The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

messages for your sister? Your brother-in-law? Your nephew?

This is the longest letter I’ve ever written—you needn’t reply in kind.

Love,

Juliet

From Susan Scott to Sidney

25th January, 1946

Dear Sidney,

Don’t believe the newspaper reports. Juliet was not arrested and taken away in handcuffs. She was merely reproved by one of Bradford’s constables, and he could barely keep a straight face.

She did throw a teapot at Gilly Gilbert’s head, but don’t believe his claim that she scalded him; the tea was cold. Besides, it was more of a skim-by than a direct hit. Even the hotel manager refused to let us compensate him for the teapot—it was only dented. He was, however, forced by Gilly’s screams to call in the constabulary.

Herewith the story, and I take full responsibility for it. I should have refused Gilly’s request for an interview with Juliet. I knew what a loathsome person he was, one of those unctuous little worms who work for The London Hue and Cry. I also knew that Gilly and the LH&C were horribly jealous of the Spectator’s success with the Izzy Bickerstaff columns—and of Juliet.

We had just returned to the hotel from the Brady’s Booksmith party for Juliet. We were both tired—and full of ourselves—when up popped Gilly from a chair in the lounge. He begged us to have tea with him. He begged for a short interview with “our own wonderful Miss Ashton—or should I say England’s very own Izzy Bickerstaff ?” His smarm alone should have alerted me, but it didn’t—I wanted to sit down, gloat over Juliet’s success, and have a cream tea.

So we did. The talk was going smoothly enough, and my mind was wandering when I heard Gilly say, “. . . you were a war widow yourself, weren’t you? Or rather—almost a war widow—as good as. You were to marry a Lieutenant Rob Dartry, weren’t you? Had made arrangements for the ceremony, hadn’t you?”

Juliet said, “I beg your pardon, Mr. Gilbert.” You know how polite she is.

“I don’t have it wrong, do I? You and Lieutenant Dartry did apply for a marriage license. You did make an appointment to be married at the Chelsea Register Office on 13th December, 1942, at 11:00 a.m. You did book a table for luncheon at the Ritz—only you never showed up for any of it. It’s perfectly obvious that you jilted Lieutenant Dartry at the altar—poor fellow —and sent him off alone and humiliated, back to his ship, to carry his broken heart to Burma, where he was killed not three months later.”

I sat up, my mouth gaping open. I just looked on helplessly as Juliet attempted to be civil: “I didn’t jilt him at the altar—it was the day before. And he wasn’t humiliated—he was relieved. I simply told him that I didn’t want to be married after all. Believe me, Mr. Gilbert, he left a happy man—delighted to be rid of me. He didn’t slink back to his ship, alone and betrayed—he went straight to the CCB Club and danced all night with Belinda Twining.”

Well, Sidney, surprised as Gilly was, he was not daunted. Little rodents like Gilly never are, are they? He quickly guessed that he was on to an even juicier story for his paper.

“OH-HO!” he smirked, “What was it, then? Drink? Other women? A touch of the old Oscar Wilde?”

That was when Juliet threw the teapot. You can imagine the hubbub that ensued—the lounge was full of other people having tea—hence, I am sure, the newspapers learning of it.

I thought his headline, “IZZY BICKERSTAFF GOES TO WAR—AGAIN! Reporter Wounded in Hotel Bun-Fight,” was a bit harsh, but not too bad. But “JULIET’S FAILED ROMEO—A FALLEN HERO IN BURMA” was sick-making, even for Gilly Gilbert and the Hue and Cry.

Juliet is worried she may have embarrassed Stephens & Stark, but she is literally sick over Rob Dartry’s name being slung around in this fashion. All I could get her to say to me was that Rob Dartry was a good man, a very good man—none of it was his fault—and he did not deserve this!

Did you know Rob Dartry? Of course, the drink/Oscar Wilde business is pure rot, but why did Juliet call off the wedding? Do you know why? And would you tell me if you did? Of course you wouldn’t; I don’t know why I’m even asking.

The gossip will die down of course, but does Juliet have to be in London for the thick of it? Should we extend our tour to Scotland? I admit I’m of two minds about this; the sales there have been spectacular, but Juliet has worked so hard at these teas and luncheons—it is not easy to get up in front of a roomful of strangers and praise yourself and your book. She’s not used to this hoopla like I am and is, I think, very tired.

Sunday we’ll be in Leeds, so let me know then about Scotland. Of course, Gilly Gilbert is despicable and vile and I hope he comes to a bad end, but he has pushed Izzy Bickerstaff Goes to War onto the Best Seller List. I’m tempted to write him a thankyou note.

Yours in haste,

Susan

P.S. Have you found out who Markham V. Reynolds is yet? He sent Juliet a forest of camellias today.

Telegram from Juliet to Sidney

AM TERRIBLY SORRY TO HAVE EMBARRASSED YOU AND STEPHENS & STARK. LOVE, JULIET

From Sidney to Juliet