The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society (13 page)

I think of him working as a clerk at the East India Company, so that he could save money for the day, and it always came, when Mary would go mad again, and he would have to place her in a private home.

And even then he did seem to miss her—they were such friends. Picture them: he had to watch her like a hawk for the awful symptoms, and she could tell when the madness was coming on and could do nothing to stop it—that must have been worst of all. I imagine him sitting there, watching her on the sly, and her sitting there, watching him watching her. How they must have hated the way the other was forced to live.

But doesn't it seem to you that when Mary was sane there was no one saner—or better company? Charles certainly thought so, and so did all their friends: Wordsworth, Hazlitt, Leigh Hunt and, above all, Coleridge. On the day Coleridge
died they found a note he had scribbled in the book he was reading. It said, ‘Charles and Mary Lamb, dear to my heart, yes, as it were, my heart.'

Perhaps I've written over-long about him, but I wanted you and Mr Hastings to know how much the books have given me to think about, and what pleasure I find in them.

I like the story from your childhood—the bell and the hay. I can see it in my mind. Did you like living on a farm—do you ever miss it? You are never really away from the countryside in Guernsey, not even in St Peter Port, so I cannot imagine the difference living in a big city like London would make.

Kit has taken against mongooses, now that she knows they eat snakes. She is hoping to find a boa constrictor under a rock. Isola dropped in this evening and sent her best wishes—she will write to you as soon as she gets her crops in—rosemary, dill, thyme and henbane.

Yours,

Dawsey Adams

From Juliet to Dawsey
18th April 1946

Dear Mr Adams,

I am so glad you want to talk about Charles Lamb. I have always thought Mary's sorrow made Charles into a great writer—even if he had to give up poetry and work for the East India Company because of it. He had a genius for sympathy that not one of his great friends could touch. When Wordsworth chided him for not caring enough about nature, Charles wrote, ‘I have no passion for groves and valleys. The rooms where I was born, the furniture which has been before
my eyes all my life, a bookcase which has followed me about like a faithful dog wherever I have moved—old chairs, old streets, squares where I have sunned myself, my old school—have I not enough, without your Mountains? I do not envy you. I should pity you, did I not know, that the Mind will make friends of any thing.' A mind that can ‘make friends of any thing'—I thought of that often during the war.

By chance, I came upon another story about him today. He often drank too much, far too much, but he was not a sullen drunk. Once, his host's butler had to carry him home, slung over his shoulder in a fireman's hold. The next day Charles wrote his host such a hilarious note of apology, the man bequeathed it to his son in his will. I hope Charles wrote to the butler too.

Have you ever noticed that when your mind is awakened or drawn to someone new, that person's name suddenly pops up everywhere? My friend Sophie calls it coincidence, and Reverend Simpless calls it grace. He thinks that if one cares deeply about someone or something new one throws a kind of energy out into the world, and ‘fruitfulness' is drawn in.

Yours ever,

Juliet Ashton

From Isola to Juliet
18th April 1946

Dear Juliet,

Now that we are corresponding friends, I want to ask you some questions—they are highly personal. Dawsey said it would not be polite, but I say that's a difference between men and women, not polite and rude. Dawsey hasn't asked
me a personal question in fifteen years. I'd take it kindly if he would, but Dawsey's got quiet ways. I don't expect to change him, nor myself either. You wanted to know about us, so I think you would like us to know about you—only you just didn't happen to think of it first.

I saw a picture of you on the cover of your book about Anne Brontë, so I know you are under forty years of age—how much under? Was the sun in your eyes, or does it happen that you have a squint? Is it permanent? It must have been a windy day because your curls were blowing about. I couldn't quite make out the colour of your hair, though I could tell it wasn't blonde—for which I am glad. I don't like blondes very much.

Do you live by the river? I hope so, because people who live near running water are much nicer than people who don't. I'd be cross as a snake if I lived inland. Do you have a serious suitor? I do not.

Is your flat cosy or grand? Be fulsome, as I want to be able to picture it in my mind. Do you think you would like to visit us in Guernsey? Do you have a pet? What kind?

