‘Think of it, friends,’ Augustus said, ‘a lifetime of misery with God not letting you draw one easy breath. Then in your last few minutes—POOF! you’d get Mercy. Thanks for nothing, I say.
That’s not all, friends: man must never think well of himself—that is called the sin of Pride. Friends, show me a man who hates himself, and I’ll show you a man who hates his neighbours more! He’d have to—you wouldn’t grant anyone else something you can’t have for yourself—no love, no kindness, no respect! So I say, shame on the Parson! Shame on Chaucer!’ Augustus sat down with a thump.
Two hours of lively discussion on Original Sin and Predestination followed. At last, Remy stood up to speak—she’d never done so before, and the room fell silent She said softly, ‘If there is Predestination, then God is the devil.’ No one could argue with that—what kind of God would create Ravensbriick?
Isola is having several of us to supper tonight. Billee Bee will be guest of honour. Isola said that though she doesn’t like rifling through a stranger’s hair, she will read Billee Bee’s bumps, as a favour to her dear friend Sidney.
Love,
Juliet
Telegram from Susan Scott to Juliet
24th August 1946
Dear Juliet am appalled Billee Bee in Guernsey to collect letters stop Do not I repeat DO NOT trust her stop DO NOT give her anything stop Ivor our new sub-editor saw Billee Bee and Gilly Gilbert (he of the London Hue and Cry and late victim of your teapot-throwing) exchanging long loose-lipped kisses in the park stop The two of them together bodes ill stop Send her packing without the Wilde letters stop Love, Susan
From Juliet to Susan
25th August 1946 2 AM
Dear Susan,
You are a heroine! Isola herewith grants you honorary membership of the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, and Kit is making you a special present that involves sand and paste (you’ll want to open that parcel outside).
The telegram came in the nick of time. Isola and Kit had gone out early to collect herbs, and Billy Bee and I were alone in the house—I thought—when I read your telegram. I bolted upstairs and into her room—she was gone, her suitcase was gone, her handbag was gone, and the letters were gone!
I was terrified. I ran downstairs and telephoned Dawsey to come quickly and help look for her. He did, but first he called Booker and asked him to check the harbour. He was to stop Billee Bee from leaving Guernsey—at any cost!
‘Dawsey arrived quickly and we hurried down the road to the airfield. I was half-trotting along behind him, looking in hedgerows and behind bushes. We’d reached Isola’s farm when Dawsey suddenly stopped short and began to laugh.
There, sitting on the ground in front of Isola’s smokehouse, were Kit and Isola. Kit was holding her new ferret (a gift from Billy Bee) and a big brown envelope. Isola was sitting on Billee Bee’s suitcase—a picture of innocence, both of them—while an awful squawking was coming from inside the smokehouse.
I rushed to hug Kit and the envelope to me, while Dawsey undid the wooden peg from the smokehouse hasp. There, crouched in a corner, cursing and flailing, was Billee Bee—Isola’s parrot Zenobia flapping round her. She had already snatched off Billee Bee’s little cap, and pieces of angora wool were floating through the air.
Dawsey lifted her up and carried her outside while she screamed. She’d been set upon by a mad witch! Assaulted by her Familiar, a child—clearly one of the Devil’s Own! We’d regret id There’d be legal action, arrests, prison for the lot of us! We wouldn’t see daylight again!
‘It’s you who won’t see daylight, you liar! Robber! Ingrate!’ shouted Isola.
‘You stole those letters,’ I screamed. ‘You stole them from Isola’s biscuit tin and tried to sneak off with them! What were you and Gilly Gilbert going to do with them?’
Billee Bee shrieked, ‘None of your business! Wait till I tell him what you’ve done to me!’
‘You do that!’ I snapped. ‘Tell the world about you and Gilly. I can see the headlines now. ‘Gilly Gilbert Lures Girl into Life of Crime! From Love-Nest to Lock-up! See Page Three!’
That shushed her for a moment and then, with the exquisite timing and presence of a great actor, Booker arrived, looking huge and vaguely official in an old army coat Remy was with him, carrying a hoe! Booker viewed the scene and glared so fiercely at Billee Bee that I was almost sorry for her.
He took her arm and said, ‘Now, you’ll collect your rightful belongings and take your leave. I won’t arrest you—not this time! I will escort you to the harbour and personally put you on to the next boat to England.’
Billee Bee stumbled forward and picked up her suitcase and handbag. Then she made a lunge for Kit and tore the quilted ferret from her arms. ‘I’m sorry I ever gave it to you, you little brat’
How I wanted to slap her! So I did—and I feel sure it jarred her back teeth loose. Island living must be going to my head.
