The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

UP!”

Dawsey watched them go up the path, but he did not follow. No, he walked down to the shore and just stood there, looking out over the water. It suddenly struck me that Dawsey is a lonesome person. I think it may be that he has always been lonely, but he didn’t mind before, and now he minds. Why now?

Saturday Night

I did see something at the picnic, something important—and like dear Miss Marple, I must act upon it. It was a brisk night and the sky looked moody. But that was fine—all of us bundled up in sweaters and jackets, eating lobster, and laughing at Booker. He stood on a rock and gave an oration, pretending to be that Roman he’s so crazy about. I worry about Booker, he needs to read a new book. I think I will lend him Jane Austen.

I was sitting, senses alert, by the bonfire with Sidney, Kit, Juliet, and Amelia. We were poking sticks in the fire, when Dawsey and Remy walked together toward Eben and the lobster pot. Remy whispered to Eben, he smiled, and picked up his big spoon and banged on the pot.

“Attention All,” Eben yelled, “I have something to tell you.”

All were silent, except for Juliet, who drew in her breath so hard I heard her. She didn’t let it out again, and went all over rigid—even her jaw. What could be the matter? I was so worried for her, having once been toppled by appendix myself, that I missed Eben’s first few words.

“. . . and so tonight is a farewell party for Remy. She is leaving us next Tuesday for her new home in Paris. She will share rooms with friends and is apprenticed to the famous confectioner Raoul Guillemaux, in Paris. She has promised that she will come back to Guernsey and that her second home will be with me and Eli, so we may all rejoice in her good fortune.”

What an outpouring of cheers from the rest of us!

Everyone ran to gather around Remy and congratulate her.

Everyone except Juliet—she let out her breath in a whoosh and flopped backward onto the sand, like a gaffed fish!

I peered around, thinking I should observe Dawsey. He wasn’t hovering over Remy at all—but how sad he looked.

All of a sudden, IT CAME TO ME! I HAD IT! Dawsey didn’t want Remy to go, he feared she’d never come back. He was in love with Remy, and too shy in his nature to tell her so.

Well, I’m not. I could tell her of his affections, and then she, being French, would know what to do. She would let him know she’d find favor in his suit. Then they could marry, and she would not need to go off to Paris and live.

What a blessing that I have no imagination and am able to see things clearly.

Sidney came up to Juliet and prodded her with his foot. “Feel better?” he asked, and Juliet said yes, so I quit worrying about her. Then he walked her over to make her manners to Remy. Kit was asleep in my lap, so I stayed where I was by the fire and thought carefully.

Remy, like most Frenchwomen, is practical. She would want evidence of Dawsey’s feelings for her, before she changed her plans willy-nilly. I would have to find the proof she’d need.

A bit later, when wine was opened and drunk in toasts, I walked up to Dawsey and said, “Daws, I noticed your kitchen floor is dirty. I want to come and scrub it for you. Will Monday suit?”

He looked a little surprised, but he said yes. “It’s an early Christmas present,” I said. “So you mustn’t think of paying me. Leave the door open for me.”

And so it was settled, and I said good-night to all.

Sunday

I laid my plans for tomorrow. I am nervous.

I will sweep and scrub Dawsey’s house, keeping a watch out for evidence that he cares for Remy. Maybe a poem “Ode to Remy,” all scrunched up and in his wastepaper basket? Or doodles of her name, scribbled all over his grocery list? Proof that Dawsey cares for Remy must (or almost must) be in plain sight. Miss Marple never really snooped so I won’t either—I will not force locks.

But once I give proof of his devotion to Remy, she’ll not get on the aeroplane to Paris on Tuesday morning. She will know what to do, and then Dawsey will be happy.

All Day Monday:

A Serious Error, A Joyous Night

I woke up too early and had to fiddle around with my hens till the hour I knew Dawsey had left for work up at the Big House. Then, I cut along to his farm, checking every tree trunk for carved hearts. None.

With Dawsey gone, I went in his back door with my mop, bucket, and rags. For two hours I swept, scrubbed, dusted, and waxed—and found nothing. I was beginning to despair, when I thought of books—the books on his shelves. I began to clap dust out of them, but no loose papers fell to the floor. I was fair along when suddenly I saw his little red book on Charles Lamb’s life. What was it doing here? I had seen him put it in the wooden treasure box Eli carved for his birthday present. But if the red book was here on the shelf, what was in his treasure box? And where was it? I tapped the walls. No hollow sounds anywhere. I thrust my arm down his flour bin—nothing but flour. Would he keep it in the barn? For rats to chew on? Never. What was left? His bed, under his bed!

I ran to his bedroom, fished under the bed, and pulled the treasure box out. I lifted the lid and glanced inside. Nothing met my eye, so I was forced to dump everything out on the bed—still nothing: not a note from Remy, not a photograph of her, no cinema ticket stubs for Gone With the Wind, though I knew he’d taken her to see it. What had he done with them? No handkerchief with the initial R in the corner. There was one, but it was one of Juliet’s scented ones and had a J embroidered on it. He must have forgotten to return it to her. Other things were in there, but nothing of Remy’s.

I put everything back in the box and straightened up the bed. My mission had failed! Remy would get on that aeroplane tomorrow, and Dawsey would stay lonely. I was heart-sore. I gathered up my mops and bucket.

I was trudging home when I saw Amelia and Kit—they were going bird-watching. They asked me to come