Dawsey arrived quickly and we hurried down the road toward town.
I was half-trotting along behind him, looking in hedgerows and behind bushes. We had drawn even with Isola’s farm when Dawsey suddenly stopped short and began to laugh.
There, sitting on the ground in front of Isola’s smokehouse, were Kit and Isola. Kit was holding her new quilted ferret (a gift from Billee Bee) and a big brown envelope. Isola was sitting on Billee Bee’s suitcase—a Portrait of Innocence, the both of them—while an awful squawking was coming from inside the smokehouse.
I rushed to hug Kit and the envelope to me, while Dawsey undid the wooden peg from the smokehouse hasp. There, crouched in a corner, cursing and flailing, was Billee Bee—Isola’s parrot, Zenobia, flapping around her. She had already snatched off Billee Bee’s little cap, and pieces of angora wool were floating through the air.
Dawsey lifted her up and brought her outside—Billee Bee screaming all the while. She’d been set upon by a crazed witch. Assaulted by her Familiar, a child—clearly one of the Devil’s Own! We’d regret it! There’d be lawsuits, arrests, prison for the lot of us! We’d not see daylight again!
“It’s you who won’t see daylight, you sneak! Robber! Ingrate!” shouted Isola.
“You stole those letters,” I screamed. “You stole them from Isola’s biscuit tin and tried to sneak off with them! What were you and Gilly Gilbert going to do with them?”
Billee Bee shrieked, “None of your business! Wait till I tell him what you’ve done to me!”
“You do that little thing!” I snapped. “Tell the world about you and Gilly. I can see the headlines now—‘Gilly Gilbert Seduces Girl to Life of Crime!’ ‘From Love-Nest to Lock-up! See Page Three!’ ”
That shushed her for a moment and then, with the exquisite timing and presence of a great actor, Booker arrived, looking huge and vaguely official in an old army coat. Remy was with him, carrying a hoe! Booker viewed the scene and glared so fiercely at Billee Bee, I was almost sorry for her.
He took her arm and said, “Now, you’ll collect your rightful belongings and take your leave. I’ll not arrest you—not this time! I will escort you to the harbor and personally put you aboard the next boat to England.”
Billee Bee stumbled forward and gathered up her suitcase and handbag—then she made a lunge for Kit and yanked the quilted ferret out of her arms. “I’m sorry I ever gave it to you, you little brat.”
How I wanted to slap her! So I did—and I feel sure it jarred her back teeth loose. I don’t know but what island living is getting to me.
My eyes are falling shut on me, but I must tell you the reason for Kit and Isola’s early-morning herb collecting. Isola felt Billee Bee’s head bumps last night and didn’t like her reading at all. B.B.’s Duplicitous Bump was big as a goose egg. Then—Kit told her she’d seen Billee Bee in her kitchen, prowling through the shelves. That was enough for Isola, and they set their surveillance plan in motion. They would shadow Billee Bee today and see what they would see!
They rose early, skulked behind bushes, and saw Billee Bee tiptoeing out of my back door with a big envelope. They followed her a bit, until she passed by Isola’s farm. Isola pounced and manhandled her into the smokehouse. Kit gathered all of Billee Bee’s possessions from the dirt, and Isola went to get her claustrophobic parrot, Zenobia, and threw her into the smokehouse with Billee Bee.
But, Susan, what on earth were she and Gilly Gilbert going to do with the letters? Weren’t they worried about being arrested for thieving?
I am so grateful to you and Ivor. Please thank him for everything: his keen eyesight, his suspicious mind, and his good sense. Better yet, kiss him for me. He’s wonderful! Shouldn’t Sidney promote him from Sub-Editor to Editor-in-Chief ?
Love,
Juliet
From Susan to Juliet
26th August, 1946
Dear Juliet,
Yes, Ivor is wonderful and I have told him so. I kissed him for you, and then again for myself! Sidney did promote him—not to Editor-in-Chief, but I imagine he’s well on his way.
