Kit has taken to spending some of her mornings here. She brings rocks or shells and sits quietly—well, moderately quietly—on the floor and plays with them while I work. When I am finished, we take a picnic lunch down to the beach. If it’s too foggy, we play indoors; either Beauty Parlor—brushing each other’s hair until it crackles—or Dead Bride.
Dead Bride is not a complicated game like Snakes and Ladders; it’s quite simple. The bride veils herself in a lace curtain and stuffs herself into the laundry hamper, where she lies as though dead while the anguished bridegroom hunts for her.
When he finally discovers her entombed in the laundry hamper, he breaks into loud wails. Then and only then does the bride jump up, yell “Surprise!” and clutch him to her. Then it is all joy and smiles and kisses. Privately, I don’t give that marriage much of a chance.
I knew that all children were gruesome, but I don’t know whether I’m supposed to encourage them in it. I’m afraid to ask Sophie if Dead Bride is too morbid a game for a four-year-old. If she says yes, we’ll have to stop playing, and I don’t want to stop.
I love Dead Bride.
So many questions arise when you are spending your days with a child. For instance, if one likes to cross one’s eyes a lot, might they get stuck that way forever—or is that a rumor? My mother said they would, and I believed her, but Kit is made of sterner stuff and doubts it.
I am trying hard to remember my parents’ ideas about childraising, but, as the child raised, I’m scarcely a good judge. I know I got spanked for spitting my peas across the table at Mrs. Morris, but that’s all I can recall. Perhaps she deserved it. Kit seems to show no ill-effects from having been brought up piecemeal by Society members. It certainly hasn’t made her fearful and retiring. I asked Amelia about it yesterday. She smiled and said there was no hope that a child of Elizabeth’s would be fearful and retiring. Then she told me a lovely story about her son, Ian, and Elizabeth when they were children. He was to be sent to school in England, and he was not at all happy about it, so he decided to run away from home. He consulted Jane and Elizabeth, and Elizabeth persuaded him to buy her boat for his escape. The trouble was, she had no boat—but she didn’t tell him that.
Instead, she built one herself in three days. On the appointed afternoon, they hauled it down to the beach, and Ian set off, with Elizabeth and Jane waving their hankies from the shore. About half a mile out, the boat began to sink—fast. Jane was all for running to get her father, but Elizabeth said there wasn’t time and since it was all her fault, she would have to save him. She took off her shoes, dove into the waves, and swam out to Ian. Together, they pulled the wreckage to shore, and she brought the boy to Sir Ambrose’s house to dry off. She returned his money, and as they sat steaming before the fire, she turned to him and said gloomily, “We’ll just have to steal a boat, that’s all.” Ian told his mother that he decided it would be simpler to go to school after all.
I know it will take a prodigious amount of time to catch up on your work. If you do have a moment to spare, could you find a book of paper dolls for me? One full of glamorous evening gowns, please.
I know Kit is growing fond of me—she pats my knee in passing.
Love,
Juliet
From Juliet to Sidney
10th June, 1946
Dear Sidney,
I’ve just received a wonderful package from your new secretary. Is her name really Billee Bee Jones? Never mind, she’s a genius anyway. She found Kit two books of paper dolls—and not just any old paper dolls either. She found Greta Garbo and
This is not a letter, but a thank-you note. I’m writing one to Billee Bee, too. However did you find such an efficient person? I hope she’s plump and motherly, because that’s how I’m imagining her. She enclosed a note saying eyes do not stay crossed permanently—it’s an old wives’ tale. Kit is thrilled and plans to cross her eyes until supper.
Love to you,
Juliet
P.S. I would like to point out that contrary to certain insinuating remarks in your last, Mr. Dawsey Adams makes no appearance in this letter. I haven’t seen Mr. Dawsey Adams since Friday afternoon, when he came to pick up Kit. He found us decked in our finest jewels and marching about the room to the stirring strains of
Letter received in Guernsey on 12th June, 1946
To: “Eben” or “Isola” or Any Member of a Book Society
on Guernsey, Channel Islands, Great Britain
Dear Guernsey Book Society,
I greet you as those dear to my friend Elizabeth McKenna. I write to you now so that I may tell you of her death in Ravensbruck Concentration Camp. She was executed there in March of 1945.
In those days before the Russian Army arrived to free the camp, the SS carried truck loads of papers to the crematorium and burned them in the furnaces there. Thus I feared you might never learn of Elizabeth’s imprisonment and death.
Elizabeth spoke often to me of Amelia, Isola, Dawsey, Eben, and Booker. I recall no surnames but believe the names Eben and Isola to be unusual Christian names and thus hope you may be found easily on Guernsey.
I know also that she cherished you as her family, and she felt gratitude and peace that her daughter, Kit, was in your care. Therefore, I write so you and the child will know of her and the strength she showed to us in the camp. Not strength only, but a metier she had for making us forget where we were for a small while. Elizabeth was
