Mrs Maugery’s pig made us a fine dinner—there were onions and potatoes to fill out the roast. We had almost forgotten what it felt like to have full stomachs, but it came back to us. With the curtains closed against the sight of the German battery, and food and friends at the table, we could make believe that none of it had happened.
You are right to call Elizabeth brave. She is that, and always was. She came from London to Guernsey as a little girl with her mother and Sir Ambrose Ivers. She met my Jane her first summer here, when they were both ten, and they were ever staunch to one another since then.
When Elizabeth came back in the spring of 1940 to close up Sir Ambrose’s house, she stayed longer than was safe, because she wanted to stand by Jane. My girl had been feeling poorly since her husband John went to England to sign up—that was in December 1939—and she had a difficult time holding on to the baby till her time came. Dr Martin ordered her to bed, so Elizabeth stayed on to keep her company and play with Eli. Nothing Eli liked more than to play with Elizabeth. They were a threat to the furniture, but it was good to hear them laugh. I went over once to collect the two of them for supper and when I stepped in, there they were—sprawled on a pile of pillows at the foot of the staircase. They had polished Sir Ambrose’s fine oak banister and come sailing down three floors!
It was Elizabeth who did what was needed to get Eli on the evacuation ship. We Islanders were given only one day’s notice when the ships were coming from England to take the children away. Elizabeth worked like a whirligig, washing and sewing Eli’s clothes and helping him to understand why he could not take his pet rabbit with him. When we set out for the school, Jane had to turn away so as not to show Eli a tearful face at parting, so Elizabeth took him by the hand and said it was good weather for a sea voyage.
Even after that, Elizabeth wouldn’t leave Guernsey when everyone else was trying to get away. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ll wait for Jane’s baby to come, and, when she’s fattened up enough, then she and Jane and I will go to London. Then we’ll find out where Eli is and go and get him.’ For all her winning ways, Elizabeth was wilful. She’d stick out that jaw of hers and you could see it wasn’t any use arguing with her about leaving. Not even when we could all see the smoke coming from Cherbourg, where the French were burning up their fuel tanks, so the Germans couldn’t have them. But, no matter, Elizabeth wouldn’t go without Jane and the baby. I think Sir Ambrose had told her he and one of his yachting friends could sail right into St Peter Port and take them off Guernsey before the Germans came. To tell the truth, I was glad she did not leave us. She was with me at the hospital when Jane and her new baby died. She sat by Jane, holding on hard to her hand.
After Jane died, Elizabeth and me, we stood in the hallway, numb and staring out of the window. It was then we saw seven German planes come in low over the harbour. They were just on one of the reconnaissance flights, we thought—but then they began dropping bombs—they tumbled from the sky like sticks. We didn’t speak, but I know what we were thinking—thank God Eli was safely away.
Elizabeth stood by Jane and me in the bad rime, and afterwards. I was not able to stand by Elizabeth, so I thank God her daughter Kit is safe and with us, and I pray for Elizabeth to come home soon.
I was glad to hear of your friend who was found in Australia. I hope you will correspond with me and Dawsey again, as he enjoys hearing from you as much as I do myself.
Yours sincerely,
Eben Ramsey
From Daiosey to Juliet
12th March 1946
Dear Miss Ashton,
I am glad you liked the white lilacs.
I will tell you about Mrs Dilwyn’s soap. Around about the middle of the Occupation, soap became scarce; families were only allowed one tablet per person a month. It was made of some kind of French clay and lay like a dead thing in the washtub. It made no lather—you just had to scrub and hope it worked.
Being clean was hard work, and we had all got used to being more or less dirty, along with our clothes. We were allowed a tiny bit of soap powder for dishes and clothes, but it was a laughable amount; no bubbles there either. Some of the ladies felt it keenly, and Mrs Dilwyn was one of those. Before the war, she had bought her dresses in Paris, and those fancy clothes went to ruins faster than the plain kind.
