The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society Part 6

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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d child of Elizabeth McKenna and her German paramour, Dr/Captain Christian h.e.l.lman. 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 cla.s.ses called a Jerry-bag, cavorting around Guernsey with any 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. 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 h.e.l.lman 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-walking 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 f.e.c.kless 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-pa.s.sing her around from house to house. The princ.i.p.al 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 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 March 1946

Dear Juliet,

Trip home delayed. Fell off horse, broke leg. Piers nursing.

Love, Sidney

Cable from Juliet to Sidney 21st March 1946 March 1946

Oh, G.o.d, which leg? Am so sorry.

Love, Juliet Cabk from Sidney to Juliet 22nd March 1946 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 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 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 March 1946

Dear Sophie,

I only got a cable so you know more than I do. But whatever the circ.u.mstances, 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 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 Pa.s.ses! 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 a.s.s.) 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 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 fort.i.tude. 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 G.o.dmother 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 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 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 books-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 ma.s.saged, 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 p.r.i.c.kly 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 the stocking of his wine cellar. It was there I bedded each bottle, gentle as a baby to its cot, in its little rack.

Just as the last picture was being hung on the wall, the German planes flew over and bombed St Peter Port. Lord Tobias, panicking at all the racket, called the captain of his yacht and ordered him, 'Get ready the ship!' We were to load the boat with his silver, his paintings, his bibelots, and, if enough room, Lady Tobias, and set sail at once for England I was the last one up the gangway, with Lord Tobias screaming, 'Hurry up, man! Hurry up, the Huns are coming!'

My true destiny struck me at that moment, Miss Ashton. I still had the key to his Lordship's wine cellar. I thought of all those bottles of wine, champagne, brandy, cognac that had been left behind-and pictured myself alone with them. I thought of no more bells, no more livery, no more Lord Tobias. In fact, no more being in service at all no more being in service at all.

I turned my back on him and quickly walked down the gangway. I ran up the road to La Fort and watched the yacht sail away, Lord Tobias still screaming. Then I went inside, laid a fire, and stepped into the wine cellar. I took down a bottle of claret and drew my first cork. I let the wine breathe. Then I returned to the library, sipped, and began to read The Wine-Lover's Companion The Wine-Lover's Companion. I read about grapes, tended the garden, slept in silk pyjamas-and drank wine. And so it went until September when Mrs Maugery and Elizabeth McKenna came to call on me. Elizabeth I knew slightly-she and I had chatted several times at the market-but Mrs Maugery was a stranger to me. Were they going to turn me in to the constable? I wondered.

No. They were there to warn me. The Commandant of Guernsey had ordered all Jews to report to the Grange Lodge Hotel and register. According to the Commandant, our ID cards would merely be marked Juden Juden and then we were free to go home. Elizabeth knew my mother was Jewish; I had mentioned it once. They had come to tell me that I must not, under any circ.u.mstances, go to the Grange Lodge Hotel. and then we were free to go home. Elizabeth knew my mother was Jewish; I had mentioned it once. They had come to tell me that I must not, under any circ.u.mstances, go to the Grange Lodge Hotel.

But that wasn't all. Elizabeth had considered my predicament thoroughly (more thoroughly than I) and made a plan. As all Islanders were to have ident.i.ty cards anyway, why couldn't I declare myself to be Lord Tobias Penn-Piers himself? I could claim that, as a visitor, all my doc.u.ments had been left behind in my London bank. Mrs Maugery was sure Mr Dilwyn would be happy to back up my impersonation, and he was. He and Mrs Maugery went with me to the Commandant's Office, and we all swore that I was Lord Tobias Penn-Piers.

It was Elizabeth who came up with the finishing touch. The Germans were taking over all Guernsey's grand houses for their officers to live in, and they wouldn't ignore a residence like La Fort-it was too good to miss. And when they came, I must be ready for them as Lord Tobias Penn-Piers. I must look like a lord of leisure and act at ease. I was terrified.

'Nonsense,' said Elizabeth. 'You have presence, Hooker. You're tall, dark, handsome, and all valets know how to look down their noses.'

She decided that she would quickly paint my portrait as a sixteenth-century Penn-Piers. So I posed in a velvet cloak and ruff, seated against a background of dark tapestries and dim shadows, fingering my dagger. I looked n.o.ble, Aggrieved and Treasonous.

