The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

by Mary Ann Shaffer

  Juliet says you’ll come next Friday. I can meet your plane and ride you to Juliet’s. Eben is having a beach party the next night, and he says you are most welcome. Eben hardly ever gives parties, but he said this one is to make a happy announcement to us all. A celebration! But of What? Does he mean to announce nuptials? But whose? I hope he is not getting married hisself; wives don’t generally let husbands out by themselves of an evening and I would miss Eben’s company.

  Your friend,

  Isola

  From Juliet to Sophie

  7th September, 1946

  Dear Sophie,

  Finally, I mustered my courage and told Amelia that I wanted to adopt Kit. Her opinion means a great deal to me—she loved Elizabeth so dearly; she knows Kit so well—and me, almost well enough. I was anxious to have her approval—and terrified that I wouldn’t get it. I choked on my tea but in the end managed to get the words out. Her relief was so visible, I was shocked. I hadn’t realized how worried she’d been about Kit’s future.

  She started to say, “If I could have one—” then stopped and started again, “I think it would be a wonderful thing for both of you. It would be the best possible thing—” Then she broke off and pulled out her handkerchief. And then, of course, I pulled out my handkerchief.

  After we were finished crying, we plotted. Amelia will go with me to see Mr. Dilwyn. “I have known him since he was in short pants,” she said. “He won’t dare refuse me.” Having Amelia on your side is like having the Third Army at your back.

  But something wonderful—even more wonderful than having Amelia’s approval—has happened. My last doubt has shrunk to less than pinpoint size.

  Do you remember my telling you about the little box Kit often carried with her, all tied up in string? The one I thought might hold a dead ferret? She came into my room this morning, and patted my face until I woke up. She was carrying her box.

  Without a word, she began undoing the string and took the lid off—parted the tissue paper and gave the box to me. Sophie—she stood back and watched my face as I turned the things in the box over, and then lifted them all out on the coverlet. The articles were: a tiny, eyelet-covered baby pillow; a small snapshot of Elizabeth, digging in her garden and laughing up at Dawsey; a woman’s linen handkerchief, smelling faintly of jasmine; a man’s signet ring; and a small leather book of Rilke’s poetry with the inscription, For Elizabeth—who turns darkness into light, Christian.

  Tucked into the book was a much-folded scrap of paper. Kit nodded, so I carefully opened it and read, “Amelia—Kiss her for me when she wakes up. I’ll be back by six. Elizabeth. P.S. Doesn’t she have the most beautiful feet?”

  Underneath this was Kit’s grandfather’s WWI medal, the magic badge Elizabeth had pinned on Eli when he was being evacuated to England. Bless Eli’s heart—he must have given it to her.

  She was showing me her treasures, Sophie—her eyes did not leave my face once. We were both so solemn, and I, for once, didn’t start crying; I just held out my arms. She climbed right into them, and under the covers with me—and went sound asleep. Not me! I couldn’t. I was too happy planning the rest of our lives. I don’t care about living in London—I love Guernsey and want to stay here, even after finishing Elizabeth’s book. I can’t imagine Kit living in London, having to wear shoes all the time, having to walk instead of run, having no pigs to visit. No fishing with Eben and Eli, no visits with Amelia, no potion-mixing with Isola, and most of all, no walks, no days, no visits, with Dawsey.I think, if I become Kit’s guardian, we can continue to live in Elizabeth’s cottage and save the Big House as a holiday home for the idle rich. I could take my vast profits from Izzy and buy a flat for Kit and me to stay in when we visit London.

  Her home is here, and mine can be. Writers can write on Guernsey—look at Victor Hugo. The only thing I’d truly miss about London are Sidney and Susan, the nearness to Scotland, new plays, and Harrods Food Hall.

  Pray for Mr. Dilwyn’s good sense. I know he has it, I know he likes me, I know he knows Kit is happy living with me, and that I am solvent enough for two at the moment—and who can say better than that in these decadent times? Amelia thinks that if he does say no adoption without a husband, he will still gladly grant her guardianship to me.

  Sidney is coming to Guernsey again next week. I wish you were coming too—I miss you.