One day, Mr Scope’s pig died of milk fever. Because no one dared eat it, Mr Scope offered me the carcass. I remembered my mother making soap from fat, so I thought I could try it It came out looking like frozen dishwater and smelling worse. So I melted it all down and started again. Hooker, who had come over to help, suggested paprika for colour and cinnamon for scent Mrs Maugery let us have some of each, and we put it in the mix.
When the soap had hardened enough, we cut it into circles with Mrs Maugery’s biscuit cutter. I wrapped the soap in cheesecloth, Elizabeth tied bows of red yarn, and we gave it as presents to all the ladies at the Society’s next meeting. For a week or two, anyway, we looked like respectable people.
I am working several days a week now at the quarry, as well as at the port Isola thought I looked tired and mixed up a balm for aching muscles—it’s called Angel Fingers. Isola has a cough syrup called Devil’s Suck and I pray I’ll never need it.
Yesterday, Mrs Maugery and Kit came over for supper, and we took a blanket down to the beach afterwards to watch the moon rise. Kit loves doing that, but she always falls asleep before it is fully risen, and I carry her home. She is certain she’ll be able to stay awake all night as soon as she’s five.
Do you know much about children? I don’t, and although I am learning, I think I am a slow learner. It was much easier before Kit learnt to talk, but it was not so much fun. I try to answer her questions, but I am usually behindhand and she has moved on to a new question before I can answer the first Also, I don’t know enough to please her. I don’t know what a mongoose looks like.
I like getting your letters, but I often feel I don’t have any news worth telling, so it is good to answer your rhetorical questions.
Yours,
Dawsey Adams
From Adelaide Addison to Juliet
12th March 1946
Dear Miss Ashton,
I see you will not be advised by me. I came upon Isola Pribby at her market stall, scribbling a letter—in response to a letter from you! I tried to resume my errands calmly, but then I came upon Dawsey Adams posting a letter—to you! Who will be next, I ask? This is not to be borne, and I seize my pen to stop you.
I was not completely candid with you in my last letter. In the interests of delicacy, I drew a veil on the true nature of that group and their founder, Elizabeth McKenna. But now, I see that I must reveal all: The Society members have colluded to raise the bastard child of Elizabeth McKenna and her German paramour, Dr/Captain Christian Hellman. Yes, a German soldier! I don’t wonder at your shock.
Now, I am nothing if not just I do not say that Elizabeth was what the ruder classes called a Jerry-bag, cavorting around Guernsey with any German soldier who could give her gifts. I never saw Elizabeth wearing silk stockings or silk dresses (indeed, her clothing was as disreputable as ever), smelling of Parisian scent, guzzling chocolates and wine, or SMOKING CIGARETTES, like other Island hussies.
But the truth is bad enough.
Herewith, the sorry facts: in April 1942, the UNWED Elizabeth McKenna gave birth to a baby girl—in her own cottage. Eben Ramsey and Isola Pribby were present at the birth—he to hold the mother’s hand and she to keep the fire going. Amelia Maugery and Dawsey Adams (An unmarried man! For shame!) did the actual work of delivering the child, before Dr Martin could arrive. The putative father? Absent! In fact, he had left the Island a short time before. ‘Ordered to duty on the Continent’—SO THEY SAID. The case is perfectly clear—when the evidence of their illicit connection was irrefutable, Captain Hellman abandoned his mistress and left her to her just deserts.
I could have foretold this scandalous outcome. I saw Elizabeth with her lover on several occasions—w
alking together, deep in talk, gathering nettles for soup, or collecting firewood. And once, I saw him put his hand on her face and follow her cheekbone down with his thumb.
Though I had little hope of success, I knew it was my duty to warn her of the fate that awaited her. I told her she would be cast out of decent society, but she did not heed me. In fact, she laughed. I bore it. Then she told me to get out of her house.
I take no pride in my prescience. It would not be Christian.
Back to the baby—named Christina, called Kit Barely a year later, Elizabeth, as feckless as ever, committed a criminal act expressly forbidden by the German Occupying Force—she helped shelter and feed an escaped prisoner of the German Army. She was arrested and sentenced to prison on the Continent.