My eyelids are drooping, but I must tell you the reason for Kit and Isola’s early-morning herb collecting. Isola felt Billee Bee’s head bumps last night and didn’t like her reading at all. B. B.’s Duplicitous Bump was big as a goose egg. Kit told her she’d seen Billee Bee in her kitchen, prowling round the shelves. That was enough for Isola, and they put their surveillance plan in motion. They would shadow Billee Bee the next day and see—what they would see!
They rose early, skulked behind bushes and saw Billee Bee tiptoeing out of my back door with a big envelope. They followed her until she reached Isola’s farm. Isola pounced and pushed her into the smokehouse. Kit picked up all Billy Bee’s possessions, and Isola went to get her claustrophobic parrot Zenobia, and threw her into the smokehouse with Billee Bee.
But, Susan, what on earth were she and Gilly Gilbert going to do with the letters? Weren’t they worried about being arrested for theft?
I am so grateful to you and Ivor. Please thank him for everything: his keen eyesight, his suspicious mind and his good sense. Better still, kiss him for me. He’s wonderful! Shouldn’t Sidney promote him from sub-editor to Editor in Chief?
Love,
Juliet
From Susan to Juliet
26th August 1946
Dear Juliet,
Yes, Ivor is wonderful and I have told him so. I kissed him for you, and then once more for myself! Sidney did promote him—not to Editor in Chief, but I imagine he’s well on his way.
What did Billee Bee and Gilly plan to do? You and I weren’t in London when the ‘teapot incident’ broke—we missed the uproar. Every journalist and publisher who loathes Gilly Gilbert and The London Hue and Cry—and there are plenty—was delighted. They thought it was hilarious and Sidney’s statement to the press didn’t do much to soothe matters—just whipped them into fresh fits of laughter. Well, neither Gilly nor the LH&C believes in forgiveness. Their motto is get even—be quiet, be patient, and wait for the day of vengeance to come, as it surely will!
Billee Bee, poor besotted booby and Gilly’s mistress, felt the shame even more keenly. Can’t you see them huddled together, plotting? Billee Bee was to insinuate herself into Stephens & Stark, and find anything, anything at all, that would hurt you and Sidney, or better still, turn you into laughing stocks.
You know how rumours spread like wildfire round the publishing world. Everyone knows you’re in Guernsey writing a book about the Occupation, and in the last two weeks, people have begun to whisper that you’ve discovered a new Oscar Wilde work there (Sir William may be distinguished, but he’s not discreet).
It was too good for Gilly to resist Billee Bee would steal the letters. The London Hue and Cry would publish them, and you and Sidney would be scuppered. What fun they’d have! They’d worry about legal action later. And of course, never mind what it would do to Isola.
It makes me feel sick to think how close they came to succeeding. Thank God for Ivor and Isola—and Billee Bee’s Duplicitous Bump.
Ivor will fly over to copy the letters on Tuesday. He has found a yellow vel
vet ferret, with emerald-green feral eyes and ivory fangs for Kit I think she’ll want to kiss him for it You can too—but keep it brief! I make no threats, Juliet—but Ivor is mine!
Love,
Susan
Telegram from Sidney to Juliet
26th August 1946
I’ll never leave London again stop Isola and Kit deserve a medal and so do you stop Love Sidney
From Juliet to Sophie
29th August 1946
Dear Sophie,
Ivor has come and gone, and Oscar Wilde’s letters are safely back in Isola’s biscuit tin. I’ve settled down as much as I can until Sidney reads them—I’m dying to know what he thinks. I was very calm on the day of our adventure. It was only later, once Kit was in bed, that I began to feel skittish, and started pacing the floor.
Then there was a knock at the door. I was amazed—and a little flustered—to see Dawsey through the window. I threw open the door to greet him, only to be greeted by Remy, too. They had come to see how I was. How kind. Howdisappointing.
Surely Remy’s homesick by now? I have been reading an article by a woman called Giselle Pelletier, a political prisoner held at Ravensbriick for five years. She writes about how difficult it is for you to get on with your life as a camp survivor. No one in France—neither friends nor family—wants to know anything about your life in the camps, and they think that the sooner you put it out of your mind—and out of their hearing—the happier you’ll be.
According to Miss Pelletier, it is not that you want to belabour anyone with details, but it did happen to you and you can’t pretend it didn’t ‘Let’s put everything behind us,’ seems to be France’s cry. ‘Everything—the war, the Vichy, the Milice, Drancy, the Jews—it’s all over now. After all, everyone suffered, not just you.’ In the face of this institutional amnesia, she writes, the only thing that helps is to talk to fellow survivors. They know what life in the camps was. You speak, and they can speak back. They talk, they rail, they cry, they tell one story after another—some tragic, some absurd. Sometimes they can even laugh together. The relief is enormous, she says. Perhaps communication widi other survivors would be a better cure for Remy’s distress than bucolic Island life. She is physically stronger now—she’s not as shockingly thin as she was—but she still seems haunted.
