth: a loaf of white bread, cigarettes, silk stockings—which, he said, any girl on the Island would be grateful for.
A week after Elizabeth and Peter were arrested, he was showing off a silver cigarette case, hinting that it was a reward for reporting some goings-on he’d seen at Peter Sawyer’s house. Dawsey heard about it and went to Mad Bella’s the next night Apparently, he walked up to Eddie Meares, grabbed him by the shirt collar, lifted him up off his stool and began banging his head on the bar. He called Eddie a lousy little shit, pounding his head down between each word. Then they set to it on the floor.
According to Isola, Dawsey was a mess: nose, mouth bleeding, one eye swollen shut, one rib cracked—but Eddie Meares was a bigger mess: two black eyes, two ribs broken, and stitches. The Court sentenced Dawsey to three months in the Guernsey jail, though they let him out after one. The Germans needed the space for more serious criminals—like Black Marketeers and the thieves who stole petrol from army lorries. ‘And to this day, when Eddie Meares spies Dawsey coming through the door of Mad Bella’s, his eyes go shifty, he spills his beer and not five minutes later, he’s darting out the back door,’ Isola concluded.
Naturally I was agog and begged for more. As she’s disillusioned with bumps, Isola moved on to actual facts. Dawsey didn’t have a very happy childhood. His father died when he was eleven, and Mrs Adams, who’d always been sickly, grew odd. She became fearful, first of going into town, then of going into her own garden, and finally she wouldn’t leave the house at all. She would just sit in the kitchen, rocking and staring out at nothing Dawsey could ever see. She died shortly after the war began. Isola said that what with all this—his mother, farming, and stuttering so badly—he’d always been shy, and never, except for Eben, had any ready-made friends. Isola and Amelia were acquainted with him, but that was about all.
That was how it was until Elizabeth came—and made him be friends. Forced him, really, into the Literary Society. And then, Isola said, how he blossomed! Now he had books to talk about instead of swine fever—and friends to talk to. The more he talked, the less he stuttered.
He’s a mysterious creature, isn’t he? Perhaps he is like Mr Rochester, and has a secret sorrow. Or a mad wife down in his cellar. Anything is possible, I suppose, but it would have been difficult to feed a mad wife on one set of ration coupons during the war. Oh dear, I wish we were friends again. (Dawsey and I, not the mad wife.)
I meant to have done with Dawsey in a terse sentence or two, but I see that he’s taken several sheets. Now I must rush to make myself presentable for tonight’s meeting of the Society. I have one decent skirt to my name, and I have been feeling dowdy. Remy, for all she’s so frail and thin, manages to look stylish at every turn. What is it about French women?
More anon.
Love,
Juliet
From Juliet to Sidney
11th August 1946
Dear Sidney,
I am happy that you are happy with my progress on Elizabeth’s biography. But more about that later—because I have something to tell you that simply cannot wait. I hardly dare believe it myself, but it’s true. I saw it with my own eyes! If, and mind you only if, I am correct, Stephens & Stark will have the publishing coup of the century. Papers will be written, degrees granted, and Isola will be pursued by every scholar, university, library, and filthy-rich private collector in the Western hemisphere.
Here are the facts—Isola was to speak at last night’s Society meeting on Pride and Prejudice, but Ariel ate her notes just before supper. So, in lieu of Jane, and in a desperate hurry, she grabbed some letters written to her dear Granny Pheen (short for Josephine). They, the letters, made up a kind of story.
She pulled them out of her pocket, and Will Thisbee, seeing them swathed in pink silk and tied with a satin bow, cried out, ‘Love letters, I’ll be bound! Will there be secrets? Intimacies? Should gentlemen leave the room?’
Isola told him to be quiet and sit down. She said they were letters to her Granny Pheen from a very kind man—a stranger—received when she was but a little girl. Granny had kept them in a biscuit tin and had often read them to Isola as a bedtime story. Sidney, there were eight letters, and I’m not going to attempt to describe their contents to you—I’d fail miserably.
