The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

to hear from you again.

I remember the Punch cartoon you described very well and think it was the word Doodlebug that threw you off. That was the name coined by the Ministry of Information; it was meant to sound less terrifying than “Hitler’s V-1 rockets” or “pilotless bombs.”

We were all used to bombing raids at night and the sights that followed, but these were unlike any bombs we had seen before.

They came in the daytime, and they came so fast there was no time for an air-raid siren or to take cover. You could see them; they looked like slim, black, slanted pencils and made a dull, spastic sound above you—like a motor-car running out of petrol. As long as you could hear them coughing and putt-putting, you were safe. You could think “Thank God, it’s going past me.”

But when their noise stopped, it meant there was only thirty seconds before it plummeted. So, you listened for them. Listened hard for the sound of their motors cutting out. I did see a Doodlebug fall once. I was quite some distance away when it hit, so I threw myself down in the gutter and cuddled up against the curb. Some women, in the top story of a tall office building down the street, had gone to an open window to watch. They were sucked out by the force of the blast.

It seems impossible now that someone could have drawn a cartoon about Doodlebugs, and that everyone, including me, could have laughed at it. But we did. The old adage—humor is the best way to make the unbearable bearable—may be true.

Has Mr. Hastings found the Lucas biography for you yet?

Yours sincerely,

Juliet Ashton

From Juliet to Markham Reynolds

4th February, 1946

Mr. Markham Reynolds

63 Halkin Street

London S.W.1

Dear Mr. Reynolds,

I captured your delivery boy in the act of depositing a clutch of pink carnations upon my doorstep. I seized him and threatened him until he confessed your address—you see, Mr. Reynolds, you are not the only one who can inveigle innocent employees. I hope you don’t sack him; he seems a nice boy, and he really had no alternative—I menaced him with Remembrance of Things Past.

Now I can thank you for the dozens of flowers you’ve sent me—it’s been years since I’ve seen such roses, such camellias, such orchids, and you can have no idea how they lift my heart in this shivering winter. Why I deserve to live in a bower, when everyone else has to be satisfied with bedraggled leafless trees and slush, I don’t know, but I’m perfectly delighted to do so.

Yours sincerely,

Juliet Ashton

From Markham Reynolds to Juliet

February 5, 1946

Dear Miss Ashton,

I didn’t fire the delivery boy—I promoted him. He got me what I couldn’t manage to get for myself: an introduction to you. The way I see it, your note is a figurative hand-shake and the preliminaries are now over. I hope you’re of the same opinion, as it will save me the trouble of wangling an invitation to Lady Bascomb’s next dinner party on the off-chance you might be there. Your friends are a suspicious lot, especially that fellow Stark, who said it wasn’t his job to reverse the direction of the Lend-Lease and refused to bring you to the cocktail party I threw at the View office.

God knows, my intentions are pure, or at least, nonmercenary. The simple truth of it is that you’re the only female writer who makes me laugh. Your Izzy Bickerstaff columns were the wittiest work to come out of the war, and I want to meet the woman who wrote them.

If I swear that I won’t kidnap you, will you do me the honor of dining with me next week? You pick the evening—I’m entirely at your disposal.

Yours,

Markham Reynolds

From Juliet to Markham Reynolds

6th February, 1946

Dear Mr. Reynolds,

I am no proof against compliments, especially compliments about my writing. I’ll be delighted to dine with you. Thursday next?

Yours sincerely,

Juliet Ashton

From Markham Reynolds to Juliet

February 7, 1946

Dear Juliet,

Thursday’s too far away. Monday? Claridge’s? 7:00?

Yours,

Mark

P.S. I don’t suppose you have a telephone, do you?

From Juliet to Markham

7th February, 1946

Dear Mr. Reynolds,

All right—Monday, Claridge’s, seven.

I do have a telephone. It’s in Oakley Street under a pile of rubble that used to be my flat. I’m only sub-letting here, and my landlady, Mrs. Olive Burns, possesses the sole telephone on the premises. If you would like to chat with her, I can give you her number.

Yours sincerely,

Juliet Ashton

From Dawsey to Juliet

7th February, 1946

Dear Miss Ashton,

I’m certain the Guernsey Literary Society would like to be included in your article for the Times. I have asked Mrs. Maugery to write to you about our meetings, as she is an educated lady and her words will sound more at home in an article than mine could. I don’t think we are much like literary societies in London.

Mr. Hastings hasn’t found a copy of the Lucas biography yet, but I had a postcard from him saying, “Hard on the trail. Don’t give up.” He is a kind man, isn’t he?

I’m hauling slates for the Crown Hotel’s new roof. The owners are hoping that tourists may want to come back this summer. I am glad of the work but will be happy to be working on my land soon.

It is nice to come home in the evening and find a letter from you.

I wish you good fortune in finding a subject you would care to write a book about.

Yours sincerely,

Dawsey Adams