The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society (15 page)

I want to get out of London. I want to go to Guernsey. You know I've grown very fond of my Guernsey friends, and I'm fascinated by their lives under the Germans—and since. I've visited the Channel Islands Refugee Committee and read their files. I have read the Red Cross reports. I've read all I can find on Todt slave workers—there hasn't, so far, been much. I've interviewed some of the soldiers who liberated Guernsey and talked to Royal Engineers who removed the thousands of mines from the beaches. I've read all the ‘unclassified' government reports on the state of the Islanders' health, or lack of it; their happiness, or lack of it; their food supplies, or lack of them. But I want to know more. I want to know the stories of the people who were there, and I can never learn those by sitting in a library in London.

For example—yesterday I was reading an article on the liberation. A reporter asked a Guernsey Islander, ‘What was the most difficult experience you had during the Germans' rule?' He made fun of the man's answer, but it made perfect sense to me. The Islander told him, ‘You know they took away all our wirelesses? If you were caught with one, you'd get sent off to prison on the Continent. Well, those of us who had secret wirelesses, we heard about the Allies landing in Normandy. Trouble was, we weren't supposed to know it had happened! Hardest thing I ever did was walk around St Peter Port on the 7th of June, not grinning, not smiling, not doing anything to
let those Germans know that I KNEW their end was coming. If they'd caught on, someone would be in for it—so we had to pretend. It was very hard to pretend not to know D-Day had happened.'

I want to talk to people like him (though he's probably off writers now) and hear about their war, because that's what I'd like to read, instead of statistics about grain. I'm not sure what form a book would take, or if I could even write one at all. But I would like to go to St Peter Port and find out.

Do I have your blessing?

Love to you and Piers,

Juliet

Cable from Sidney to Juliet
10th May 1946

Herewith my blessing! Guernsey is a wonderful idea, both for you and for a book. But will Reynolds allow it? Love, Sidney

Cable from Juliet to Sidney
11th May 1946

Blessing received. Mark Reynolds is not in a position to forbid or allow. Love, Juliet

From Amelia to Juliet
13th May 1946

My dear,

I was delighted to receive your telegram yesterday and learn that you are coming to visit us!

I followed your instructions and spread the news at once—you have sent the Society into a whirlwind of excitement. The members instantly offered to provide you with anything you might need: bed, board, introductions, a supply of electric clothes pegs. Isola is ecstatic that you are coming and is already at work on behalf of your book. Though I warned her that it was only an idea so far, she is determined to find material for you. She has asked (perhaps threatened) everyone she knows in the market to send you letters about the Occupation; she thinks you'll need them to persuade your publisher that the subject is book-worthy. Don't be surprised if you are inundated with letters in the next few weeks.

Isola also went to see Mr Dilwyn at the bank this afternoon and asked him to let you rent Elizabeth's cottage. It is a lovely site, in a meadow below the Big House, and it is small enough for you to manage easily. Elizabeth moved there when the German officers confiscated the larger house for their use. You would be very comfortable there, and Isola assured Mr Dilwyn that he need only stir himself to draw up a lease for you. She herself will see to everything else: airing the rooms, washing the windows, beating the rugs, and killing spiders.

Please don't feel as though these arrangements place you under any obligation. Mr Dilwyn was planning in any case to assess the property for its rental possibilities. Sir Ambrose's solicitors have begun an inquiry into Elizabeth's whereabouts. They have found that there is no record of her arrival in
Germany, only that she was put on a transport in France, with Frankfurt as the intended destination of the train. There will be further investigations, and I pray that they will lead to Elizabeth, but in the meantime, Mr Dilwyn wants to rent the property left to Elizabeth by Sir Ambrose in order to provide income for Kit.

I sometimes think that we are morally obliged to begin a search for Kit's German relations, but I cannot bring myself to do it. Christian was a rare soul, and he detested what his country was doing, but the same cannot be true for many Germans, who believed in the dream of the Thousand-Year Reich. And how could we send our Kit away to a foreign—and destroyed—land, even if her relations could be found? We are the only family she's ever known.

