seat in the slums, I could spy all the telltale signs of romance—he murmuring little nothings in her ear, her hand lingering in his beside the cocktail glasses, his touching her shoulder to point out an acquaintance.
I considered it my duty (as your devoted employee) to break it up, so I elbowed my way past the cordon to say hello to Juliet. She seemed delighted and invited me to join them, but it was apparent from Mark’s smile that he didn’t want company, so I retreated. He’s not a man to cross, that one, with his thin smile, no matter how beautiful his ties are, and it would break my mum’s heart if my lifeless body was found bobbing in the Thames.
In other words, get a wheelchair, get a crutch, get a donkey to tote you, but come home now.
Yours,
Susan
From Juliet to Sidney and Piers
12th April, 1946
Dear Sidney and Piers,
I’ve been ransacking the libraries of London for background on Guernsey. I even got a ticket to the Reading Room, which shows my devotion to duty—as you know, I’m petrified of the place.
I’ve found out quite a lot. Do you recall a wretched, goofy series of books in the 1920s called A- Tramp in Skye . . . or A-Tramp in Lindisfarne . . . or in Sheepholm—or whatever port the author happened to sail his yacht into? Well, in 1930 he sailed into St. Peter Port, Guernsey, and wrote a book about it (with day trips to Sark, Herm, Alderney, and Jersey, where he was mauled by a duck and had to return home).
Tramp’s real name was Cee Cee Meredith. He was an idiot who thought he was a poet, and he was rich enough to sail anywhere, then write about it, then have it privately printed, and then give a copy to any friend who would take it. Cee Cee didn’t trouble himself with dull fact: he preferred to scamper off to the nearest moor, beach, or flowery field, and go into transports with his Muse. But bless him anyhow; his book A-Tramp in Guernsey was just what I needed to get the feel of the island.
Cee Cee went ashore at St. Peter Port, leaving his mother, Dorothea, to bob about the adjacent waters, retching in the wheel-house. In Guernsey, Cee Cee wrote poems to the freesias and the daffodils. Also to the tomatoes. He was agog with admiration for the Guernsey cows and the blooded bulls, and he composed a little song in honor of their cowbells (“tinkle, tinkle, such a merry sound . . .”). Directly beneath the cows, in Cee Cee’s estimation, were “the simple folk of the country parishes, who still speak the Norman patois and believe in fairies and witches.” Cee Cee entered into the spirit of the thing and saw a fairy in the gloaming.
After carrying on about the cottages and hedgerows and the shops, Cee Cee at last reached the sea, or, as he has it, “The SEA! It is everywhere! The waters: azure, emerald, silver-laced, when they are not as hard and dark as a bag of nails.”
Thank God Tramp had a co-author, Dorothea, who was made of sterner stuff and loathed Guernsey and everything about it. She was in charge of delivering the history of the island, and she was not one to gild the lily:
. . . As to Guernsey’s history—well, the least said, soonest mended. The Islands once belonged to the Duchy of Normandy, but when William, Duke of Normandy, became William the Conqueror, he took the Channel Islands along with him in his back pocket and he gave them to England—with special privileges. These privileges were later increased by King John, and added to yet again by Edward III. WHY? What did they do to deserve the preference? Nary a thing! Later, when that weakling Henry VI managed to lose most of France back to the French, the Channel Islands elected to stay a Crown Possession of England, as who would not?
The Channel Islands freely owe their allegiance and love to the English Crown, but heed this, dear reader—THE CROWN CANNOT MAKE THEM DO ANYTHING THEY DO NOT WANT TO DO!
. . . Guernsey’s ruling body, such as it is, is named the States of Deliberation but called the States for short. The real head of everything is the President of the States, who is elected by the STATES, and called the Bailiff. In fact, everyone is elected, not appointed by the King. Pray, what is a monarch for, if NOT TO APPOINT PEOPLE TO THINGS?
. . . The Crown’s only representative to this unholy melange is the Lieutenant Governor. While he is welcome to attend the meetings of the States, and he may talk and advise all he wants, he does NOT HAVE A VOTE. At least he is allowed to live in Government House, the only mansion of any note on Guernsey—if you don’t count Sausmarez Manor, which I don’t.
. . . The Crown cannot impose Taxes on the Islands—or Conscription. Honesty forces me to admit the Islanders don’t need Conscription to make them go to war for dear, dear England. They volunteered and made very respectable, even heroic, soldiers and sailors against Napoleon and the Kaiser. But be advised—these selfless acts do not make amends for the fact THAT THE CHANNEL ISLANDS PAY NO INCOME TAX TO ENGLAND. NOT ONE SHILLING. IT MAKES ONE WANT TO SPIT!
Those are her kindest words—I will spare you the rest, but you get her general drift.
One, or better yet, both of you write to me. I want to hear how both the patient and the nurse are doing. What does your doctor say about your leg, Sidney—I swear you’ve had time to grow a new one.
XXXXXX,
Juliet
From Dawsey to Juliet
15th April, 1946
Dear Miss Ashton,
I don’t know what ails Adelaide Addison. Isola says she is a blight because she likes being a blight—it gives her a sense of destiny. Adelaide did me one good turn, though, didn’t she? She told you, better than I could, how much I was enjoying Charles Lamb.
The biography came. I’ve read fast—too impatient not to. But I’ll go back and start over again—reading more
