I’ll tell you one story of Kit and Juliet together. Dawsey (more about him later) came by to pick Kit up and go see Eben’s fishing boat come in. Kit said good-bye, flew out, then flew back in, ran up to Juliet, lifted her skirt a quarter of an inch, kissed her kneecap, and flew back out again. Juliet looked dumbfounded—and then as happy as you or I have ever seen her.
I know you think Juliet seemed tired, worn, frazzled, and pale when you saw her last winter. I don’t think you realize how harrowing those teas and interviews can be; she looks as healthy as a horse now and is full of her old zest. So full, Sophie, I think she may never want to live in London again—though she doesn’t realize it yet. Sea air, sunshine, green fields, wildflowers, the everchanging sky and ocean, and most of all, the people seem to have seduced her from City life.
I can easily see how they could. It’s such a homey, welcoming place. Isola is the kind of hostess you always wished you’d come across on a country visit—but never do. She rousted me out of bed the first morning to help her dry rose petals, churn butter, stir up something (God knows what) in a big pot, feed Ariel, and go to the fish market to buy her an eel. All of this with Zenobia the parrot on my shoulder.
Now, about Dawsey Adams. I have inspected him, as per instructions. I liked what I saw. He’s quiet, capable, trustworthy—oh Lord, I’ve made him sound like a dog—and he has a sense of humor. In short, he is completely unlike any of Juliet’s other swains—praise indeed. He did not say much at our first meeting—nor at any of our meetings since, come to think of it—but let him walk into a room, and everyone in it seems to breathe a little sigh of relief. I have never in my life had that effect on anyone, can’t imagine why not. Juliet seems a bit nervous around him—his silence
One thing I can say unequivocally: he’s worth dozens of Mark Reynoldses. I know you think I’m unreasonable about Reynolds, but you haven’t met him. He’s all charm and oil, and he gets what he wants. It’s one of his few principles. He wants Juliet because she’s pretty and “intellectual” at the same time, and he thinks they’ll make an impressive couple. If she marries him, she’ll spend the rest of her life being shown to people at theaters and clubs and weekends and she’ll never write another book. As her editor, I’m dismayed by that prospect, but as her friend, I’m horrified. It will be the end of our Juliet.
It’s hard to say what Juliet is thinking about Reynolds, if anything. I asked her if she missed him, and she said, “Mark? I suppose so,” as if he were a distant uncle, and not a favorite one at that. I’d be delighted if she forgot all about him, but I don’t think he’ll allow it.
To return to minor topics like the Occupation and Juliet’s book, I was invited to accompany her on calls to several Islanders this afternoon. Her interviews were to be about Guernsey’s Day of Liberation on May 9 last year.
What a morning that must have been! The crowds were lined up along St. Peter Port’s harbor. Silent, absolutely silent, masses of people looking at the Royal Navy ships sitting just outside their harbor. Then when the Tommies landed and marched ashore, all hell broke loose. Hugs, kisses, crying, yelling. So many of the soldiers landing were Guernseymen themselves. Men who hadn’t seen or heard a word from their families in five years. You can imagine their eyes searching the crowds for family members as they marched—and the joy of their reunions.
Mr. LeBrun, a retired postman, told us the most unusual story of all. Some British ships took leave of the fleet in St. Peter Port and sailed a few miles north to St. Sampson’s Harbor. Crowds had gathered there, waiting to see the landing craft crash through the German anti-tank barriers and come up onto the beach. When the bay doors opened, out came not a platoon of uniformed soldiers, but one lone man, got up as a caricature English gent in striped trousers, a morning coat, top hat, furled umbrella, and a copy of yesterday’s
There was a split-second of silence before the joke sank in, and then the crowd roared—he was mobbed, clapped on the back, kissed, and put up on the shoulders of four men to be marched down the street. Someone screamed, “News—news from London herself,” and snatched the
When the rest of the soldiers emerged, they were carrying chocolates, oranges, cigarettes, tea bags to toss to the crowd. Brigadier Snow announced that the cable to England was being repaired, and soon they could be talking to their evacuated children and families in England. The ships also brought in food, tons of it, and medicines, paraffin, animal feed, clothes, cloth, seeds, and shoes!
There must be enough stories to fill three books—it may be a matter of culling. But don’t worry if Juliet sounds nervous from time to time—she should. It’s a daunting task.
I must stop now and get dressed for Juliet’s supper party. Isola is swathed in three shawls and a lace dresser scarf—and I want to do her proud.
Love to you all,
Sidney
From Juliet to Sophie
7th July, 1946
Dear Sophie,
Just a note to tell you Sidney is here and we can stop worrying about him—and his leg. He looks wonderful: tanned, fit, and without a noticeable limp. In fact, we threw his cane in the ocean—I’m sure it’s half-way to France by now.
I had a small supper party for him—cooked by me alone, and edible, too. Will Thisbee gave me
Sidney is having a grand time as Isola’s houseguest. They apparently sat up late talking last night. Isola doesn’t approve of small talk and believes in breaking the ice by stomping on it.
She asked him if we were engaged to be married. If not, why not? It was plain to everyone that we doted on one another.
Sidney told her that indeed he did dote on me; always had, always would, but we both realized we could never marry—he was a homosexual.
Sidney told me that Isola neither gasped, fainted, nor blinked—just gave him her good old fish eye and asked,
