The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

Dawsey has gone.

I feel well, though I am unusually tired—perhaps it is seeing my beloved Normandy so devastated. I will be glad to be home, my dear.

A kiss for you and Kit,

Amelia

From Juliet to Sidney

28th June, 1946

Dear Sidney,

What an inspired present you sent Kit—red satin tap shoes covered with sequins. Wherever did you find them? Where are mine?

Amelia has been tired since her return from France, so it seems best for Kit to stay with me, especially if Remy decides to come to Amelia’s when she leaves the hospice. Kit seems to like the idea too—Heaven be thanked. Kit knows her mother is dead now; Dawsey told her. I’m not sure what she feels about it. She hasn’t said anything, and I wouldn’t dream of pressing her. I try not to hover unduly or make her special treats. After Mother and Father died, Mr. Simpless’s cook brought me huge slices of cake and then stood there, watching me mournfully while I tried to swallow. I hated her for thinking that cake would somehow make it up to me for losing my parents. Of course, I was a wretched twelve-year-old, and Kit is only four—she would probably like some extra cake—but you understand what I mean.

Sidney, I am in trouble with my book. I have much of the data from the States’ records and a slew of personal interviews to start the story of the Occupation—but I can’t make them come together in a structure that pleases me. Straight chronology is too tedious. Shall I pack my pages up and send them to you? They need a finer and more impersonal eye than mine. Would you have time to look them over now or is the backlog from your Australian trip still so heavy?

If it is, don’t worry—I am working anyway and something brilliant may yet come to me.

Love,

Juliet

P.S. Thank you for the lovely clipping of Mark dancing with Ursula Fent. If you were hoping to send me into a jealous rage, you failed. Especially as Mark had already telephoned to tell me that Ursula follows him about like a lovesick bloodhound. You see? The two of you do have something in common: you both want me to be miserable. Perhaps you could start a club.

From Sidney to Juliet

1st July, 1946

Dear Juliet,

Don’t pack up your pages—I want to come to Guernsey myself. Will this weekend suit you?

I want to see you, Kit, and Guernsey—in that order. I have no intention of reading your pages while you pace up and down in front of me—I’ll bring the ms back to London.

I can arrive Friday afternoon on the five o’clock plane and stay until Monday evening. Will you book a hotel room for me? Can you also manage a small supper party? I want to meet Eben, Isola, Dawsey, and Amelia. I’ll bring the wine.

Love,

Sidney

From Juliet to Sidney

Wednesday

Dear Sidney,

Wonderful! Isola won’t hear of you staying at the inn (she hints of bedbugs). She wants to put you up herself and needs to know if noises at dawn are apt to bother you? That is when Ariel, her goat, arises. Zenobia, the parrot, is a late sleeper.

Dawsey and I and his cart will meet you at the airfield. May Friday hurry up and get here.

Love,

Juliet

From Isola to Juliet (left under Juliet’s door)

Friday—close to dawn

Lovey, I can’t stop, I must hurry to my Market stall. I am glad your friend will be staying with me. I’ve put lavender sprigs in his sheets. Is there one of my elixirs you’d like me to slip in his coffee? Just nod to me at Market and I’ll know which one you mean.

XXX

Isola

From Sidney to Sophie

6th July, 1946

Dear Sophie,

I am, at last, on Guernsey with Juliet and am ready to tell you three or four of the dozen things you asked me to find out.

First and foremost, Kit seems as fond of Juliet as you and I are. She is a spirited little thing, affectionate in a reserved way (which is not as contradictory as it sounds) and quick to smile when she is with one of her adoptive parents from the Literary Society.

She is adorable, too, with round cheeks, round curls, and round eyes. The temptation to cuddle her is nearly overwhelming, but it would be a slight upon her dignity, and I am not brave enough to try it. When she sees someone she doesn’t like, she has a stare that would shrivel Medea. Isola says she reserves it for cruel Mr. Smythe, who beats his dog, and evil Mrs. Guilbert, who called Juliet a Nosy Parker and told her she ought to go back to London where she belonged.

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 is slightly daunting—and she made a dreadful mess of the tea things when he came by for Kit yesterday. But Juliet has always shattered teacups—remember what she did to Mother’s Spode?—so that may not signify. As for him, he watches her with dark, steady eyes—until she looks at him and then he glances away (I do hope you’re appreciating my observational skills).

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