The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

paprika for color and cinnamon for scent. Amelia let us have some of each, and we put it in the mix.

When the soap had hardened enough, we cut it into circles with Amelia’s biscuit cutter. I wrapped the soap in cheese cloth, Elizabeth tied bows of red yarn, and we gave them as presents to all the ladies at the Society’s next meeting. For a week or two, anyway, we looked like respectable folks.

I am working several days a week now at the quarry, as well as at the port. Isola thought I looked tired and mixed up a balm for aching muscles—it’s named Angel Fingers. Isola has a cough syrup called Devil’s Suck and I pray I’ll never need it.

Yesterday, Amelia and Kit came over for supper, and we took a blanket down to the beach afterward to watch the moon rise. Kit loves to do that, but she always falls asleep before it is fully risen, and I carry her home to Amelia’s house. She is certain she’ll be able to stay awake all night as soon as she’s five.

Do you know very much about children? I don’t, and although I am learning, I think I am a slow learner. It was much easier before Kit learned to talk, but it was not so much fun. I try to answer her questions, but I am usually behind-hand, and she has moved on to a new question before I can answer the first. Also, I don’t know enough to please her. I don’t know what a mongoose looks like.

I like having your letters, but I often feel I don’t have any news worth the telling, so it is good to answer your rhetorical questions.

Yours,

Dawsey Adams

From Adelaide Addison to Juliet

12th March, 1946

Dear Miss Ashton,

I see you will not be advised by me. I came upon Isola Pribby, whilst in her market stall, scribbling a letter— in response to a letter from you! I tried to resume my errands calmly, but then I came upon Dawsey Adams posting a letter—to you! Who will be next, I ask? This is not to be borne, and I seize my pen to stop you.

I was not completely candid with you in my last letter. In the interests of delicacy, I drew a veil on the true nature of that group and their founder, Elizabeth McKenna. But now, I see that I must reveal all:

The Society members have colluded amongst themselves to raise the bastard child of Elizabeth McKenna and her German Paramour, Doctor/Captain Christian Hellman. Yes, a German soldier! I don’t wonder at your shock.

Now, I am nothing if not just. I do not say that Elizabeth was what the ruder classes called a Jerry-bag, cavorting around Guernsey with any German soldier who could give her gifts. I never saw Elizabeth wearing silk stockings, clad in silk dresses (indeed, her clothing was as disreputable as ever), smelling of Parisian scent, guzzling chocolates and wine, or SMOKING CIGARETTES, like other Island hussies.

But the truth is bad enough.

Herewith, the sorry facts: in April of 1942, the UNWED Elizabeth McKenna gave birth to a baby girl—in her own cottage.

Eben Ramsey and Isola Pribby were present at the birthing—he to hold the mother’s hand and she to keep the fire going. Amelia Maugery and Dawsey Adams (An unmarried man! For shame!) did the actual work of delivering the child, before Dr. Martin could arrive. The putative father? Absent! In fact, he had left the Island a short time before. “Ordered to duty on the continent”—SO THEY SAID. The case is perfectly clear—when the evidence of their illicit connection was irrefutable, Captain Hellman abandoned his mistress and left her to her just deserts.

I could have foretold this scandalous outcome. I saw Elizabeth with her lover on several occasions—walking together, deep in talk, gathering nettles for soup, or collecting firewood. And once, facing each other, I saw him put his hand on her face and follow her cheek-bone down with his thumb.

Though I had little hope of success, I knew it was my duty to warn her of the fate that awaited her. I told her she would be cast out of decent society, but she did not heed me. In fact, she laughed. I bore it. Then she told me to get out of her house.

I take no pride in my prescience. It would not be Christian.

Back to the baby—named Christina, called Kit. A scant year later, Elizabeth, as feckless as ever, committed a criminal act expressly forbidden by the German Occupying Force—she helped shelter and feed an escaped prisoner of the German Army. She was arrested and sentenced to prison on the continent.

Mrs. Maugery, at the time of Elizabeth’s arrest, took the baby into her home. And since that night? The Literary Society has raised that child as its own—toting her around from house to house in turn. The principal work of the baby’s maintenance was undertaken by Amelia Maugery, with other Society members taking her out—like a library book—for several weeks at a time.

They all dandled the baby, and now that the child can walk, she goes everywhere with one or another of them—holding hands or riding on their shoulders. Such are their standards! You must not glorify such people in the Times!

You’ll not hear from me again—I have done my best. Let it be on your head.

Adelaide Addison

Cable from Sidney to Juliet

20th March, 1946

DEAR JULIET—TRIP HOME DELAYED. FELL OFF HORSE, BROKE LEG. PIERS NURSING. LOVE, SIDNEY

Cable from Juliet to Sidney

21st March, 1946

OH, GOD, WHICH LEG? AM SO SORRY. LOVE, JULIET

Cable from Sidney to Juliet

22nd March, 1946

IT WAS THE OTHER ONE. DON’T WORRY—LITTLE PAIN. PIERS EXCELLENT NURSE. LOVE, SIDNEY

Cable from Juliet to Sidney

22nd March, 1946

SO HAPPY IT WASN’T THE ONE I BROKE. CAN I SEND ANYTHING TO HELP YOUR CONVALESCENCE? BOOKS—RECORDINGS—POKER CHIPS—MY LIFE’S BLOOD?

Cable from Sidney to Juliet

23rd March, 1946

NO BLOOD, NO BOOKS, NO POKER CHIPS. JUST KEEP SENDING LONG LETTERS TO ENTERTAIN US. LOVE, SIDNEY AND PIERS

From Juliet to Sophie

23rd March, 1946

Dear Sophie,

I only got a cable, so you know more than I do. But whatever the circumstances, it’s absolutely ridiculous for you to consider flying off to Australia. What about Alexander? And Dominic? And your lambs? They’ll pine away.

Stop and think for a moment, and you’ll realize why you shouldn’t fuss. First off, Piers will take excellent care of Sidney. Second, better Piers than us—remember what a vile patient Sidney was last time? We should be glad he’s thousands of miles away. Third, Sidney has been stretched as tight as a bow-string for years. He needs a rest, and breaking his leg is probably the only way he’ll allow himself to take one. Most important of all, Sophie: he doesn’t want us there.

I’m perfectly certain Sidney would prefer me to write a new book than to appear at his bedside in Australia, so I intend to stay right here in my dreary flat and cast about for a subject. I do have a tiny infant of an idea, much too frail and defenseless to risk describing, even to you. In honor of Sidney’s leg, I’m going to coddle it and feed it and see if I can make it grow.

Now, about Markham V. Reynolds (Junior). Your questions regarding that gentleman are very delicate, very subtle, very much like being smacked in the head with a mallet. Am I in love with him? What kind of a question is that? It’s a tuba among the flutes, and I expect better of you. The first rule of snooping is to come at it sideways —when you began writing me dizzy letters about Alexander, I didn’t ask if you were in love with him, I asked what his favorite animal was. And your answer told me everything I needed to know about him—how many men would admit that they loved ducks? (This brings up an important point: I don’t know what Mark’s favorite animal is. I