What did Billee Bee and Gilly plan to do? You and I weren’t in London when the “teapot incident” broke into the headlines—we missed the uproar it caused. Every journalist and publisher who loathes Gilly Gilbert and The London Hue and Cry—and there are plenty—was delighted.
They thought it was hilarious and Sidney’s statement to the press didn’t do much to soothe matters—just whipped them into fresh fits of laughter. Well, neither Gilly nor the LH&C believes in forgiveness. Their motto is get even—be quiet, be patient, and wait for the day of vengeance to come, as it surely will!
Billee Bee, poor besotted booby and Gilly’s mistress, felt the shame even more keenly. Can’t you see Billee Bee and Gilly huddled together, plotting their revenge? Billee Bee was to insinuate herself into Stephens & Stark, and find anything, anything at all, that would hurt you and Sidney, or better yet, turn you into laughingstocks.
You know how rumors run like wildfire around the publishing world. Everyone knows you’re in Guernsey writing a book about the Occupation, and in the last two weeks, people have begun to whisper that you’ve discovered a new Oscar Wilde work there (Sir William may be distinguished, but he’s not discreet).
It was too good for Gilly to resist. Billee Bee was to steal the letters, The London Hue and Cry would publish them, and you and Sidney would be scooped. What fun they’d have! They’d worry about lawsuits later. And of course, never mind what it would do to Isola.
It makes me sick to my stomach to think how close they came to succeeding. Thank God for Ivor and Isola—and Billee Bee’s Duplicitous Bump.
Ivor will fly over to copy the letters on Tuesday. He has found a yellow velvet ferret, with emerald-green feral eyes and ivory fangs, for Kit. I think she’ll want to kiss him for it. You can too—but keep it short. I make no threats, Juliet—but Ivor is mine!
Love,
Susan
Telegram from Sidney to Juliet
26th August, 1946
I’LL NEVER LEAVE TOWN AGAIN. ISOLA AND KIT DESERVE A MEDAL, AND SO DO YOU. LOVE, SIDNEY
From Juliet to Sophie
29th August, 1946
Dear Sophie,
Ivor has come and gone, and Oscar Wilde’s letters are back safe in Isola’s biscuit tin. I’ve settled down as much as I can until Sidney reads them—I’m wild to know what he thinks of them.
I was very calm on the day of our adventure. It was only later, after Kit was in bed, that I started to feel skittish and nervous—and began to pace.
Then there was a knock at the door. I was amazed—and a little flustered—to see Dawsey through the window. I threw the door open to greet him—and found him and Remy on my front step. They had come to see how I was. How kind. How flat.
I wonder if Remy shouldn’t be getting homesick for France by now? I have been reading an article by a woman named Giselle Pelletier, a political prisoner held at Ravensbrück for five years. She writes about how difficult it is for you to get on with your life as a camp survivor. No one in France—not friends, not family—wants to know anything about your life in the camps, and they think that the sooner you put it out of your mind—and out of their hearing—the happier you’ll be.
According to Miss Pelletier, it is not that you want to belabor anyone with details, but it did happen to you and you cannot pretend it didn’t. “Let’s put everything behind us” seems to be France’s cry. “Everything—the war, the Vichy, the Milice, Drancy, the Jews—it’s all over now. After all, everyone suffered, not just you.” In the face of this institutional amnesia, she writes, the only help is talking with fellow survivors. They know what life in the camps was. You speak, and they can speak back. They talk, they rail, they cry, they tell one story after another—some tragic, some absurd. Sometimes they can even laugh together. The relief is enormous, she says.
Perhaps communication with other survivors would be a better cure for Remy’s distress than buco
lic island life. She is physically stronger now—she’s not so shockingly thin as she was—but she still seems haunted.
