The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society (11 page)

Since I have sacrificed my thumbs for your amusement, you should send me one of Piers's latest in return. So glad you are writing again, my dear.

My love to you both,

Juliet

From Dawsey to Juliet
2nd April 1946

Dear Miss Ashton,

Having fun is the biggest sin in Adelaide Addison's bible (lack of humility following close on its heels), and I'm not surprised she wrote to you about Jerry-bags. Adelaide lives on her wrath.

There were few eligible men left in Guernsey and certainly no one exciting. Many of us were tired, scruffy, worried, ragged, shoeless and dirty—we were defeated and looked it. We didn't have the energy, time or money for fun. Guernsey men had no glamour—and the German soldiers did. They were, according to a friend of mine, tall, blond, handsome and tanned—like gods. They gave lavish parties, were jolly and zestful company, had cars and money and could dance all night long.

But some of the girls who went out with soldiers gave the cigarettes to their fathers and the bread to their families. They would come home from parties with rolls, pâté, fruit, meat pies and jellies stuffed into their bags, and their families would have a full meal the next day. I don't think some Islanders ever credited the boredom of those years. Boredom is a powerful reason to befriend the enemy, and the prospect of fun is a powerful draw—especially when you are young. There were many people who would have no dealings with
the Germans—if you said so much as good morning you were abetting the enemy, according to their way of thinking. But circumstances were such that I could not abide by that with Captain Christian Hellman, a doctor in the Occupation forces and my good friend.

In late 1941 there wasn't any salt on the Island, and none was coming to us from France. Root vegetables and soups are listless without salt, so the Germans got the idea of using seawater to supply it. They carried it up from the bay and poured it into a big tanker set in the middle of St Peter Port. Everyone was to walk to town, fill up their buckets, and carry them home again. Then we were to boil the water away and use the sludge in the bottom of the pan as salt. That plan failed—there wasn't enough wood to waste building up a fire hot enough to boil the pot of water dry. So we decided to cook all our vegetables in the seawater itself.

That worked well enough for flavour, but there were many older people who couldn't manage the walk into town or haul heavy buckets home. No one had much strength left for such chores. I have a slight limp from a badly set leg, and though it kept me from army service, it has never been bad enough to bother me. I was very hale, and so I began to deliver water to some cottages. I exchanged a spare spade and some twine for Madame LePell's old pram, and Mr Soames gave me two small oak wine casks, each with a spigot. I sawed off the barrel tops to make moveable lids and fitted them into my pram—so now I had transport. Several of the beaches weren't mined, and it was easy to climb down the rocks, fill a cask with seawater, and carry it back up.

The November wind is bleak, and one day my hands were numb after I climbed up from the bay with the first barrel of water. I was standing by my pram, trying to limber up my
fingers, when Christian drove by. He stopped his car, backed up and asked if I wanted any help. I said no, but he got out of his car anyway and helped me lift the barrel into my pram. Then, without a word, he went down the cliff with me, to help with the second barrel.

I hadn't noticed that he had a stiff shoulder and arm, but between those, my limp, and the loose scree, we slipped coming back up and fell against the hillside, losing our grip on the barrel. It tumbled down, splintered against the rocks and soaked us. God knows why it struck us both as funny, but it did. We sagged against the cliffside, unable to stop laughing. That was when Elia's essays slipped out of my pocket, and Christian picked the book up, sopping wet. ‘Ah, Charles Lamb,' he said, and handed it to me. ‘He was not a man to mind a little damp.' My surprise must have shown, because he added, ‘I read him often at home. I envy you your portable library.'

We climbed back up to his car. He wanted to know if I could find another barrel. I said I could and explained my water-delivery route. He nodded, and I started out with the pram. But then I turned back and said, ‘You can borrow the book, if you like.' You would have thought I was giving him the moon. We exchanged names and shook hands.

