Since you should know something about me, I have asked the Reverend Simon Simpless, of St Hilda’s Church near Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk, to write to you. He has known me since I was a child and is fond of me. I have asked Lady Bella Taunton to provide a reference for me too. We were fire wardens together during the Blitz and she wholeheartedly dislikes me. Between the two of them, you may get a fair picture of my character.
I am enclosing a copy of a biography I wrote of Anne Bronte, so you can see that I am capable of a different kind of work. It didn’t sell very well—in fact, not at all, but I am much prouder of it than I am of Izzy Bickerstaff Goes to War.
If there is anything else I can do to assure you of my good will, I will be glad to do so.
Yours sincerely,
Juliet Ashton
From Juliet to Sophie
12th February 1946
Dearest Sophie,
Markham V. Reynolds, he of the camellias, has finally materialised. Introduced himself, paid me compliments, and invited me out to dinner—Claridge’s, no less. I accepted regally—Claridge’s, oh yes, I have heard of Claridge’s—and then spent the next three days fretting about my hair. It’s lucky I have my lovely new dress, so I didn’t have to waste precious fretting time on what to wear.
As Madame Helena said, ‘The hairs, they are a disaster.’ I tried a French roll; it fell down. A bun; it fell down. I was on the verge pf tying an enormous red velvet bow on the top of my head when my neighbour Evangeline Smythe came to the rescue, bless her. She’s a genius with my hair. In two minutes, I was a picture of elegance—she caught up all the curls and swirled them round at the back—and I could even move my head. Off I went, feeling perfectly adorable. Not even Claridge’s marble lobby could intimidate me.
Then Markham V. Reynolds stepped forward, and the bubble popped. He’s dazzling. Honestly, Sophie, I’ve never seen anything like him. Not even the furnace-man can compare. Tanned, with blazing blue eyes. Ravishing leather shoes, elegant wool suit, blinding white handkerchief in breast pocket. Of course, being American, he’s tall, and he has one of those alarming American smiles, all gleaming teeth and good humour, but he’s not a genial American. He’s quite impressive, and he’s used to ordering people about—though he does it so easily, they don’t notice. He’s got that way of believing his opinion is the truth, but he’s not disagreeable about it. He’s too sure he’s right to bother about being disagreeable.
Once we were seated—in our own velvet-draped alcove—and all the waiters and stewards and maitres d’hotel had finished fluttering about, I asked him point-blank why he had sent me all those flowers without including any note.
He laughed. ‘To make you interested. If I had written to you directly, asking you to meet me, how would you have replied?’ I admitted I would have declined. He raised one pointed eyebrow at me. Was it his fault he could outwit me so easily?
I was awfully insulted to be so transparent, but he just laughed at me again. And then he began to talk about the war and Victorian literature—he knows I wrote a biography of Anne Bronte—and New York and rationing, and before I knew it, I was basking in his attention, utterly charmed.
Do you remember that afternoon in Leeds when we speculated on the possible reasons why Markham V. Reynolds, Junior, was obliged to remain a man of mystery? It’s very disappointing, but we were completely wrong. He’s not married. He’s certainly not bashful. He doesn’t have a disfiguring scar that causes him to shun the daylight. He doesn’t seem to be a werewolf (no fur on his knuckles, anyway). And he’s not a Nazi on the run (he’d have an accent).
Now that I think about it, maybe he is a werewolf I can picture him lunging over the moors in hot pursuit of his prey, and I’m certain that he wouldn’t think twice about eating an innocent bystander. I’ll watch him closely at the next full moon. He’s asked me to go dancing tomorrow—perhaps I should wear a high collar. Oh, that’s vampires, isn’t it?
I think I am a little giddy.
Love,
Juliet
From Lady Bella Taunton to Amelia
12th February 1946
Dear Mrs Maugery,
Juliet Ashton has written to me, and I am astonished. Am I to understand she wishes me to provide a character reference for her? Well, so be it! I cannot impugn her character—only her common sense. She hasn’t any.
War, as you know, makes strange bedfellows, and Juliet and I were thrown together from the very first when we were fire wardens during the Blitz. Fire wardens spent their nights on various London roof-tops, watching out for incendiary bombs that might fall. When they did, we would rush forth with stirrup pumps and buckets of sand to stifle any small blaze before it could spread. Juliet and I were paired off to work together. We did not chat, as less conscientious wardens would have done. I insisted on total vigilance at all times. Even so, I learnt a few details of her life prior to the war.
Her father was a respectable farmer in Suffolk. Her mother, I surmise, was a typical fanner’s wife, milking cows and plucking chickens, when not otherwise engaged in owning a bookshop in Bury St Edmunds. Juliet’s parents were both killed in a motor-car accident when she was twelve and she went to live with her great-uncle, a renowned classicist, in St John’s Wood. There she disrupted his studies and household by running away—twice.
In despair, he sent her to boarding school. Upon leaving, she shunned a higher education, came to London, and shared a flat with her friend Sophie Stark. She worked by day in bookshops. By night, she wrote a book about one of those wretched Bronte girls—I forget which one. I believe the book was published by Sophie’s brother’s firm, Stephens & Stark. Though it’s biologically impossible, I can only assume that some form of nepotism was responsible for the book’s publication.
