The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

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 find them all. I’ll bet you did and I don’t know how to thank you for that. They came at just the right time too. Kit’s favorite animal was a snake she saw in a book, and he was easy to carve, being so long and thin. Now she’s gone on ferrets. She says she won’t ever touch my whittling knife again if I’ll carve her a ferret. I don’t think it will be too hard to make one, for they are pointy, too. Because of your gift, I have wood to practice with.

Is there an animal you would like to have? I want to carve a present for you, but I’d like it to be something you’d favor. Would you like a mouse? I am good with mice.

Yours truly,

Eli

From Eben to Juliet

22nd April, 1946

Dear Miss Ashton,

Your box for Eli came Friday—what a kindness of you. He sits and studies the blocks of wood—as if he sees something hidden inside them, and he can make it come out with his knife.

You asked if all the Guernsey children were evacuated to England. No—some stayed, and when I missed Eli, I looked at the little ones around me and was glad he had gone. The children here had a bad time, for there was no food to grow on. I remember picking up Bill LePell’s boy—he was twelve but weighed no more than a child of seven.

It was a terrible thing to decide—send your kiddies away to live among strangers, or let them stay with you? Maybe the Germans wouldn’t come, but if they did—how would they behave to us? But, come to that, what if they invaded England, too—how would the children manage without their own families beside them?

Do you know the state we were in when the Germans came? Shock is what I’d call it. The truth is, we didn’t think they’d want us. It was England they were after, and we were of no use to them. We thought we’d be in the audience like, not up on the stage itself.

Then in the spring of 1940 Hitler got himself going through Europe like a hot knife through butter. Every place fell to him. It was so fast—windows all over Guernsey shook and rattled from the explosions in France, and once the coast of France was gone, it was plain as day that England could not use up her men and ships to defend us. They needed to save them for when their own invasion began in earnest. So we were left to ourselves.

In the middle of June, when it became pretty certain we were in for it, the States got on the telephone to London and asked if they would send ships for our children and take them to England. They could not fly, for fear of being shot down by the Luftwaffe. London said yes, but the children had to be ready at once. The ships would have to hurry here and back again while there was still time. It was such a desperate time for folks and there was such a feel of Hurry, Hurry.

Jane had no more strength than a cat then, but she knew her mind. She wanted Eli to go. Other ladies were in a dither—go or stay?—and they were wild to talk it over, but Jane told Elizabeth to keep them away. “I don’t want to hear them fuss,” she said. “It’s bad for the baby.” Jane had an idea that babies knew everything that happened around them, even before they were born.

The time for dithering was soon over. Families had one day to decide, and five years to abide with it. School-age children and babies with their mothers went first on the 19th and 20th of June. The States gave out pocket money to the kiddies, if their parents had none to spare. The littlest children were all excited about the sweets they could buy with it. Some thought it was like a Sunday School outing, and they’d be back by nightfall. They were lucky in that. The older children, like Eli, knew better.

Of all the sights I saw the day they left, there is one picture I can’t get out of my mind. Two little girls, all dressed up in pink party dresses, stiff petticoats, shiny strap shoes—like their Ma thought they’d be going to a party. How cold they must have been crossing the Channel.

All the children were to be dropped off at their school by their parents. It was there we had to say our good-