  Love,

  Juliet

  From Juliet to Sidney

  8th September, 1946

  Dear Sidney,

  Kit and I took a picnic out to the meadow to watch Dawsey start to rebuild Elizabeth’s fallen-down stone wall. It was a wonderful excuse to spy on Dawsey and his way of going at things.

  He studied each rock, felt the heft of it, brooded, and placed it on the wall. Smiled if it accorded with the picture in his head.

  Took it off if it didn’t and searched out a different stone. He is very calming to the spirit.

  He grew so accustomed to our admiring gazes that he issued an unprecedented invitation to supper. Kit had a prior engagement—with Amelia—but I accepted with unbecoming haste and then fell into an absurd twitter about being alone with him.

  We were both a bit awkward when I arrived, but he, at least, had the cooking to occupy him and retired to the kitchen, refusing

  help. I took the opportunity to snoop through his books. He hasn’t very many, but his taste is superior—Dickens, Mark Twain, Balzac, Boswell, and dear old Leigh Hunt. The Sir Roger de Coverley Papers, Anne Brontë’s novels (I wonder why he had those) and my biography of her. I didn’t know he owned that; he never said a word—maybe he loathed it.

  Over supper, we discussed Jonathan Swift, pigs, and the trials in Nuremberg. Doesn’t that reveal a breathtaking range of interests?

  I think it does. We talked easily enough, but neither of us ate much—even though he made a delicious sorrel soup (much better than I could). After coffee, we strolled down to his barn for a pig viewing. Grown pigs don’t improve upon acquaintance, but piglets are a different matter—Dawsey’s are spotted and frisky and sly. Each day they dig a new hole under his fence, ostensibly to escape, but really just for the amusement of watching Dawsey fill in the gap. You should have seen them grin as he approached the fence.

  Dawsey’s barn is exceedingly clean. He also stacks his hay beautifully.

  I believe I am becoming pathetic.

  I’ll go further. I believe that I am in love with a flower-growing, wood-carving quarry-man/carpenter/pig farmer. In fact, I know I am. Maybe tomorrow I will become entirely miserable at the thought that he doesn’t love me back—may, even, care for Remy—but right this very moment, I am succumbing to euphoria. My head and stomach feel quite odd.

  See you on Friday—you may go ahead and give yourself airs for discovering I love Dawsey. You may even preen in my presence—this one time, but never again.

  Love and XXXX

  Juliet

  Telegram from Juliet to Sidney

  11th September, 1946

  AM ENTIRELY MISERABLE. SAW DAWSEY IN ST. PETER PORT THIS AFTERNOON, BUYING SUITCASE WITH REMY ON HIS ARM, BOTH WREATHED IN SMILES. IS IT FOR THEIR HONEYMOON? WHAT A FOOL I AM. I BLAME YOU. WRETCHEDLY, JULIET

  Detection Notes of Miss Isola Pribby

  Private: Not to be read, even after death!

  Sunday

  This book with lines in it is from my friend Sidney Stark. It came to me in the mail yesterday. It had PENSÉES written in gold on the cover, but I scratched it off, because that’s French for Thoughts and I am only going to write down FACTS. Facts gleaned from keen eyes and ears. I don’t expect too much of myself at first—I must learn to be more observant.

  Here are some of the observations I made today. Kit loves to be in Juliet’s company—she looks peaceful when Juliet comes in the room and she doesn’t make faces behind people’s backs anymore. Also she can wiggle her ears now—which she couldn’t before Juliet came.

  My friend Sidney is coming to read Oscar’s letters. He will
stay with Juliet this time, because she’s cleaned out Elizabeth’s storage room and put a bed in it for him.

  Saw Daphne Post digging a big hole under Mr. Ferre’s elm tree. She always does it by the dark of the moon. I think we should all go together and buy her a silver teapot so she can quit and stay home nights.

  Monday

  Mrs. Taylor has a rash on her arms. What, or who, from? Tomatoes or her husband? Look into further.

  Tuesday

  Nothing noteworthy today.

  Wednesday

  Nothing again.

  Thursday

  Remy came to see me today—she gives me the stamps from her French letters—they are more colorful than English ones, so I paste them up. She had a letter in a brown envelope with a little open window in it, from the FRENCH GOVERNMENT. This is the fourth one she’s gotten—what do they want of her? Find out.