Mr. Dilwyn is back from his holiday, and I must make an appointment to talk to him about Kit soon. I keep putting it off—I’m so dreadfully afraid that he’ll refuse to consider it. I wish I looked more motherly—perhaps I should buy a fichu. If he requests character witnesses, will you be one? Does Dominic know his letters yet? If so, he can print out this:
Dear Mr. Dilwyn,
Juliet Dryhurst Ashton is a very nice lady—sober, clean, and responsible. You should let Kit McKenna have her for a mother.
Yours sincerely,
James Dominic Strachan
I didn’t tell you, did I, about Mr. Dilwyn’s plans for Kit’s heritage on Guernsey? He has engaged Dawsey, and a crew Dawsey is to select, to restore the Big House: banisters replaced; graffiti removed from the walls and paintings; torn-out plumbing replaced with new; windows replaced; chimneys and flues cleaned; wiring checked and terrace paving stones repointed—or whatever it is you do to old stones. Mr. Dilwyn is not yet certain what can be done with the wooden paneling in the library—it had a beautiful carved frieze of fruit and ribbons, which the Germans used for target practice.
Since no one will want to go on holiday to Europe itself for the next few years, Mr. Dilwyn is hoping the Channel Islands might become a tourist haven again—and Kit’s house could make a wonderful holiday house for families to rent.
But on to stranger events: the Benoit sisters asked me and Kit for tea this afternoon. I had never met them, and it was quite an odd invitation; they asked if Kit had “a steady eye and good aim? Does she like rituals?”
Bewildered, I asked Eben if he knew of the Benoit sisters. Were they sane? Was it safe to take Kit there? Eben roared with laughter and said yes, the sisters were safe and sane. He said Jane and Elizabeth had visited them every summer for five years; the girls always wore starched pinafores, polished court shoes, and little lace gloves. We would have a fine time, he said, and he was glad to see the old traditions were coming back. We would have a lavish tea, with entertainment afterwards, and we should go.
None of which told me what to expect. They are identical twins, in their eighties. So very prim and ladylike, dressed in ankle-length gowns of black georgette, larded with jet beads at bosom and hem, their white hair piled like swirls of whipped cream atop their heads. So charming, Sophie. We did have a sinful tea, and I’d barely put my cup down when Yvonne (older by ten minutes) said, “Sister, I do believe Elizabeth’s child is too small yet.” Yvette said, “I believe you’re right, Sister. Perhaps Miss Ashton would favor us?”
I think it was very brave of me to say, “I’d be delighted,” when I had no idea what they were proposing.
“So kind if you would, Miss Ashton. We denied ourselves during the war—so disloyal to the Crown, somehow. Our arthritis has grown very much worse: we cannot even join you in the rites. It will be our pleasure to watch!”
Yvette went to a drawer in the sideboard, while Yvonne slid out one side of the pocket doors between their drawing room and dining room. Taped to the previously hidden panel was a fullpage, full-length newspaper rotogravure portrait in sepia of the Duchess of Windsor, Mrs. Wallis Simpson as was. Cut out, I gather, from the society pages of the Baltimore Sun in the late ’30s.
Yvette handed me four silver-tipped, finely balanced, evillooking darts.
“Go for the eyes, dear,” she said. So I did.
“Splendid! Three-for-four, Sister. Almost as good as dear Jane! Elizabeth always fumbled at the last moment! Shall you want to try again next year?”
It’s a simple story, but sad. Yvette and Yvonne adored the Prince of Wales. “So darling in his little plus fours.” “How the man could waltz!” “How debonair in evening dress!” So fine, so royal—until that hussy got hold of him. “Snatched him from the throne! His crown—gone!” It broke their hearts. Kit was enthralled with it all—as well she might be. I am going to practice my aim—four-for-four being my new goal in life.
Don’t you wish we had known the Benoit sisters while we were growing up?
Love and XXX,
Juliet
From Juliet to Sidney
2nd September, 1946
Dear Sidney,
Something happened this afternoon; while it ended well, it was disturbing, and I am having trouble going to sleep. I am writing to you, instead of Sophie, because she’s pregnant and you’re not. You don’t have a delicate condition to be upset in, and Sophie does—I am losing my grip on grammar.