Isola told us that when Granny Pheen was nine years old, her father drowned her cat. Muffin had apparently climbed on to the table and licked the butter dish. That was enough for Pheen’s beastly father—he thrust Muffin into a sack, added some rocks, tied up the sack, and flung Muffin into the sea. Then, meeting Pheen walking home from school, he told her what he’d done—and good riddance, too. He then toddled off to the tavern and left Granny sitting in the middle of the road, sobbing her heart out.
A carriage, driving far too fast, came within a whisker of running her down. The coachman rose from his seat and began to curse her, but his passenger, a very big man in a dark coat with a fur collar, jumped out. He told the driver to be quiet, leaned over Pheen, and asked if he could help her. Granny Pheen said no, no—she was beyond help. Her cat was gone! Her dad had drowned Muffin, and now Muffin was dead—dead and gone for ever.
The man said, ‘Of course Muffin’s not dead. You do know cats have nine lives, don’t you?’ When Pheen said yes, she had heard of that before, the man said, ‘Well, I happen to know your Muffin was only on her third life, so she has six lives left.’ Pheen asked how he knew. He said he just did, He Always Knew—it was a gift he’d been born with. He didn’t know how or why it happened, but cats would often appear in his mind and chat with him. Well, not in words, of course, but in pictures.
He sat down in the road beside her and told her to keep still—very still. He would see if Muffin wanted to visit him. They sat in silence for several minutes, when suddenly the man grabbed Pheen’s hand!
‘Ah—yes! There she is! She’s being born this minute! In a mansion—no, a castle. I think she’s in France—yes, she’s in France. There’s a little boy petting her, stroking her fur. He loves her already, and he’s going to call her—how strange, he’s going to call her Solange. That’s a strange name for a cat, but still. She is going to have a long, venturesome life. This Solange has great spirit, great verve—I can tell already!’
Granny Pheen told Isola that she was so rapt by Muffin’s new fate that she stopped crying. But she told the man she would still miss Muffin very much. The man lifted her to her feet and said of course she would—she should mourn such a fine cat as Muffin had been, and she would grieve for some time yet. However, he said, he would visit Solange every so often and find out how she was faring and what she was up to. He asked for Granny Pheen’s name and the name of the farm where she lived. He wrote the answers down in a small notebook with a silver pencil, told her she’d be hearing from him, kissed her hand, got back into the carriage, and left.
Absurd as all this sounds, Sidney, Granny Pheen did receive letters. Eight long letters over a year—all about Muffin’s life as the French cat Solange. She was, apparently, something of a feline musketeer. She was no idle cat, lolling about on cushions, lapping up cream—she lived through one wild adventure after another—the only cat ever to be awarded the red rosette of the Legion of Honour.
What a story this man made up for Pheen—lively, witty, full of drama and suspense. I c
an only tell you the effect it had on me—on all of us. We sat enchanted—even Will was left speechless. But here, at last, is why I need your sane head and sober counsel. When the reading was over (and much applauded), I asked Isola if I could see the letters, and she handed them to me.
Sidney, the writer had signed his letters with a grand flourish:
VERY TRULY YOURS,
O. F. O’F. W. W.
Sidney, do you suppose…could it possibly be that Isola has inherited eight letters written by Oscar Wilde? Oh God, I am beside myself. I believe it because I want to believe it, but is it recorded anywhere that Oscar Wilde ever set foot on Guernsey? Oh, bless Speranza, for giving her son such a preposterous name as Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde.
In haste and love and please advise at once—I’m having difficulty breathing.
Juliet
Night Letter from Sidney to Juliet
13th August 1946
Let’s believe it! Billee did some research and discovered that Oscar Wilde visited Jersey for a week in 1893, so it’s possible he went to Guernsey then. The noted graphologist Sir William Otis will arrive on Friday, armed with some borrowed letters of Oscar Wilde’s from his university’s collection. I’ve booked rooms for him at the Royal Hotel. He’s a very dignified sort, and I doubt that he’d want Zenobia on his shoulder.