Your friend,

Isola

From Juliet to Isola
20th April 1946

Dear Isola,

I am glad you want to know more about me and am only sorry I didn't think of it myself, and sooner.

Present-day first: I am thirty-two years old, and you were right—the sun was in my eyes. In a good mood, I call my
hair chestnut with gold glints. In a bad mood, I call it mousy brown. It wasn't a windy day; my hair always looks like that. Naturally curly hair is a curse, and don't ever let anyone tell you different. My eyes are hazel. While I am slender, I am not tall enough to suit me.

I don't live by the Thames any more and that is what I miss the most about my old home—I loved the sight and sound of the river at all hours. I live now in a flat in Glebe Place. It is small and furnished within an inch of its life, and the owner won't be back from the United States until November, so I have the run of his house until then. I wish I had a dog, but the building management does not allow pets! Kensington Gardens aren't far, so if I begin to feel cooped up I can walk to the park, hire a deck chair for a shilling, loll about under the trees, watch the passers-by and children play, and I am soothed—somewhat.

81 Oakley Street was demolished by a random V-1 just over a year ago. Most of the damage was to the row of houses behind mine, but three floors of Number 81 were shorn off, and my flat is now a pile of rubble. I hope Mr Grant, the owner, will rebuild—for I want my flat, or a facsimile of it, back again just as it was—with Cheyne Walk and the river outside my windows.

Luckily, I was away in Bury when the V-1 hit. Sidney Stark, my friend and now publisher, met my train that evening and took me home, and we viewed the huge mountain of rubble and what was left of the building. With part of the wall gone, I could see my shredded curtains waving in the breeze and my desk, three-legged and slumped on the slanting floor that was left. My books were a muddy, sopping pile and although I could see my mother's portrait on the wall—half gouged out and sooty—there was no safe way to recover it. The only
intact possession was my large crystal paperweight—with
Carpe Diem
carved across the top. It had belonged to my father—and there it sat, whole and unchipped, on top of a pile of broken bricks and splintered wood. I could not do without it so Sidney clambered over the rubble and retrieved it for me.

I was a fairly nice child until my parents died when I was twelve. I left our farm in Suffolk and went to live with my great-uncle in London. I was a furious, bitter, morose little girl. I ran away twice, causing my uncle no end of trouble—and at the time I was very glad to do so. I am ashamed now when I think about how I treated him. He died when I was seventeen so I was never able to apologise.

When I was thirteen, my uncle decided I should go away to boarding school. I went, mulish as usual, and met the headmistress, who marched me into the dining room. She led me to a table with four other girls. I sat, arms crossed, hands under my armpits, glaring like a moulting eagle, looking for someone to hate. I hit upon Sophie Stark, Sidney's younger sister. Perfect, she had golden curls, big blue eyes and a sweet, sweet smile. She made an effort to talk to me. I didn't answer until she said, ‘I hope you will be happy here.' I told her I wouldn't be staying long enough to find out. ‘As soon as I find out about the trains, I am gone!' said I.

That night I climbed out on to the dormitory roof, meaning to sit there and have a good brood in the dark. In a few minutes, Sophie crawled out—with a railway timetable for me.

Needless to say, I didn't run away. I stayed—with Sophie as my new friend. Her mother would often invite me to their house for the holidays, which was where I met Sidney. He was ten years older than me and was, of course, a god. He later changed into a bossy older brother, and later still, into one of my dearest friends.

Sophie and I left school and—wanting no more of academic life, but LIFE instead—we went to London and shared rooms Sidney had found for us. We worked together for a while in a bookshop, and at night I wrote—and threw away—stories.