Kit was with Isola, making gingerbread men. Remy and I needed some ink and Dawsey needed some kind of putty for the Big House, so we all walked together into St. Peter Port.
We took the cliff walk by Fermain Bay. It’s a beautiful walk, with a rugged path that wanders up and around the headlands. I was a little ahead of Remy and Dawsey because the path had narrowed.
A tall red-headed woman walked around the large boulder at the path’s turning and came toward us. She had a dog with her, an Alsatian, and a big one. He was not on a leash and he was overjoyed to see me. I was laughing at his antics and the woman called out, “Don’t worry. He never bites.” His paws came up on my shoulders, attempting a big, slobbering kiss.
Then, behind me, I heard a noise—an awful gulping gasp: a deep gagging that went on and on. I can’t describe it. I turned and saw that it was Remy; she was bent over almost double and vomiting. Dawsey had caught her and was holding her as she kept on vomiting, deep spasms of it, over both of them. It was terrible to see and hear.
Dawsey yelled, “Get that dog away, Juliet! Now!”
I frantically pushed the dog away. The woman was crying and apologizing, almost hysterical herself. I held on to the dog’s collar and kept saying, “It’s all right! It’s all right! It’s not your fault. Please go. Go!” She finally did, hauling her poor, confused pet along by his collar.
Remy was quiet then, only gasping for breath. Dawsey looked over her head and said, “Let’s get her to your house, Juliet. It’s closest.” He picked her up and carried her—me trailing behind, helpless and scared.
Remy was cold and shaking, so I drew a bath for her, and after she was warm again, put her into bed. She was already half-asleep, so I gathered her clothes into a bundle, and went downstairs.
Dawsey was standing by the window, looking out. Without turning, he said, “She told me once that those guards used big dogs. Riled them up and loosed them deliberately on the lines of women standing for roll call—just to watch the fun. Christ! I’ve been ignorant, Juliet. I thought being here with us could help her forget.
“Good will isn’t enough, is it, Juliet? Not nearly enough.”
“No,” I said, “it isn’t.” He didn’t say anything more; he just nodded to me and left. I telephoned Amelia to tell her where Remy was and why and started the laundry. Isola returned Kit; we had supper and played Snap till bedtime.
But I can’t sleep.
I am so ashamed of myself. Had I actually thought Remy well enough to return home—or did I just want her to go? Did I think it was past time for her to go back to France—to just get on with IT, whatever IT might be? I did—and it’s sickening.
Love,
Juliet
P.S. As long as I’m confessing, I might as well tell you something else. Bad as it was to stand there holding Remy’s awful clothes and smelling Dawsey’s ruined ones, all I could think of was, he said “good will… good will isn’t enough, is it?” Does that mean that is all he feels toward her? I’ve chewed over that errant thought all evening.
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 fall to 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?
&nbs
p; Love,
Sidney
Telegram from Juliet to Sidney
5th September, 1946
DEAR SIDNEY—YOU’RE INSUFFERABLE, ESPECIALLY WHEN YOU’RE RIGHT. LOVELY TO SEE YOU ANYHOW ON THE 13TH. LOVE, JULIET
From Isola to Sidney
6th September, 1946
Dear Sidney,
Juliet says you’re going to come look at 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 leave off wearing those little hairbow ties. I told him they didn’t do much for him, but he was more interested to hear about my suspicions of Billee 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 figure out mysteries and solve crimes that the police can’t.
He set me to thinking about how fine it would be to solve mysteries myself. If only I knew of any.
Ivor said skullduggery is everywhere, and with my fine instincts, I could train myself to become another Miss Marple.
“You clearly have excellent observation 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 listen right, see things from the sides of my eyes. Mind you, we don’t have any unsolved mysteries on Guernsey, but that’s not to say we won’t one day—and when we do, I’ll be ready.
I still savor the head bump book you sent me and I hope your feelings are not hurt that I want to turn to 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.
The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society Page 20