The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

Wilde’s letters for him! Billee Bee arrived on the morning mail boat. It was a very rough voyage so she was shaky- legged and green-faced—but game! She couldn’t manage lunch, but she rallied for dinner and made a lively guest at tonight’s Literary Society meeting.

One awkward moment—Kit doesn’t seem to like her. She backed away and said, “I don’t kiss,” when Billee attempted one. What do you do when Dominic is rude—chastise him on the spot, which seems embarrassing for everyone, or wait until later for privacy? Billee Bee covered beautifully, but that shows her good manners, not Kit’s. I waited, but I’d like your opinion.

Ever since I learned that Elizabeth was dead and Kit an orphan, I have worried about her future—and about my own future without her. I think it would be unbearable. I’m going to make an appointment with Mr. Dilwyn when he and Mrs. Dilwyn return from their holiday. He is her legal guardian, and I want to discuss my possible guardianship/adoption/fosterparenting of Kit. Of course, I want outright adoption, but I’m not sure Mr. Dilwyn would consider a spinster lady of flexible income and no fixed abode a desirable parent.

I haven’t said a word about this to anyone here, or to Sidney. There is so much to dither over—What would Amelia say? Would Kit like the idea? Is she old enough to decide? Where would we live? Can I take her away from the place she loves for London? A restricted city life instead of going about in boats and playing tag in cemeteries? Kit would have you, me, and Sidney in England, but what about Dawsey and Amelia and all the family she has here? It would be impossible to replace or replicate them. Can you imagine a London nursery-school teacher with Isola’s flair? Of course not.

I argue myself all the way to one end of the question and back again several times a day. One thing I am sure of, though, is that I want to take care of Kit forever.

Love,

Juliet

P.S. If Mr. Dilwyn says no, not possible—I might just grab Kit up and come hide out in your barn.

From Juliet to Sidney

23rd August, 1946

Dear Sidney,

Called suddenly to Rome, were you? Have you been elected Pope? It had better be something at least that pressing, to excuse your sending Billee Bee to collect the letters in your stead. And I don’t know why copies won’t do; Billee says you insist on seeing the originals. Isola would not countenance such a request from any other person on earth, but for you, she’ll do it. Please do be awfully careful with them, Sidney—they are the pride of her heart. And see that you return them in person.

Not that we don’t like Billee Bee. She’s a very enthusiastic guest—she’s outdoors sketching wildflowers this minute. I can see her little cap among the grasses. She thoroughly enjoyed her introduction to the Literary Society last night. She made a little speech at the end of the meeting and even asked Will Thisbee for the recipe of his delicious Apple Puff. This may have been carrying good manners too far—all we could see was a blob of dough that didn’t rise, covering a yellowish substance in the middle and all peppered through with seeds.

I am sorry you weren’t in attendance, for the evening’s speaker was Augustus Sarre, and he spoke on your favorite book, The Canterbury Tales. He chose to read “The Parson’s Tale” first because he knew what a Parson did for a living—not like those other fellows in the book: a Reeve, a Franklin, or a Summoner. “The Parson’s Tale” disgusted him so much he could read no more.

Fortunately for you, I made careful mental notes, so I can give you the gist of his remarks. To wit: Augustus would never let a child of his read Chaucer, it would turn him against Life in general and God in particular. To hear the Parson tell it, life was a cesspool (or as near as), where a man must wade through the muck as best he could; evil ever seeking him out, and evil ever finding him. (Don’t you think Augustus has a touch of the poet about him? I do.)

Poor old man must forever be doing penance or atoning or fasting or lashing himself with knotted ropes. All because he was Born in Sin—and there he’d stay until the last minute of his life, when he would receive God’s Mercy.

“Think of it, friends,” Augustus said, “a lifetime of misery with God not letting you draw one easy breath. Then in your last few minutes—POOF!—you’d get Mercy. Thanks for nothing, I say.

“That’s not all, Friends: man must never think well of himself—that is called the sin of Pride. Friends, show me a man who hates himself, and I’ll show you a man who hates his neighbors more! He’d have to—you’d not grant anyone else something you can’t have for yourself—no love, no kindness, no respect! So I say, Shame on the Parson! Shame on Chaucer!” Augustus sat down with a thump.

Two hours of lively discussion on Original Sin and Predestination followed. Finally, Remy stood to speak— she’d never done so before, and the room fell silent. She said softly, “If there is Predestination, then God is the devil.” No one could argue with that—what kind of God would intentionally design Ravensbruck?

Isola is having several of us to supper tonight, with Billee Bee as guest of honor. Isola said that though she doesn’t like rifling through a stranger’s hair, she will read Billee Bee’s bumps, as a favor to her dear friend Sidney.

Love,

Juliet

Telegram from Susan Scott to Juliet

24th August, 1946

DEAR JULIET: AM APPALLED BILLEE BEE ON GUERNSEY TO COLLECT LETTERS. STOP! DO NOT—I REPEAT—DO NOT TRUST HER. DO NOT GIVE HER ANYTHING. IVOR, OUR NEW SUB-EDITOR, SAW BILLEE BEE AND GILLY GILBERT (HE OF THE LONDON HUE AND CRY AND LATE VICTIM OF YOUR TEAPOT THROWING) EXCHANGING LONG, LOOSE-LIPPED KISSES IN THE PARK. THE TWO OF THEM TOGETHER BODES ILL. SEND HER PACKING, WITHOUT THE WILDE LETTERS. LOVE, SUSAN

From Juliet to Susan

25th August, 1946

2:00 a.m.

Dear Susan,

You are a heroine! Isola herewith grants you an honorary membership in the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, and Kit is making you a special present that involves sand and paste (you’ll want to open that parcel outdoors).

The telegram came in the nick of time. Isola and Kit had gone out early to collect herbs, and Billee Bee and I were alone in the house—I thought—when I read your telegram. I bolted up the stairs and into her room—she was gone, her suitcase was gone, her handbag was gone, and the letters were gone!

I was terrified. I ran downstairs and telephoned Dawsey to come quick and help hunt for her. He did, but first he called Booker and asked him to check the harbor. He was to stop Billee Bee from leaving Guernsey—at any cost!

Dawsey arrived quickly and we hurried down the road toward town.

I was half-trotting along behind him, looking in hedgerows and behind bushes. We had drawn even with Isola’s farm when Dawsey suddenly stopped short and began to laugh.

There, sitting on the ground in front of Isola’s smokehouse, were Kit and Isola. Kit was holding her new quilted ferret (a gift from Billee Bee) and a big brown envelope. Isola was sitting on Billee Bee’s suitcase—a Portrait of Innocence, the both of them—while an awful squawking was coming from inside the smokehouse.

I rushed to hug Kit and the envelope to me, while Dawsey undid the wooden peg from the smokehouse hasp. There, crouched in a corner, cursing and flailing, was Billee Bee—Isola’s parrot, Zenobia, flapping around her. She had already snatched off Billee Bee’s little cap, and pieces of angora wool were floating through the air.

Dawsey lifted her up and brought her outside—Billee Bee screaming all the while. She’d been set upon by a crazed witch. Assaulted by her Familiar, a child—clearly one of the Devil’s Own! We’d regret it! There’d be lawsuits, arrests, prison for the lot of us! We’d not see daylight again!

“It’s you who won’t see daylight, you sneak! Robber! Ingrate!” shouted Isola.