  I did start to observe something today—behind Mr. Salles’s market stall, but they stopped when they saw me.

  Never mind, Eben is having his beach picnic on Saturday—so I am sure to have something to observe there.

  I have been looking at a book about artists and how they size up a picture they want to paint. Say they want to concentrate on an orange—do they study the shape direct? No, they don’t. They fool their eyes and stare at the banana beside it, or look at it upside down, between their legs. They see the orange in a brand-new way. It’s called getting perspective. So, I am going to try a new way of looking—not upside down between my legs, but by not staring at anything direct or straight ahead. I can move my eyes slyly if I keep my lids lowered a bit. Practice this!!!

  Friday

  It works—not staring head-long works. I went with Dawsey, Juliet, Remy, and Kit in Dawsey’s cart to the airfield to meet dear Sidney.

  Here is what I observed: Juliet hugged him to her, and he swung her around like a brother would. He was pleased to meet Remy, and I could tell he was watching her sideways, like I was doing. Dawsey shook Sidney’s hand, but he did not come in for apple cake when we got to Juliet’s house. It was a little sunk in the middle, but tasted fine.

  I had to put drops in my eyeballs before bed—it is a strain, always having to skitter them sideways. My lids ache from having to keep them half-way down too.

  Saturday

  Remy, Kit, and Juliet came with me down to the beach to gather firewood for this evening’s picnic. Amelia was out in the sun too. She looks more rested and I am happy to see her so. Dawsey, Sidney, and Eli carried Eben’s big iron cauldron down between themselves. Dawsey is always nice and polite to Sidney, and Sidney is pleasant as can be to Dawsey, but he seems to stare at him in a wondering sort of way. Why is that?

  Remy left the firewood and went over to talk to Eben, and he patted her on the shoulder. Why? Eben was never one to pat much. Then they talked awhile—but sadly out of my earshot.

  When it was time to go home for lunch, Eli went off beach-combing. Juliet and Sidney each took ahold of one of Kit’s hands, and they walked her up the cliff path, playing that game of “One Step. Two Step. Three Steps—LIFT UP!”

  Dawsey watched them go up the path, but he did not follow. No, he walked down to the shore and just stood there, looking out over the water. It suddenly struck me that Dawsey is a lonesome person. I think it may be that he has always been lonely, but he didn’t mind before, and now he minds. Why now?

  Saturday Night

  I did see something at the picnic, something important—and like dear Miss Marple, I must act upon it. It was a brisk night and the sky looked moody. But that was fine—all of us bundled up in sweaters and jackets, eating lobster, and laughing at Booker. He stood on a rock and gave an oration, pretending to be that Roman he’s so crazy about. I worry about Booker, he needs to read a new book. I think I will lend him Jane Austen.

  I was sitting, senses alert, by the bonfire with Sidney, Kit, Juliet, and Amelia. We were poking sticks in the fire, when Dawsey and Remy walked together toward Eben and the lobster pot. Remy whispered to Eben, he smiled, and picked up his big spoon and banged on the pot.

  “Attention All,” Eben yelled, “I have something to tell you.”

  All were silent, except for Juliet, who drew in her breath so hard I heard her. She didn’t let it out again, and went all over rigid—even her jaw. What could be the matter? I was so worried for her, having once been toppled by appendix myself, that I missed Eben’s first few words.

  “…and so tonight is a farewell party for Remy. She is leaving us next Tuesday for her new home in Paris. She will share rooms with friends and is apprenticed to the famous confectioner Raoul Guillemaux, in Paris. She has promised that she will come back to Guernsey and that her second home will be with me and Eli, so we may all rejoice in her good fortune.”

  What an outpouring of cheers from the rest of us!

  Everyone ran to gather around Remy and congratulate her.

  Everyone except Juliet—she let out her breath in a whoosh and flopped backward onto the sand, like a gaffed fish!

  I peered around, thinking I should observe Dawsey. He wasn’t hovering over Remy at all—but how sad he looked.

  All of a sudden, IT CAME TO ME! I HAD IT! Dawsey didn’t want Remy to go, he feared she’d never come back. He was in love with Remy, and too shy in his nature to tell her so.