If Will Thisbee finds the Holy Grail in his junk yard, don’t tell me. My heart can’t take much more.
Love to you and Kit and Isola,
Sidney
From Isola to Sidney
14th August 1946
Dear Sidney,
Juliet says you’re sending a handwriting fellow to look at Granny Pheen’s letters and decide if Mr Oscar Wilde wrote them. I bet he did, and even if he didn’t, I think you will admire Solange’s story. I did, Kit did, and I know Granny Pheen did. She would twirl, happy in her grave, to have so many others know about that nice man and his funny ideas.
Juliet told me that if Mr Wilde did write the letters, many teachers and schools and libraries would want to own them and would offer me sums of money for them. They would be sure to keep them in a safe, dry, properly cooled piace. I say no to that! They are safe and dry and chilly now. Granny kept them in her biscuit tin, and in her biscuit tin they’ll stay. Of course anyone who wants to come to see them can visit me here, and I’ll let them have a look. Juliet said lots of scholars would probably come, which would be nice for me and Zenobia as we like company.
If you’d like the letters for a book, you can have them, though I hope you will let me write what Juliet calls the preface. I’d like to tell about Granny Pheen, and I have a picture of her and Muffin by the pump. Juliet told me about royalties: I could buy me a motorcycle with a sidecar—there is a red one, second-hand, down at Lenoux’s Garage.
Your friend,
Isola Pribby
From Juliet to Sidney
18th August 1946
Dear Sidney,
Sir William has come and gone. Isola invited me to be present for the inspection, and of course I jumped at the chance. Promptly at nine, Sir William appeared on the kitchen steps; I panicked at the sight of him in his sober black suit—what if Granny Pheen’s letters were merely the work of some fanciful farmer? What would Sir William do to us—and you—for wasting his time?
He settled solemnly among Isola’s hemlock and hyssop, dusted his fingers with a snowy handkerchief, fitted a little glass into one eye, and slowly removed the first letter from the biscuit tin. A long silence followed. Isola and I looked at one another. Sir William took another letter from the biscuit tin. Isola and I held our breath. Sir William sighed. We twitched. ‘Hmmmm,’ he murmured. We nodded at him encouragingly, but it was no good—there was another silence. This one lasted several weeks.
Then he looked at us and nodded.
‘Yes?’ I said, hardly daring to breathe.
‘I’m pleased to confirm that you are in possession of eight letters written by Oscar Wilde, madam,’ he said to Isola with a little bow.
‘GLORY BE!’ Isola bellowed, and she reached over the table and clutched Sir William into a hug. He looked somewhat startled at first, but then he smiled and patted her cautiously on the back.
He took one page back with him to get the corroboration of another Wilde scholar, but he told me that was purely for ‘show’. He was certain he was correct.
He may not tell you that Isola took him for a test drive of Mr Lenoux’s motorcycle—Isola at the wheel, he in the sidecar, Zenobia on his shoulder. They received a fine for reckless driving, which Sir William assured Isola he would be ‘privileged to pay’. As Isola says, for a noted graphologist, he’s a good sport.
But he’s no substitute for you. When are you going to come and see the letters—and, incidentally, me—for yourself. Kit will do a tap dance in your honour and I will stand on my head. I still can, you know.
Just to torment you, I won’t tell you any news. You’ll have to come and find out for yourself.