Mr Dilwyn is back from his holiday, and I must make an appointment to talk to him about Kit soon. I keep putting it off—I’m so dreadfully afraid that he’ll refuse to consider it I wish I looked more motherly—perhaps I could buy a fichu. If he asks for character references, will you give me one? Does Dominic know his alphabet yet? If so, he can write out this:
Dear Mr Dilwyn,
Juliet Dryhurst Ashton is a very nice lady—sober, clean and responsible. You should let her be Kit McKenna’s mother.
Yours sincerely,
James Dominic Strachan
I didn’t tell you, did I, about Mr Dilwyn’s plans for Kit’s inheritance in Guernsey? He’s engaged Dawsey, and a crew Dawsey is to select, to restore the Big House: banisters replaced; graffiti removed from the walls and paintings; windows put in; torn-out plumbing replaced with new; chimneys cleaned; wiring checked and terrace paving stones repointed—or whatever it is you do to old stones. Mr Dilwyn is not yet certain what can be done with the wooden panelling in the library—it had a beautiful carved frieze of fruit and ribbons, which the Germans used for target practice.
As no one will want to holiday on the Continent for the next few years, Mr Dilwyn is hoping that the Channel Islands will become a tourist haven again—and Kit’s house would make a wonderful holiday home.
But on to stranger events: the Benoit sisters asked me and Kit to tea this afternoon. I had never met them, and it was quite an odd invitation. They asked if Kit had ‘a steady eye and a good aim’. Did she like rituals? Bewildered, I asked Eben if he knew the Benoit sisters. Were they sane? Was it safe to take Kit there? Eben roared with laughter and said yes, the sisters were safe and sane. He said Jane and Elizabeth had visited them every summer for five years. They always wore starched pinafores, polished court shoes and little lace gloves. We would have a lovely time, he said, and he was glad to know the old traditions were coming back. We would have a lavish tea, with entertainments afterwards, and we should go-None of which told me what to expect. They are identical twins, in their eighties. Very prim and ladylike, dressed in ankle-length gowns of black georgette, larded with jet beads at bosom and hem, their white hair piled like swirls of whipped cream on top of their heads. So charming, Sophie. We did have a sinful tea, and I’d barely put my cup down when Yvonne (older by ten minutes) said, ‘Sister, I do believe Elizabeth’s child is too small yet.’ Yvette said, ‘I believe you’re right, Sister. Perhaps Miss Ashton would help us?’
I think it was very brave of me to say, ‘I’d be delighted,’ when I had no idea what they were proposing.
‘So kind, Miss Ashton. We denied ourselves during the war—so disloyal to the Crown, somehow. Our arthritis has grown very much worse; we cannot even join you in the rites. It will be our pleasure to watch!’
Yvette went to a drawer in the sideboard, while Yvonne opened one of the double doors between the drawing room and the dining room. Taped to the previously hidden panel was a full-page, full-length newspaper portrait in sepia of the Duchess of Windsor, Mrs Wallis Simpson as was (cut out, I gather, from the Society pages of the Baltimore Sun in the late ‘30s).
Yvette handed me four silver-tipped, finely balanced, evil-looking darts. ‘Go for the eyes, dear,’ she said. So I did.
‘Splendid! Three-for-four, Sister. Almost as good as dear Jane! Elizabeth always rumbled at the last moment! Shall you want to try again next year?’
It’s a simple story, but sad. Yvette and Yvonne adored the Prince of Wales. ‘So darling in his little plus fours.’
‘How the man could waltz!’
‘How debonair in evening dress!’ So admirable, so royal—until that hussy got hold of him. ‘Snatched him from the throne! His crown—gone!’ It broke their hearts. Kit was enthralled—as well she might be. I am going to practise my aim—four-for-four being my new goal in life.
Don’t you wish we had known the Benoit sisters while we were growing up?
Love and kisses,
Juliet
From Juliet to Sidney
2nd September 1946
Dear Sidney,
Something happened this afternoon; while it ended well, it was disturbing, and I can’t get to sleep. I am writing to you instead of Sophie, because she’s pregnant and you’re not You don’t have a delicate condition to be upset in, and Sophie does—I am losing my grip on grammar.
Kit was with Isola, making gingerbread men. Remy and I needed some ink and Dawsey needed some sort of putty for the Big House, so we all walked together into St Peter Port We took the cliff walk by Fermain Bay. It’s beautiful—a rugged path that wanders up and around the headlands. I was a little in front of Remy and Dawsey because the path had narrowed. A tall, red-haired woman walked around the large boulder at the path’s turning and came towards us. She had a dog with her, a huge Alsatian. He wasn’t on a lead and seemed overjoyed to see me. I laughed, and the woman called out, ‘Don’t worry. He never bites.’ He put his paws on my shoulders, attempting a big, slobbering kiss.
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 Widiout 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.