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 fuliet 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 Izzy 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 Bronte’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 PENSEES 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 mooa 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!!!
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 rime to go home for lunch, Eli went off beachcombing. 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 an
d 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 nodiing. 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 die 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!