Love,
Juliet
Telegram from Billee Bee to Juliet
20th August 1946
Dear Mr Stark called suddenly to Rome stop Asked me to come and collect letters this Thursday stop Please send a telegram if this suits stop Longing for petite vacance on darling island stop Billee Bee Jones
Telegram from Juliet to Billee Bee
20th August 1946
I’d be delighted stop Please let me know arrival time and I’ll meet you stop Juliet
From Juliet to Sophie
22nd August 1946
Dear Sophie,
Your brother is becoming altogether too august for my taste—he has sent an emissary to retrieve Oscar Wilde’s letters for him! Billee Bee arrived on the morning mail boat. It was a very rough voyage so she was shaky-legged and green-faced—but game! She couldn’t manage lunch, but she rallied for dinner and made a lively guest at tonight’s Literary Society meeting.
One awkward moment—Kit doesn’t seem to like her. She backed away and said, ‘I don’t kiss,’ when Billee attempted one. What do you do when Dominic is rude—chastise him on the spot, which seems embarrassing for everyone, or wait until later for privacy? Billee Bee covered it up beautifully, but that shows her good manners, not Kit’s. I waited, but I’d like your opinion.
Ever since I discovered that Elizabeth was dead and Kit was an orphan, I’ve been worried about her future—and about my own future without her. I think it would be unbearable. I’m going to make an appointment with Mr Dilwyn when he and Mrs Dilwyn return from their holiday. He is her legal guardian, and I want to discuss my possible guardianship/adoption/foster-parenting of Kit Of course, I want to adopt her, but I’m not sure Mr Dilwyn would consider a spinster of flexible income and no fixed abode a desirable parent.
I haven’t said a word about this to anyone here, or to Sidney. There is so much to worry about. What would Amelia say? Would Kit like the idea? Is she old enough to decide? Where would we live? Can I take her away from the place she loves to London? A restricted city life instead of going about in boats and playing tag in churchyards? Kit would have you, me, and Sidney in England, but what about Dawsey and Amelia and all the family she has here? It would be impossible to replace them. Can you imagine a London schoolteacher with Isola’s flair? Of course not.
I argue myself all the way to one end of the question and back again several times a day. One thing I am sure of, though, is that I want to look after Kit for ever.
Love,
Juliet
P. S. If Mr Dilwyn says no, not possible, I might just whisk Kit away and come and hide in your barn.
From Juliet to Sidney
23rd August 1946
Dear Sidney,
Called suddenly to Rome, were you? Have you been elected Pope? It had better be something at least as pressing, to excuse your sending Billee Bee to collect the letters in your place. And I don’t know why copies won’t do; Billee says that you insist on seeing the originals. Isola
would not countenance such a request from any other person on earth, but for you, she’ll do it. Please do be awfully careful with them, Sidney—they are the pride of her heart And see that you return them in person.
Not that we don’t like Billee Bee. She’s a very enthusiastic guest—she’s outside sketching wild flowers as I write. I can see her little cap among the grasses. She thoroughly enjoyed her introduction to the Literary Society last night She made a little speech at the end of the meeting and even asked Will Thisbee for the recipe for his delicious Rhubarb Puff. This may have been carrying good manners too far—all we could see was a blob of pastry that wasn’t cooked, covering a reddish substance in the middle.
I’m sorry you weren’t in attendance, for the evening’s speaker was Augustus Sarre, and he spoke on your favourite book, The Canterbury Tales. He chose to read ‘The Parson’s Tale’ first because he knew what a parson did for a living—unlike those other fellows in the book: a Reeve, a Franklin, or a Summoner. ‘The Parson’s Tale’ disgusted him so much he could read no more.
Fortunately for you, I made careful mental notes, so I can give you the gist of his remarks. To wit Augustus would never let a child of his read Chaucer, it would turn him against Life in general and God in particular. To hear the Parson tell it, life was a cesspool, where a man must wade through the muck as best he could; evil ever seeking him out, and evil ever finding him. (Don’t you think Augustus has a touch of the poet about him? I do.) Poor old man must forever be doing penance or atoning or fasting or lashing himself with knotted ropes. All because he was Born in Sin—and there he’d stay until the last minute of his life, when he would receive God’s Mercy.