Anyway, she began to publish feature articles for various magazines and newspapers. Her light, frivolous turn of mind gained her a large following among the less intellectually inclined readers—of whom, I fear, there are many. She spent the very last of her inheritance on a flat in Chelsea. Chelsea, home of artists, models, libertines and socialists—completely irresponsible people all, just as Juliet proved herself to be as a fire warden.
I come now to the specifics of our association.
Juliet and I were two of several wardens assigned to the roof of the Inner Temple Hall of the Inns of Court. Let me say first that, for a warden, quick action and a clear head were imperative—one had to be aware of everything going on around one. Everything
One night in May 1941, a high-explosive bomb was dropped through the roof of the Inner Temple Hall Library. The Library roof was some distance away from Juliet’s post, but she was so aghast by the destruction of her precious books that she sprinted towards the flames—as if she could single-handedly deliver the Library from its fate! Of course, her delusions created nothing but further damage, for the firemen had to waste valuable minutes in rescuing her.
I believe Juliet suffered some minor burns in the debacle, but fifty thousand books were blown to Kingdom Come. Juliet’s name was struck off the fire-warden list, and rightly so. I discovered that she then volunteered her services to the Auxiliary Fire Services. On the morning after a bombing raid, the AFS would be on hand to offer tea and comfort to the rescue squads. The AFS also provided assistance to the survivors: reuniting families, securing temporary housing, clothing, food, fonds. I believe Juliet to have been adequate to that daytime task—causing no catastrophe among the teacups.
She was free to occupy her nights however she chose. Doubtless it included the writing of more light journalism, for the Spectator engaged her to write a weekly column on the state of the nation in wartime—under the name of Izzy Bickerstaff.
I read one of her columns and cancelled my subscription. She attacked the good taste of our dear (though dead) Queen Victoria. Doubtless you know of the huge memorial Victoria had built for her beloved consort, Prince Albert It is the jewel in the crown of Kensington Gardens—a monument to the Queen’s refined taste as we
ll as to the Departed. Juliet applauded the Ministry of Food for having ordered peas to be planted in the grounds surrounding that memorial—commenting that no better scarecrow than Prince Albert existed in all England.
While I question her taste, her judgement, her misplaced priorities, and her inappropriate sense of humour, she does indeed have one fine quality—she is honest. If she says she will honour the good name of your literary society, she will do so. I can say no more.
Sincerely yours,
Bella Taunton
From the Reverend Simon Simplest to Amelia
13th February 1946
Dear Mrs Maugery,
Yes, you may trust Juliet I am unequivocal on this point Her parents were my good friends as well as my parishioners at St Hilda’s. Indeed, I was a guest at their home on the night she was born.
Juliet was a stubborn but nevertheless a sweet, considerate, joyous child—with an unusual bent for integrity in one so young.
I will tell you of one incident when she was ten years old. Juliet, while singing the fourth verse of ‘His Eye Is on the Sparrow’, slammed her hymnal shut and refused to sing another note. She told our choir master that the words cast a slur on God’s character. We should not be singing it He (the choir master, not God) didn’t know what to do, so he escorted Juliet to my study for me to reason with her.
I did not fare very well. Juliet said, ‘Well, he shouldn’t have written, ‘His eye is on the sparrow’—what good was that? Did He stop the bird dying? Did He just say, ‘Oops’? It makes God sound like He’s off bird-watching when real people need Him.’
I felt compelled to agree with Juliet on this matter—why had I never thought about it before? The choir has not sung ‘His Eye Is on the Sparrow’ since then.
Juliet’s parents died when she was twelve and she was sent to live with her great-uncle, Dr Roderick Ashton, in London. Though not an unkind man, he was so mired in his Greco-Roman studies he had no time to take any notice of the girl. He had no imagination, either—fatal for someone bringing up a child.
She ran away twice, the first time making it only as far as King’s Cross Station. The police found her waiting, with a packed canvas bag and her father’s fishing rod, to catch the train to Bury St Edmunds. She was returned to Dr Ashton—and she ran away again. This time, Dr Ashton telephoned me to ask for my help in finding her.
I knew exactly where to go—to her parents’ former farm. I found her opposite the farm’s entrance, sitting on a little wooded knoll, impervious to the rain—just sitting there, soaked—looking at her old (now sold) home.
I sent a telegram to her uncle and went back with her on the train to London the following day. I had intended to return to my parish on the next train, but when I discovered her fool of an uncle had sent his cook to fetch her, I insisted on accompanying them. I invaded his study and we had a vigorous talk. He agreed that a boarding school might be best for Juliet—her parents had left ample funds for such an eventuality.
Fortunately, I knew of a very good school—St Swithin’s. Academically fine, and with a headmistress not carved from granite. I am happy to tell you Juliet thrived there—she found her lessons stimulating, but I believe the true reason for Juliet’s regained spirits was her friendship with Sophie Stark—and the Stark family. She often went to Sophie’s home at half-term, and Juliet and Sophie came twice to stay with me and my sister at the Rectory. What jolly times we shared: picnics, bicycle rides, fishing. Sophie’s brother, Sidney Stark, joined us once—though ten years older than the girls, and despite an inclination to boss them around, he was a welcome fifth to our happy party.
