6th September, 1946
Dear Sidney,
Juliet says you’re going to come look at Granny Pheen’s letters with your own eyes, and I say it’s about time. Not that I minded Ivor; he was a nice fellow, though he should leave off wearing those little hairbow ties. I told him they didn’t do much for him, but he was more interested to hear about my suspicions of Billee Bee Jones, how I shadowed her and locked her up in the smokehouse.
He said it was a fine piece of detective work and Miss Marple couldn’t have done better herself !
Miss Marple is not a friend of his, she is a lady detective in fiction books, who uses all she knows about HUMAN NATURE to figure out mysteries and solve crimes that the police can’t.
He set me to thinking about how fine it would be to solve mysteries myself. If only I knew of any.
Ivor said skullduggery is everywhere, and with my fine instincts, I could train myself to become another Miss Marple.
“You clearly have excellent observation skills. All you need now is practice. Note everything and write it down.”
I went to Amelia’s and borrowed a few books with Miss Marple in them. She’s a caution, isn’t she? Just sitting there quietly, knitting away; seeing things everybody else misses. I could keep my ears open for what doesn’t listen right, see things from the sides of my eyes. Mind you, we don’t have any unsolved mysteries on Guernsey, but that’s not to say we won’t one day—and when we do, I’ll be ready.
I still savor the head bump book you sent me and I hope your feelings are not hurt that I want to turn to another calling. I still trust the truth of lumps; it’s just that I’ve read the head bumps of everyone I care for, except yours, and it can get tedious.
Juliet says you’ll come next Friday. I can meet your plane and ride you to Juliet’s. Eben is having a beach party the next night, and he says you are most welcome. Eben hardly ever gives parties, but he said this one is to make a happy announcement to us all. A celebration! But of What? Does he mean to announce nuptials? But whose? I hope he is not getting married hisself; wives don’t generally let husbands out by themselves of an evening and I would miss Eben’s company.
Your friend,
7th September, 1946
Dear Sophie,
Finally, I mustered my courage and told Amelia that I wanted to adopt Kit. Her opinion means a great deal to me—she loved Elizabeth so dearly; she knows Kit so well—and me, almost well enough. I was anxious to have her approval—and terrified that I wouldn’t get it. I choked on my tea but in the end managed to get the words out. Her relief was so visible, I was shocked. I hadn’t realized how worried she’d been about Kit’s future.
She started to say, “If I could have one—” then stopped and started again, “I think it would be a wonderful thing for both of you. It would be the best possible thing—” Then she broke off and pulled out her handkerchief. And then, of course, I pulled out my handkerchief.
After we were finished crying, we plotted. Amelia will go with me to see Mr. Dilwyn. “I have known him since he was in short pants,” she said. “He won’t dare refuse me.” Having Amelia on your side is like having the Third Army at your back.
But something wonderful—even more wonderful than having Amelia’s approval—has happened. My last doubt has shrunk to less than pinpoint size.
Do you remember my telling you about the little box Kit often carried with her, all tied up in string? The one I thought might hold a dead ferret? She came into my room this morning, and patted my face until I woke up. She was carrying her box.
Without a word, she began undoing the string and took the lid off—parted the tissue paper and gave the box to me. Sophie—she stood back and watched my face as I turned the things in the box over, and then lifted them all out on the coverlet. The articles were: a tiny, eyelet-covered baby pillow; a small snapshot of Elizabeth, digging in her garden and laughing up at Dawsey; a woman’s linen handkerchief, smelling faintly of jasmine; a man’s signet ring; and a small leather book of Rilke’s poetry with the inscription,
Tucked into the book was a much-folded scrap of paper. Kit nodded, so I carefully opened it and read, “Amelia—Kiss her for me when she wakes up. I’ll be back by six. Elizabeth. P.S. Doesn’t she have the most beautiful feet?”
Underneath this was Kit’s grandfather’s WWI medal, the magic badge Elizabeth had pinned on Eli when he was being evacuated to England. Bless Eli’s heart—he must have given it to her.
She was showing me her treasures, Sophie—her eyes did not leave my face once. We were both so solemn, and I, for once, didn’t start crying; I just held out my arms. She climbed right into them, and under the covers with me—and went sound asleep. Not me! I couldn’t. I was too happy planning the rest of our lives. I don’t care about living in London—I love Guernsey and want to stay here, even after finishing Elizabeth’s book. I can’t imagine Kit living in London, having to wear shoes all the time, having to walk instead of run, having no pigs to visit. No fishing with Eben and Eli, no visits with Amelia, no potion-mixing with Isola, and most of all, no walks, no days, no visits, with Dawsey.I think, if I become Kit’s guardian, we can continue to live in Elizabeth’s cottage and save the Big House as a holiday home for the idle rich. I could take my vast profits from
Her home is here, and mine can be. Writers can write on Guernsey—look at Victor Hugo. The only thing I’d truly miss about London are Sidney and Susan, the nearness to Scotland, new plays, and Harrods Food Hall.
Pray for Mr. Dilwyn’s good sense. I know he has it, I know he likes me, I know he knows Kit is happy living with me, and that I am solvent enough for two at the moment—and who can say better than that in these decadent times? Amelia thinks that if he does say no adoption without a husband, he will still gladly grant her guardianship to me.
Sidney is coming to Guernsey again next week. I wish you were coming too—I miss you.
Love,
8th September, 1946
Dear Sidney,
Kit and I took a picnic out to the meadow to watch Dawsey start to rebuild Elizabeth’s fallen-down stone wall. It was a wonderful excuse to spy on Dawsey and his way of going at things.
He studied each rock, felt the heft of it, brooded, and placed it on the wall. Smiled if it accorded with the picture in his head.
Took it off if it didn’t and searched out a different stone. He is very calming to the spirit.
He grew so accustomed to our admiring gazes that he issued an unprecedented invitation to supper. Kit had a prior engagement—with Amelia—but I accepted with unbecoming haste and then fell into an absurd twitter about being alone with him.
We were both a bit awkward when I arrived, but he, at least, had the cooking to occupy him and retired to the kitchen, refusing
help. I took the opportunity to snoop through his books. He hasn’t very many, but his taste is superior— Dickens, Mark Twain, Balzac, Boswell, and dear old Leigh Hunt.
Over supper, we discussed Jonathan Swift, pigs, and the trials in Nuremberg. Doesn’t that reveal a breathtaking range of interests?
I think it does. We talked easily enough, but neither of us ate much—even though he made a delicious sorrel soup (much better than I could). After coffee, we strolled down to his barn for a pig viewing. Grown pigs don’t