After that, he would often help me carry up water, and then he'd offer me a cigarette, and we'd stand in the road and talk—about Guernsey's beauty, about history, about books, about farming, but never about the present—always things far away from the war. Once, as we were standing, Elizabeth rattled up the road on her bicycle. She had been on nursing duty all day and probably most of the night before, and like the rest of us her clothes were more patches than cloth. But Christian broke off in mid-sentence to watch her coming. Elizabeth drew up to us and stopped. Neither said a word,
but I saw their faces, and I left as soon as I could. I hadn't realised they knew each other.

Christian had been a field surgeon, until his shoulder wound sent him from Eastern Europe to Guernsey. In early 1942, he was ordered to a hospital in Caen; his ship was sunk by Allied bombers and he was drowned. Dr Lorenz, the head of the German Occupation hospital, knew we were friends and came to tell me of his death. He meant for me to tell Elizabeth, so I did.

The way that Christian and I met may have been unusual, but our friendship was not. I'm sure many Islanders grew to be friends with some of the soldiers. But sometimes I think of Charles Lamb and marvel that a man born in 1775 enabled me to make two such friends as you and Christian.

Yours truly,

Dawsey Adams

From Juliet to Amelia
4th April 1946

Dear Mrs Maugery,

The sun is out for the first time for months, and if I stand on my chair and crane my neck, I can see it sparkling on the river. I'm averting my eyes from the mounds of rubble across the road and pretending London is beautiful again.

I've received a sad letter from Dawsey Adams, telling me about Christian Hellman, his kindness and his death. The war goes on and on, doesn't it? Such a good life—lost. And what a grievous blow it must have been to Elizabeth. I am thankful she had you, Mr Ramsey, Isola Pribby and Mr Adams to help her when she had her baby.

Spring is nearly here. I'm almost warm in my puddle of sunshine. And down the street—I'm not averting my eyes now—a man in a patched jumper is painting the door to his house sky blue. Two small boys, who have been walloping one another with sticks, are begging him to let them help. He is giving them a tiny brush each. So—perhaps there is an end to war.

Yours sincerely,

Juliet Ashton

From Mark to Juliet
5th April 1946

Dear Juliet,

You're being elusive and I don't like it. I don't want to see the play with someone else—I want to go with you. In fact, I don't give a damn about the play. I'm only trying to rout you out of that apartment. Dinner? Tea? Cocktails? Boating? Dancing? You choose, and I'll obey. I'm rarely so docile—don't throw away this opportunity to improve my character.

Yours,

Mark

From Juliet to Mark

Dear Mark,

Do you want to come to the British Museum with me? I've got an appointment in the Reading Room at two o'clock. We can look at the mummies afterwards.

Juliet

From Mark to Juliet

To hell with the Reading Room and the mummies. Come have lunch with me.

Mark

From Juliet to Mark

You consider that docile?

Juliet

From Mark to Juliet

To hell with docile.

M.

From Will Thisbee to Juliet
7th April 1946

Dear Miss Ashton,

I am a member of the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. I am an antiquarian ironmonger, though it pleases some to call me a rag-and-bone man. I also invent labour-saving devices—my latest being an electric clothes peg that wafts the washing on the breeze, saving the wrists.

Did I find solace in reading? Yes, but not at first. I'd just go and eat my pie quietly in a corner. Then Isola got hold of me and said I had to read a book and talk about it like the
others. She gave me a book called
Past and Present
by Thomas Carlyle, and a tedious thing he was—he gave me shooting pains in my head—until I came to a bit on religion.

I was not a religious man, though not for want of trying. Off I'd go, like a bee among blossoms, from church to chapel to church again. But I was never able to get hold of faith—until Mr Carlyle put religion to me in a different way. He was walking among the ruins of the Abbey at Bury St Edmunds, when a thought came to him, and he wrote it down thus:

Does it ever give thee pause that men used to have a soul—not by hearsay alone, or as a figure of speech; but as a truth that they knew, and acted upon! Verily it was another world then … but yet it is a pity we have lost the tidings of our souls … we shall have to go in search of them again, or worse in all ways shall befall us.