It was rewarding to watch Juliet grow up—as it is now to know her fully grown. I am very glad that she asked me to write to you of her character.
I have included our small history together so that you will realise I know whereof I speak. If Juliet says she will, she will. If she says she won’t, she won’t.
Very truly yours,
Simon Simpless
From Susan Scott to Juliet
17th February 1946
Dear Juliet,
Was that possibly you I glimpsed in this week’s Tatler, doing the rumba with Mark Reynolds? You looked gorgeous—almost as gorgeous as he did—but might I suggest that you move to an airraid shelter before Sidney sees a copy?
You can buy my silence with torrid details, you know.
Yours,
Susan
From Juliet to Susan Scott
18th February 1946
Dear Susan,
I deny everything.
Love,
Juliet
From Amelia to Juliet
18th February 1946
Dear Miss Ashton,
Thank you for taking my caveat so seriously. At the Society meeting last night, I told the members about your article for The Times and suggested that those who wished to do so should correspond with you about the books they have read and the joy they have found in reading.
The response was so vociferous that Isola Pribby, our Sergeant-at-Arms, was forced to bang her hammer for order (I admit that Isola needs little encouragement to bang her hammer). I think you will receive a good many letters from us, and I hope they will be of some help to your article.
Dawsey has told you that the Society was invented as a ruse to stop the Germans arresting my guests: Dawsey, Isola, Eben Ram-sey, John Booker, Will Thisbee, and our dear Elizabeth McKenna, who manufactured the story on the spot, bless her quick wits and silver tongue.
I, of course, knew nothing of their predicament at the time. As soon as they left, I made haste down to my cellar to bury the evidence of our meal. The first I heard about our literary society was the next morning at seven, when Elizabeth appeared in my kitchen and asked, ‘How many books have you got?’
I had quite a few, but Elizabeth looked at my shelves and shook her head. ‘We need more. There’s too much gardening here.’ She was right, of course—I do like a good garden book. ‘I’ll tell you what we’ll do,’ she said. ‘After I’ve finished at the Commandant’s Office, we’ll go to Fox’s Bookshop and buy them out. If we’re going to be the Guernsey Literary Society, we have to look literary.’
I was frantic all morning, worrying over what was happening at the Commandant’s Office. What if they all ended up in the Guernsey prison? Or, worst of all, in a prison camp on die Continent’ The Germans were erratic in dispensing their justice, so one never knew what sentence would be imposed. But nothing of the sort occurred.
Odd as it may sound, the Germans allowed—and even encouraged—artistic and cultural pursuits among the Channel Islanders. Their object was to prove to the British that the German Occupation was a model one. How this message was to be conveyed to the outside world was never explained, as the telephone and telegraph cable between Guernsey and London had been cut the day the Germans landed in June 1940. Whatever their skewed reasoning, the Channel Islands were treated much more leniently than the rest of conquered Europe—at first.
At the Commandant’s Office, my friends were ordered to pay a small fine and submit the name and membership list of their society. The Commandant announced that he, too, was a lover of literature—might he, with a few like-minded officers, sometimes attend meetings?
Elizabeth told them they would be most welcome. And then she, Eben, and I flew to Fox’s, chose armloads of books for our newfound society, and rushed back to the Manor to put them on my shelves. Then we strolled from house to house—looking as carefree and casual as we could—in order to alert the others to come that evening and choose a book to read. It was agonising to walk slowly, stopping to chat here and there, when we wanted to rush! Timing was vital, because Elizabeth feared the Commandant would appear at the next meeting, barely two weeks away. (He did not A few German officers did attend over the years but, thankfully, left in some confusion and did not return.)
And so it was that we began. I knew all our members, but I did not know them all well. Dawsey had been my neighbour for
over thirty years, and yet I don’t believe I had ever spoken to him about anything more than the weather and farming. Isola was a dear friend, and Eben, too, but Will Thisbee was only an acquaintance and John Booker was nearly a stranger, for he had only just arrived when the Germans came. It was Elizabeth we had in common. Without her urging, I would never have thought to invite them to share my pig, and the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society would never have drawn breath.
That evening when they came to my house to make their selections, those who had rarely read anything other than scripture, seed catalogues, and The Pigman’s Gazette discovered a different kind of reading. It was here Dawsey found his Charles Lamb and Isola fell upon Wuthering Heights. For myself, I chose The Pickwick Papers, thinking it would lift my spirits—it did.
Then each went home and read. We began to meet—for the sake of the Commandant at first, and then for our own pleasure. None of us had any experience of literary societies, so we made our own rules: we took turns to speak about the books we’d read. At the start, we tried to be calm and objective, but that soon fell away, and the purpose of the speakers was to goad the listeners into wanting to read the book themselves. Once two members had read the same book, they could argue, which was our great delight We read books, talked books, argued over books, and became dearer and dearer to one another. Other Islanders asked to join us, and our evenings together became bright, lively times—we could almost forget, now and then, the darkness outside. We still meet every fortnight.