It was a masterly stroke, for, not two weeks later, a body of German officers (six in all) appeared in my library-without knocking. I received them there, sipping a Chateau Margaux 1893 and bearing an uncanny resemblance to the portrait of my 'ancestor' hanging above me over the mantelpiece.

They bowed to me and were all politeness, which did not prevent them from taking over the house and moving me into the gatekeeper's cottage the very next day. Eben and Dawsey slipped over after curfew that night and helped me carry most of the wine down to the cottage, where we cleverly hid it behind the woodpile, down the well, up the chimney, under the haystack and above the rafters. But even so, I still ran out of wine by early 1941. A sad day, but I had friends to help distract me-and then, then I found Seneca.

I came to love our book meetings-they helped to make the Occupation bearable. Some of their books sounded all right, but I stayed true to Seneca. I came to feel that he was talking to me-in his funny, biting way-but talking only to me. His letters helped to keep me alive in what was to come later.

I still go to all our Society meetings. Everyone is sick of Seneca, and they are begging me to read someone else. But I won't do it I also act in plays that one of our repertory companies puts on-impersonating Lord Tobias gave me a taste for acting, and besides, I am tall, loud and can be heard in the back row.

I am glad the war is over, and I am John Booker again.

Yours truly, John Booker From Juliet to Sidney and Piers Mr Sidney Stark Monreagle Hotel Broadmeadows Avenue, 79 Melbourne Victoria Australia

31st March 1946 March 1946

Dear Sidney and Piers,

No life's blood-just sprained thumbs from copying out the enclosed letters from my new friends in Guernsey. I love their letters and could not bear the thought of sending the originals to the bottom of the earth where they would undoubtedly be eaten by wild dogs.

I knew the Germans occupied the Channel Islands, but I barely gave them a thought during the war. I have since scoured The Times The Times for articles and anything I can cull from the London Library on the Occupation. I also need to find a good travel book on Guernsey-one with descriptions, not timetables and hotel recommendations-to give me the feel of the island. for articles and anything I can cull from the London Library on the Occupation. I also need to find a good travel book on Guernsey-one with descriptions, not timetables and hotel recommendations-to give me the feel of the island.

Quite apart from my interest in their interest in their interest in reading, I have fallen in love with two men: Eben Ramsey and Dawsey Adams. Clovis Fossey and John Booker, I like. I want Amelia Maugery to adopt me; and I want to adopt Isola Pribby. I will leave you to discern my feelings for Adelaide Addison (Miss) by reading her letters. The truth is, I am living more in Guernsey than I am in London at the moment-I pretend to work with one ear c.o.c.ked for the sound of the post dropping in the box, and when I hear it, I scramble down the stairs, breathless for the next piece of the story. This must be how people felt when they gathered around the publisher's door to seize the latest instalment of in reading, I have fallen in love with two men: Eben Ramsey and Dawsey Adams. Clovis Fossey and John Booker, I like. I want Amelia Maugery to adopt me; and I want to adopt Isola Pribby. I will leave you to discern my feelings for Adelaide Addison (Miss) by reading her letters. The truth is, I am living more in Guernsey than I am in London at the moment-I pretend to work with one ear c.o.c.ked for the sound of the post dropping in the box, and when I hear it, I scramble down the stairs, breathless for the next piece of the story. This must be how people felt when they gathered around the publisher's door to seize the latest instalment of David Copperfield David Copperfield as it came off the printing press. as it came off the printing press.

I know you're going to love the letters, too-but would you be interested in more? To me, these people and their wartime experiences are fascinating and moving. Do you agree? Do you think there could be a book here? Don't be polite-I want your opinion (both of your opinions) unvarnished. And you needn't worry-I'll continue to send you copies of the letters even if you don't want me to write a book about Guernsey. I am (mostly) above petty vengeance.

Since I have sacrificed my thumbs for your amus.e.m.e.nt, you should send me one of Piers's latest in return. So glad you are writing again, my dear.

My love to you both, Juliet From Daiosey to Juliet 2nd April 1946 April 1946

Dear Miss Ashton,

Having fun is the biggest sin in Adelaide Addison's bible (lack of humility following close on its heels), and I'm not surprised she wrote to you about Jerry-bags. Adelaide lives on her wrath.