Mrs Maugery, at the time of Elizabeth’s arrest, took the baby into her home. And since that night? The Literary Society has raised that child as its own—passing her around from house to house. The principal work of the baby’s maintenance was undertaken by Amelia Maugery, with other Society members taking her out—like a library book—for several weeks at a time.
They all cosseted the baby, and now that the child can walk, she goes everywhere with one or another of them—holding hands or riding on their shoulders. Such are their standards! You must not glorify such people in The Times!
You won’t hear from me again—I have done my best. On your head be it.
Adelaide Addison
Cable from Sidney to Juliet
20th March 1946
Dear Juliet,
Trip home delayed. Fell off horse, broke leg. Piers nursing.
Love,
Sidney
Cable from Juliet to Sidney
21st March 1946
Oh, God, which leg? Am so sorry.
Love,
Juliet
Cabk from Sidney to Juliet
22nd March 1946
It was the other one. Don’t worry—little pain. Piers excellent nurse.
Love,
Sidney
Cable from Juliet to Sidney
22nd March 1946
So happy it wasn’t the one I broke. Can I send anything to help your convalescence? Books—recordings—poker chips—my life’s blood?
Cable from Sidney to Juliet
23rd March 1946
No blood, no books, no poker chips. Just keep sending long letters to entertain us.
Love,
Sidney and Piers
From Juliet to Sophie
23rd March 1946
Dear Sophie,
I only got a cable so you know more than I do. But whatever the circumstances, it’s absolutely ridiculous for you to consider flying off to Australia. What about Alexander? And Dominic? And your lambs? They’ll pine away.
Stop and think for a moment, and you’ll realise why you shouldn’t fuss. First, Piers will take excellent care of Sidney. Second, better Piers than us—remember what a vile patient Sidney was last time? We should be glad he’s thousands of miles away. Third, Sidney has been stretched as tight as a bow-string for years. He needs a rest, and breaking his leg is probably the only way he’ll allow himself to take one. Most important of all, Sophie: he doesn’t want us there.
I’m perfectly certain Sidney would prefer me to write a new book than to appear at his bedside in Australia, so I intend to stay right here in my dreary flat and cast about for a subject I do have a tiny infant of an idea, much too frail and defenceless to risk describing, even to you. In honour of Sidney’s leg, I’m going to nurse it and feed it and see if I can make it grow.
Now, about Markham V. Reynolds (Junior). Your questions regarding that gentleman are very delicate, very subtle, very much like being struck on the head by a mallet Am I in love with him? What kind of a question is that’ It’s a tuba among the flutes, and I expect better of you. The first rule of snooping is to come at it sideways—when you began writing me dizzy letters about Alexander, I didn’t ask if you were in love with him, I asked what his favourite animal was. And your answer told me everything I needed to know about him—how many men would admit that they loved ducks? (This brings up an important point I don’t know what Mark’s favourite animal is. I doubt if it’s a duck.)
Would you care for a few suggestions? You could ask me who his favourite author is (Dos Passes! Hemingway!!). Or his favourite colour (blue, not sure what shade, probably royal). Is he a good dancer? (Yes, far better than I, never steps on my toes, but doesn’t talk or even hum while dancing. Doesn’t hum at all as far as I know.) Does he have brothers or sisters? (Yes, two older sisters, one married to a sugar baron and the other widowed last year. Plus one younger brother, dismissed with a sneer as an ass.)
So—now that I’ve done all your work for you, perhaps you can answer your own ridiculous question, because I can’t I feel addled when I’m with Mark, which might be love but might not It certainly isn’t restful. I’m rather dreading this evening, for instance. Another dinner party, very brilliant, with men leaning across the table to make a point and women gesturing with their cigarette holders. Oh dear, I want to nuzzle into my sofa, but I have to get up and put on an evening dress. Love aside, Mark is a terrible strain on my wardrobe.
Now, darling, don’t fret about Sidney. He’ll be stalking around in no time.