Then the
Daily Mirror
sponsored an essay contest—five hundred words on ‘What Women Fear Most'. I knew what the
Mirror
was after, but I'm far more afraid of chickens than I am of men, so I wrote about that. The judges, thrilled at not having to read another word about sex, awarded me first prize. Five pounds and I was, at last, in print. The
Daily Mirror
received so many fan letters, they commissioned me to write an article, then another one. I soon began to write feature stories for other newspapers and magazines. Then the war broke out, and I was invited to write a semi-weekly column for the
Spectator
, called ‘Izzy Bickerstaff Goes to War'. Sophie met and fell in love with an airman, Alexander Strachan. They married and Sophie moved to his family's farm in Scotland. I am godmother to their son, Dominic, and though I haven't taught him any hymns, we did pull the hinges off the cellar door last time I saw him—it was a Pictish ambush.

I suppose I do have a suitor, but I'm not really used to him yet. He's terribly charming and he plies me with delicious meals, but I sometimes think I prefer suitors in books rather than right in front of me. How awful, backward, cowardly, and mentally warped that will be if it turns out to be true.

Sidney published a book of my Izzy Bickerstaff columns and I went on a book tour. And then—I began writing letters to strangers in Guernsey, now friends, whom I would indeed like to come and see.

Yours,

Juliet

From Eli to Juliet
21st April 1946

Dear Miss Ashton,

Thank you for the blocks of wood. They are beautiful. I could not believe what I saw when I opened your box—all those sizes and shades, from pale to dark.

How did you find all those different pieces of wood? You must have gone to so many places. I bet you did and I don't know how to thank you. They came at just the right time too. Kit's favourite animal was a snake she saw in a book, and he was easy to carve, being so long and thin. Now she's mad about ferrets. She says she won't ever touch my knife again if I'll carve her a ferret. I don't think it will be too hard to make one, for they are pointy, too. Because of your gift, I have wood to practise with.

Is there an animal you would like to have? I want to carve a present for you, but I'd like it to be something you'd favour. Would you like a mouse? I am good at mice.

Yours truly,

Eli

From Eben to Juliet
22nd April 1946

Dear Miss Ashton,

Your box for Eli came on Friday—how kind of you. He sits and studies the blocks of wood—as if he sees something hidden inside them, and he can make it come out with his knife.

You asked if all the Guernsey children were evacuated to England. No—some stayed, and when I missed Eli, I looked at the little ones around me and was glad he had gone. The children here had a bad time, for there wasn't enough food to grow on. I remember picking up Bill LePell's boy—he was twelve but weighed no more than a child of seven.

It was a terrible thing to decide—send your children away to live among strangers, or let them stay with you. Maybe the Germans wouldn't come, but if they did—how would they treat us? But, come to that, what if they invaded England, too—how would the children manage without their families beside them?

Do you know the state we were in when the Germans came? Shock is what I'd call it. The truth is, we didn't think they'd want us. It was England they were after, and we were of no use to them. We thought we'd be in the audience, like, not up on the stage itself.

Then in the spring of 1940 Hitler got himself through Europe like a hot knife through butter. Every place fell to him. It was so fast—windows all over Guernsey shook and rattled from the explosions in France, and once the coast of France was gone, it was plain as day that England could not use up her men and ships to defend us. They needed to save them for when their own invasion began in earnest. So we were left to ourselves.

In the middle of June, when it became pretty certain we were in for it, the States got on the telephone to London and asked if they would send ships for our children and take them to England. They couldn't fly, for fear of being shot down by the Luftwaffe. London said yes, but the children had to be ready at once. The ships would have to hurry here and back again while there was still time.

Jane had no more strength than a cat then, but she knew her mind. She wanted Eli to go. Other ladies were in a dither—go or stay?—and they were frantic to talk, but Jane told Elizabeth to keep them away. ‘I don't want to hear them fuss,' she said. ‘It's bad for the baby.' Jane had an idea that babies knew everything that happened around them, even before they were born.

The time for dithering was soon over. Families had one day to decide, and five years to abide by it. School-age children and babies with their mothers went first on the 19th and 20th of June. The States gave out pocket money to the children, if their parents had none to spare. The littlest ones were all excited about the sweets they could buy with it. Some thought it was like a Sunday School outing, and they'd be back before dark. They were lucky in that. The older children, like Eli, knew better.