Isn't that something? To know your own soul by hearsay, instead of its own tidings? Why should I let anyone tell me whether I had one or not? If I could believe I had a soul, all by myself, then I could listen to its tidings all by myself. I gave my talk on Mr Carlyle to the Society, and it stirred up a great argument about the soul. Yes? No? Maybe? Dr Stubbins shouted the loudest, and soon everyone stopped arguing and listened to him.

Thompson Stubbins is a man of long, deep thoughts. He was a psychiatrist in London until he ran amok at the annual dinner of the Friends of Sigmund Freud Society in 1934. He told me the whole tale once. The Friends were great talkers and their speeches went on for hours—while their plates stayed bare. At last, dinner was served, and silence fell upon the hall as the psychiatrists bolted their chops.

Thompson saw his chance: he beat his spoon upon his glass and shouted from the floor to be heard. ‘Did any of you ever think that around the time the notion of a SOUL disappeared, Freud popped up with the EGO to take its place? The timing of the man! Did he not pause to reflect? Irresponsible old coot! It is my belief that men must spout this twaddle about egos because they fear they have no souls! Think upon it!'

Thompson was barred from their doors for ever, and he moved to Guernsey to grow vegetables. Sometimes he drives around with me in my cart and we talk about Man and God and all the In-between. I would have missed all this if I had not belonged to the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society.

Tell me, Miss Ashton, what are your views on the matter? Isola thinks you should come to visit Guernsey, and if you do, you could join us in my cart. I'd bring a cushion.

Best wishes for your continued health and happiness,

Will Thisbee

From Mrs Clara Saussey to Juliet
8th April 1946

Dear Miss Ashton,

I've heard about you. I once belonged to that Literary Society, though I'll wager none of them ever told you about me. I didn't read from any book by a dead writer, no. I read from a work I wrote myself—my cookery book of recipes. I venture to say my book caused more tears and sorrow than anything Charles Dickens ever wrote.

I chose to read about the correct way to roast a suckling pig. Butter its little body, I said. Let the juices run down and
cause the fire to sizzle. The way I read it, you could smell the pig roasting, hear its flesh crackle. I spoke of my five-layer cakes—using a dozen eggs—my spun-sugar sweets, chocolate-rum balls, sponge cakes with pots of cream. Cakes made with good white flour—not that cracked-grain and bird-seed stuff we were using at the time.

Well, Miss, my audience couldn't stand it. They was pushed over the edge, listening to my tasty recipes. Isola Pribby, that never had a manner to call her own, she cried out I was tormenting her and she was going to hex my saucepans. Will Thisbee said I would burn like my cherries jubilee. Then Thompson Stubbins cursed at me, and it took both Dawsey and Eben to get me away safely.

Eben called the next day to apologise for the Society's bad manners. He asked me to remember that most of them had come to the meeting straight from a supper of turnip soup (with not even a bone in it to give pith), or parboiled potatoes scorched on an iron—there being no cooking fat to fry them in. He asked me to be tolerant and forgive them.

Well, I won't do it—they called me bad names. There wasn't one of them who truly loved literature. Because that's what my cookery book was—sheer poetry in a pot. I believe they was made so bored, what with the curfew and other nasty Nazi laws, they only wanted an excuse to get out of an evening, and reading is what they chose.

I want the truth of them told in your story. They'd never have touched a book, but for the OCCUPATION. I stand by what I say, and you can quote me direct.

My name is Clara S-A-U-S-S-E-Y. Three ‘s's in all.

Clara Saussey (Mrs)

From Amelia to Juliet
10th April 1946

My dear Juliet,

I, too, have felt that the war goes on and on. When my son Ian died at El Alamein—side by side with Eli's father, John—visitors offering their condolences, meaning to comfort me, said, ‘Life goes on.' What nonsense, I thought, of course it doesn't. It's death that goes on; Ian is dead now and will be dead tomorrow and next year and for ever. There's no end to that. But perhaps there will be an end to the sorrow of it. Sorrow has rushed over the world like the waters of the Deluge, and it will take time to recede. But already, there are small islands of—hope? Happiness? Something like that, anyway. I like the picture of you standing on your chair to catch a glimpse of the sun, averting your eyes from the mounds of rubble.