But what could I do? I went to greet him—and when he kissed me all I could think of was
I wanted to cry. Instead I invited Mark indoors and tried to seem like a woman who had just received a delightful surprise. The wagon and the introductions had awakened Kit, who looked suspiciously at Mark and wanted to know where Dawsey had gone—he hadn’t kissed her good-night. Me neither, I thought to myself.
I put Kit back to bed and persuaded Mark that my reputation would be in tatters if he didn’t go to the Royal Hotel at once. Which he did, with a very bad grace and many threats to appear on my doorstep this morning at six.
Then I sat down and chewed my fingernails for three hours. Should I take myself over to Dawsey’s house and try to pick up where we left off ? But where
And besides—what am I thinking? Mark is here. Mark, who is rich and debonair and wants to marry me. Mark, whom I was doing very well without. Why can’t I stop thinking about Dawsey, who probably doesn’t give a hoot about me. But maybe he does. Maybe I was about to find out what’s on the other side of that silence.
Damn, damn, and damn.
It’s two in the morning, I have not a fingernail to my name, and I look at least a hundred years old. Maybe Mark will be repulsed by my haggard mien when he sees me. Maybe he will spurn me. I don’t know that I will be disappointed if he does.
Love,
23rd July, 1946
Dear Juliet,
My raspberries have come in with a vengeance. I am picking this morning and making pies this afternoon. Would you and Kit like to come for tea (pie) this afternoon?
Love,
23rd July, 1946
Dear Amelia—
I’m terribly sorry, I can’t come. I have a guest.
Love,
P.S. Kit is delivering this in hopes of getting some pie. Can you keep her for the afternoon?
24th July, 1946
Dear Sophie,
You should probably burn this letter as well as the last one. I’ve refused Mark finally and irrevocably, and my elation is indecent. If I were a properly brought-up young lady, I’d draw the curtains and brood, but I can’t. I’m
Yesterday was a horror. You know how I felt when Mark appeared, but the next morning was even worse. He turned up at my door at seven, radiating confidence and certain that we’d have a wedding date set by noon. He wasn’t the least bit interested in the Island, or the Occupation, or Elizabeth, or what I’d been doing since I arrived —didn’t ask a single question about any of it. Then Kit came down to breakfast. That surprised him—he hadn’t really registered her the night before. He had a nice way with her—they talked about dogs—but after a few minutes, it was obvious he was waiting for her to clear off. I suppose in his experience, nannies whisk the children away before they can annoy their parents. Of course, I tried to ignore his irritation and made Kit her breakfast as usual, but I could feel his displeasure billowing across the room.
At last Kit went outside to play, and the minute the door closed behind her, Mark said, “Your new friends must be damned smart—they’ve managed to saddle you with their responsibilities in less than two months.” He shook his head—pitying me for being so gullible.
I just stared at him.
“She’s a cute kid, but she’s got no claim on you, Juliet, and you’re going to have to be firm about it. Get her a nice dolly or something and say good-bye, before she starts thinking you’re going to take care of her for the rest of her life.”
Now I was so angry I couldn’t talk. I stood there, gripping Kit’s porridge bowl with white knuckles. I didn’t throw it at him, but I was close to it. Finally, when I could speak again, I whispered,
“Get out.”
“Sorry?”
“I never want to see you again.”
“Juliet?” He really had no idea what I was talking about. So I explained. Feeling better by the minute, I told him that I would never marry him or anyone else who didn’t love Kit and Guernsey and Charles Lamb.
“What the hell does Charles Lamb have to do with anything?” he yelped (as well he might).
I declined to elucidate. He tried to argue with me, then to coax me, then to kiss me, then to argue with me again, but—it was over, and even Mark knew it. For the first time in ages—since February, when I met him—I was completely sure that I had done the right thing. How could I ever have considered marrying him? One year as his wife, and I’d have become one of those abject, quaking women who look at their husbands when someone asks them a question. I’ve always despised that type, but I see how it happens now.
Two hours later, Mark was on his way to the airfield, never (I hope) to return. And I, disgracefully un- heartbroken, was gobbling raspberry pie at Amelia’s. Last night, I slept the sleep of the innocent for ten blissful hours, and this morning I feel thirty-two again, instead of a hundred.
Kit and I are going to spend this afternoon at the beach, hunting for agates. What a beautiful, beautiful day.
Love,
P.S. None of this means anything with regard to Dawsey. Charles Lamb just popped out of my mouth by coincidence. Dawsey didn’t even come to say good-bye before he left. The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that he turned on the cliff to ask if he could borrow my umbrella.
27th July, 1946
Dear Sidney,
I knew that Elizabeth had been arrested for sheltering a Todt worker, but I hadn’t known she had an accomplice until a few days ago, when Eben happened to mention Peter Sawyer, “who was arrested with Elizabeth.” “WHAT?” I screeched, and Eben said he’d let Peter tell me about it.
Peter is living now in a nursing home near Le Grand Havre in Vale, so I telephoned him, and he said he’d be very glad to see me—especially if I had a tot of brandy about me.
“Always,” I said.
“Lovely. Come tomorrow,” he replied, and rang off.
Peter is in a wheelchair, but what a driver he is! He races it around like a madman, cuts round corners and can turn on a sixpence. We went outside, sat under an arbor, and he tippled while he talked. This one time, Sidney, I took notes—I couldn’t bear to lose a word.
