The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

by Mary Ann Shaffer

  It was Elizabeth who did the needful things 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 whirl-a-gig, washing and sewing Eli’s clothes and helping him to understand why he could not bring his pet rabbit with him. When we set out for the schoolyard, 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 get him.” For all her winning ways, Elizabeth was willful. She’d stick out that jaw of hers and you could see it wasn’t any use to argue 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 speak 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-like and staring out the window. It was then we saw seven German planes come in low over the harbor. They were just on one of the reconnaissance flights, we thought—but then they began dropping bombs—they tumbled down the sky like sticks.

  We didn’t speak, but I know what we each were thinking—thank God Eli was safely away. Elizabeth stood by Jane and me in the bad time, and after. 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 to hear from you such as I do myself.

  Yours sincerely,

  Eben Ramsey

  From Dawsey to Juliet

  12th March, 1946

  Dear Miss Ashton,

  I am happy 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. Since no one dared eat of 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 dish water and smelling worse. So I melted it all down and started again. Booker, who had come over to help, suggested paprika for color and cinnamon for scent. Amelia 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 Amelia’s biscuit cutter. I wrapped the soap in cheese cloth, Elizabeth tied bows of red yarn, and we gave them as presents to all the ladies at the Society’s next meeting. For a week or two, anyway, we looked like respectable folks.

  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 named Angel Fingers. Isola has a cough syrup called Devil’s Suck and I pray I’ll never need it.

  Yesterday, Amelia and Kit came over for supper, and we took a blanket down to the beach afterward to watch the moon rise. Kit loves to do that, but she always falls asleep before it is fully risen, and I carry her home to Amelia’s house. She is certain she’ll be able to stay awake all night as soon as she’s five.

  Do you know very much about children? I don’t, and although I am learning, I think I am a slow learner. It was much easier before Kit learned to talk, but it was not so much fun. I try to answer her questions, but I am usually behind-hand, 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 having your letters, but I often feel I don’t have any news worth the 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, whilst in 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 amongst themselves to raise the bastard child of Elizabeth McKenna and her German Paramour, Doctor/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, clad in 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 of 1942, the UNWED Elizabeth McKenna gave birth to a baby girl—in her own cottage.

  Eben Ramsey and Isola Pribby were present at the birthing—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—walking together, deep in talk, gathering nettles for soup, or collecting firewood. And once, facing each other, I saw him put his hand on her face and follow her cheek-bone 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. A scant 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—toting her around from house to house in turn. 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 dandled the baby, and now that the child can walk, s
he 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’ll not hear from me again—I have done my best. Let it be on your head.

  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

  Cable 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 realize why you shouldn’t fuss. First off, 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 defenseless to risk describing, even to you. In honor of Sidney’s leg, I’m going to coddle 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 smacked in the head with 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 favorite 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 favorite animal is. I doubt it’s a duck.)

  Would you care for a few suggestions? You could ask me who his favorite author is (Dos Passos! Hemingway!!). Or his favorite color (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 so 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 around 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 forever. 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 long letter from Clovis Fossey about poetry, and one from Isola Pribby about the Brontë sisters. Aside 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 godmother to a wonderful three-year-old boy named Dominic, the son of my friend Sophie. They live in Scotland, near Oban, and I don’t get to see him often. I am always astonished, when I do, at his increasing personhood—no sooner had I gotten used to carrying about a warm lump of baby than he stopped being one and started scurrying around on his own. I missed six months, and lo and behold, he learned how to talk! Now he talks to himself, which I find terribly endearing since 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, for I am a founding member of the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society—though I only read one book over and over. It was The Letters of Seneca: Translated from Latin in One Volume, with Appendix. Seneca and the Society, betwixt 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 pasture 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 a living sample: take 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 parlors: 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 sidewalk, I thought of Seneca’s words about the Praetorian Guard. He’d written—“who of these 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 mano
r on 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 draperies, 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 crib, 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 to “Redd up 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 in 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 didn’t make it back to the yacht—and me all alone amongst them. I thought of no more bells, of no more livery, of no more Lord Tobias. In fact, of no more being in service at all.

  I turned my back on him and quickly walked back 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 down to 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.

  I read about grapes, tended the garden, slept in silk pajamas—and drank wine. And so it went until September when Amelia Maugery and Elizabeth McKenna came to call on me. Elizabeth I knew slightly—she and I had chatted several times among the market stalls—but Mrs. Maugery was a stranger to me. Were they going to turn me in to the constable? I wondered.