Love,
Juliet
From Juliet to Dawsey
25th March 1946
Dear Mr Adams,
I have received a long letter (two, in fact!) from a Miss Adelaide Addison, warning me not to write about the Society in my article. If I do, she will wash her hands of me for ever. I will try to bear that affliction with fortitude. She does work up quite a head of steam about Jerry-bags, doesn’t she?
I have also had a wonderful long letter from Clovis Fossey about poetry, and one from Isola Pribby about the Bronte sisters. Apart from delighting me—they gave me brand-new thoughts for my article. Between them, you, Mr Ramsey and Mrs Maugery, Guernsey is virtually writing my article for me. Even Miss Adelaide Addison has done her bit—defying her will be such a pleasure.
I don’t know as much about children as I would like to. I am the godmother to a marvellous three-year-old boy named Dominic, the son of my friend Sophie. They live in Scotland, near Oban, and I don’t see him very often. I am always astonished, when I do, by his increasing personhood—no sooner had I got used to carrying a warm lump of baby than he stopped being one and started rushing around on his own. I missed six months, and lo and behold, he learnt how to talk! Now he talks to himself, which I find terribly endearing, as I do, too.
A mongoose, you may tell Kit, is a weaselly-looking creature with very sharp teeth and a bad temper. It is the only natural enemy of the cobra and is impervious to snake venom. Failing snakes, it snacks on scorpions. Perhaps you could get her one for a pet.
Yours,
Juliet Ashton
P. S. I had second thoughts about sending this letter—what if Adelaide Addison is a friend of yours? Then I decided no, she couldn’t possibly be—so off it goes.
From John Booker to Juliet
27th March 1946
Dear Miss Ashton,
Amelia Maugery has asked me to write to you, because I am a founding member of the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society—though I only read one book over and over again. It was The Letters of Seneca: Translated from Latin in One Volume, with Appendix. Seneca and the Society, between them, kept me from the direful life of a drunk.
From 1940 to 1944, I pretended to the German authorities that I was Lord Tobias Penn-Piers—my former employer, who had fled to England in a frenzy when Guernsey was bombed. I was his valet and I stayed. My true name is John Booker, and I was born and bred in London.
With the others, I was caught out after curfew on the night of the pig roast I can’t remember it with any clarity. I expect I was tipsy, because I usually was. I recall soldiers shouting and waving guns about and Dawsey holding me upright. Then came Elizabeth’s voice. She was talking about book
s—I couldn’t fathom why. After that, Dawsey was pulling me through a field at great speed, and then I fell into bed. That’s all.
But you want to know about the influence of books on my life, and as I’ve said, there was only one. Seneca. Do you know who he was? He was a Roman philosopher who wrote letters to imaginary friends telling them how to behave for the rest of their lives.. Maybe that sounds dull, but the letters aren’t—they’re witty. I think you learn more if you’re laughing at the same time.
It seems to me that his words travel well—to all men in all times. I will give you an example: the Luftwaffe and their hairdos. During the Blitz, the Luftwaffe took off from Guernsey and joined in with _the big bombers on their way to London. They only flew at night so their days were their own, to spend in St Peter Port as they liked. And how did they spend them? In beauty parlours: having their nails buffed, their faces massaged, their eyebrows shaped, their hair waved and coiffed. When I saw them in their hairnets, walking five abreast down the street, elbowing Islanders off the pavement, I thought of Seneca’s words about the praetorian guard. He’d written, ‘who of those would not rather see Rome disordered than his hair?’
I will tell you how I came to pretend to be my former employer. Lord Tobias wanted to sit out the war in a safe place, so he purchased La Fort manor in Guernsey. He had spent World War I in the Caribbean but had suffered greatly from prickly heat there. In the spring of 1940, he moved to La Fort with most of his possessions, including Lady Tobias. Chausey, his London butler, had locked himself in the pantry and refused to come. So I, his valet, came in Chausey’s stead, to supervise the placing of his furniture, the hanging of his curtains, the polishing of his silver, and the stocking of his wine cellar. It was there I bedded each bottle, gentle as a baby to its cot, in its little rack.