The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

From Juliet to Isola

20th April, 1946

Dear Isola,

I am glad you want to know more about me and am only sorry I didn’t think of it myself, and sooner.

Present-day first: I am thirty-three years old, and you were right—the sun was in my eyes. In a good mood, I call my hair Chestnut with Gold Glints. In a bad mood, I call it mousy brown. It wasn’t a windy day; my hair always looks that way. Naturally curly hair is a curse, and don’t ever let anyone tell you different. My eyes are hazel. While I am slender, I am not tall enough to suit me.

I don’t live by the Thames anymore and that is what I miss the most about my old home—I loved the sight and sound of the river at all hours. I live now in a borrowed flat in Glebe Place. It is small and furnished within an inch of its life, and the flat owner won’t be back from the United States until November, so I have the run of his house until then. I wish I had a dog, but the building management does not allow pets! The Kensington Gardens aren’t so very far, so if I begin to feel cooped up I can walk to the park, rent a deck chair for a shilling, loll about under the trees, watch the passers-by and children play, and I am soothed—somewhat.

Eighty-one Oakley Street was demolished by a random V-1 just over a year ago. Most of the damage was to the row of houses behind mine, but three floors of Number 81 were sheared off, and my flat is now a pile of rubble. I hope Mr. Grant, the owner, will rebuild—for I want my flat, or a facsimile of it, back again, just as it was—with Cheyne Walk and the river outside my windows.

Luckily, I was away in Bury when the V-1 hit. Sidney Stark, my friend and now publisher, met my train that evening and took me home, and we viewed the huge mountain of rubble and what was left of the building.

With part of the wall gone, I could see my shredded curtains waving in the breeze and my desk, three-legged and slumped on the slanting floor that was left. My books were a muddy, sopping pile and although I could see my mother’s portrait on the wall—half gouged out and sooty—there was no safe way to recover it.

The only intact possession left was my large crystal paperweight—with Carpe Diem carved across its top. It had belonged to my father—and there it sat, whole and unchipped, atop a pile of broken bricks and splintered wood. I could not do without it so Sidney clambered over the rubble and retrieved it for me.

I was a fairly nice child until my parents died when I was twelve. I left our farm in Suffolk and went to live with my greatuncle in London. I was a furious, bitter, morose little girl. I ran away twice, causing my uncle no end of trouble—and at the time, I was very glad to do so. I am ashamed now when I think about how I treated him. He died when I was seventeen so I was never able to apologize.

When I was thirteen, my uncle decided I should go away to boarding school. I went, mulish as usual, and met the Headmistress, who marched me into the Dining Room. She led me to a table with four other girls. I sat; arms crossed, hands tucked under my armpits, glaring like a molting eagle, looking around for someone to hate. I hit upon Sophie Stark, Sidney’s younger sister.

Perfect, she had golden curls, big blue eyes, and a sweet, sweet smile. She made an effort to talk with me. I didn’t answer until she said, “I hope you will be happy here.” I told her I wouldn’t be staying long enough to find out. “As soon as I find out about the trains, I am gone!” said I.

That night I climbed out onto the dormitory roof, meaning to sit there and have a good brood in the dark. In a few minutes, Sophie crawled out—with a railway timetable for me.

Needless to say, I never ran away. I stayed—with Sophie as my new friend. Her mother would often invite me to their house for holidays, which was where I met Sidney. He was ten years older than me and was, of course, a god. He later changed into a bossy older brother, and later still, one of my dearest friends.

Sophie and I left school and—wanting no more of academic life, but LIFE instead—we went to London and shared rooms Sidney had found for us. We worked together for a while in a bookshop, and I wrote—and threw away—stories at night.

Then the Daily Mirror sponsored an essay contest—five hundred words on “What Women Fear Most.” I knew what the Mirror was finagling for, but I’m far more afraid of chickens than I am of men, so I wrote about that. The judges, thrilled at not having to read another word about sex, awarded me first prize.

Five pounds and I was, at last, in print. The Daily Mirror received so many fan letters, they commissioned me to write an article, then another one. I soon began to write feature stories for other newspapers and magazines. Then the war broke out, and I was invited to write a semi-weekly column for the Spectator, called “Izzy Bickerstaff Goes to War.” Sophie met and fell in love with an airman, Alexander Strachan. They married and Sophie moved to his family’s farm in Scotland. I am godmother to their son, Dominic, and though I haven’t taught him any hymns, we did pull the hinges off his cellar door last time I saw him—it was a Pictish ambush.

I suppose I do have a suitor, but I’m not really used to him yet. He’s terribly charming and he plies me with delicious meals, but I sometimes think I prefer suitors in books rather than right in front of me. How awful, backward, cowardly, and mentally warped that will be if it turns out to be true.

Sidney published a book of my Izzy Bickerstaff columns and I went on a book tour. And then—I began writing letters to strangers in Guernsey, now friends, whom I would indeed like to come and see.

Yours ever,

Juliet

From Eli to Juliet

21st April, 1946

Dear Miss Ashton,

Thank you for the blocks of wood. They are beautiful. I could not believe what I saw when I opened your box —all those sizes and shades, from pale to dark.

How did you happen to find the different kinds and shapes of wood? You must have gone to so many places to