  Well, I’m not. I could tell her of his affections, and then she, being French, would know what to do. She would let him know she’d find favor in his suit. Then they could marry, and she would not need to go off to Paris and live.

  What a blessing that I have no imagination and am able to see things clearly.

  Sidney came up to Juliet and prodded her with his foot. “Feel better?” he asked, and Juliet said yes, so I quit worrying about her. Then he walked her over to make her manners to Remy. Kit was asleep in my lap, so I stayed where I was by the fire and thought carefully.

  Remy, like most Frenchwomen, is practical. She would want evidence of Dawsey’s feelings for her, before she changed her plans willy-nilly. I would have to find the proof she’d need.

  A bit later, when wine was opened and drunk in toasts, I walked up to Dawsey and said, “Daws, I noticed your kitchen floor is dirty. I want to come and scrub it for you. Will Monday suit?”

  He looked a little surprised, but he said yes. “It’s an early Christmas present,” I said. “So you mustn’t think of paying me. Leave the door open for me.”

  And so it was settled, and I said good-night to all.

  Sunday

  I laid my plans for tomorrow. I am nervous.

  I will sweep and scrub Dawsey’s house, keeping a watch out for evidence that he cares for Remy. Maybe a poem “Ode to Remy,” all scrunched up and in his wastepaper basket? Or doodles of her name, scribbled all over his grocery list? Proof that Dawsey cares for Remy must (or almost must) be in plain sight. Miss Marple never really snooped so I won’t either—I will not force locks.

  But once I give proof of his devotion to Remy, she’ll not get on the aeroplane to Paris on Tuesday morning. She will know what to do, and then Dawsey will be happy.

  All Day Monday:

  A Serious Error, A Joyous Night

  I woke up too early and had to fiddle around with my hens till the hour I knew Dawsey had left for work up at the Big House. Then, I cut along to his farm, checking every tree trunk for carved hearts. None.

  With Dawsey gone, I went in his back door with my mop, bucket, and rags. For two hours I swept, scrubbed, dusted, and waxed—and found nothing. I was beginning to despair, when I thought of books—the books on his shelves. I began to clap dust out of them, but no loose papers fell to the floor. I was fair along when suddenly I saw his little red book on Charles Lamb’s life. What was it doing here? I had seen him put it in the wooden treasure box Eli carved for his birthday present. But if the red book was here on the shelf, what was in his treasure box? And where was it? I tapped the walls. No hollow sounds anywhere. I thrust my arm down his flour bin—nothing but flour.
Would he keep it in the barn? For rats to chew on? Never. What was left? His bed, under his bed!

  I ran to his bedroom, fished under the bed, and pulled the treasure box out. I lifted the lid and glanced inside. Nothing met my eye, so I was forced to dump everything out on the bed—still nothing: not a note from Remy, not a photograph of her, no cinema ticket stubs for Gone With the Wind, though I knew he’d taken her to see it. What had he done with them? No handkerchief with the initial R in the corner. There was one, but it was one of Juliet’s scented ones and had a J embroidered on it. He must have forgotten to return it to her. Other things were in there, but nothing of Remy’s.

  I put everything back in the box and straightened up the bed. My mission had failed! Remy would get on that aeroplane tomorrow, and Dawsey would stay lonely. I was heart-sore. I gathered up my mops and bucket.

  I was trudging home when I saw Amelia and Kit—they were going bird-watching. They asked me to come along, but I knew that not even bird-song could cheer me up.

  But I thought Juliet could cheer me—she usually does. I’d not stay long and bother her writing, but maybe she would ask me in for a cup of coffee. Sidney had left this morning, so maybe she’d be feeling bereft too. I hurried down the road to her house.

  I found Juliet at home, papers awhirl on her desk, but she wasn’t doing anything, just sitting there, staring out the window.

  “Isola!” she said. “Just when I’ve been wanting company!” She started to get up when she saw my mops and pails. “Have you come to clean my house? Forget that and come have some coffee with me.”

  Then, she got a good look at my face and said, “Whatever is the matter? Are you ill? Come sit down.”

  The kindness was too much for my broken spirits, and I—I admit it—I started to bawl. I said, “No, no, I’m not sick. I have failed—failed in my mission. And now Dawsey will stay unhappy.”