When Kit was born, Elizabeth kept her paternity a secret from the authorities. Not out of shame, but because she was afraid that the baby would be taken from her and sent to Germany. There were dreadful rumours of such things. I wonder if Kit's heritage could have saved Elizabeth if she had made it known when she was arrested. But as she didn't, it is not my place to do so.

Excuse my unburdening myself. My worries travel round my head on their well-worn path, and it is a relief to put them on paper. I will turn to more cheerful subjects—such as last evening's meeting of the Society. After the uproar about your visit had subsided, the Society read your article about books in
The Times
. Everyone enjoyed it—not just because we were reading about ourselves, but because you brought us views we'd never thought to apply to our reading before. Dr Stubbins pronounced that you alone had transformed ‘distraction' into an honourable word—instead of a character flaw. The article
was delightful, and we were all so proud and pleased to be mentioned in it.

Will Thisbee wants to have a welcome party for you. He will bake a Potato Peel Pie for the event and has devised a cocoa icing for it. He made a surprise pudding for our meeting last night—cherries flambé, which fortunately burnt to a crisp so we did not have to eat it. I wish Will would leave cookery alone and go back to ironmongery.

We all look forward to welcoming you. You mentioned that you have to finish several reviews before you can leave London—but we will be delighted to see you whenever you come. Just let us know the date and time of your arrival. Certainly, an aeroplane flight to Guernsey would be faster and more comfortable than the mail boat (Clovis Fossey said to tell you that air hostesses give gin to passengers—and the mail boat doesn't). But unless you are bedevilled by sea-sickness, I would catch the afternoon boat from Weymouth. There is no more beautiful approach to Guernsey than the one by sea—either with the sun going down, or with gold-tipped, black stormclouds, or the Island just emerging through the mist. This is the way I first saw Guernsey, as a new bride.

Fondly,

Amelia

From Isola to Juliet
14th May 1946

Dear Juliet,

I have been getting your house ready for you. I have asked several of my friends at the market to write to you about their experiences, so I hope they do. If Mr Tatum writes and asks
for money for his recollections, don't pay him a penny. He is a big liar.

Would you like to know about my first sight of the Germans? I will use adjectives to make it more lively. I don't usually—I prefer stark facts.

Guernsey seemed quiet that Tuesday—but we knew they were there! Planes and ships carrying soldiers had come in the day before. Huge Junkers thumped down, and after unloading all their men, they flew off again. Being lighter now, and more frolicsome, they hedge-hopped, swooping up and swooping down all over Guernsey, scaring the cows in the fields.

Elizabeth was at my house, but we didn't have the heart to make hair tonic even though my yarrow was in. We just drifted around like a couple of ghouls. Then Elizabeth pulled herself together. ‘Come on,' she says. ‘I'm not going to sit inside waiting for them. I'm going into town to find the enemy.'

‘And what are you going to do after you've found him?' I asks, sort of snappish.

‘I'm going to look at him,' she says. ‘We're not animals in a cage—they are. They're stuck on this island with us, same as we're stuck with them. Come on, let's go and stare.'

I liked that idea, so we put on our hats and went. But you would never believe the sights we saw in St Peter Port. Oh, there were hundreds of German soldiers—and they were SHOPPING! Arm in arm they went strolling along Fountain Street—smiling, laughing, peering into shop windows, going inside and coming out with their arms full of parcels, calling out to one another. North Esplanade was filled with soldiers too. Some were just lolling about, others touched their caps to us and bowed, polite-like. One man said to me, ‘Your island is beautiful. We will be fighting in London soon, but now we have this—a holiday in the sun.'

Another poor idiot actually thought he was in Brighton. They were buying ice lollies for the streams of children following them. Laughing and having a fine time, they were. If it weren't for those green uniforms, we'd have thought the tour boat from Weymouth was in!

We started to go along Candie Gardens, and there everything changed—carnival to nightmare. First, we heard noise—the loud steady rhythm of boots coming down heavy on hard stones. Then a troop of goose-stepping soldiers turned on to our street. Everything about them gleamed: buttons, boots, those metal coal-scuttle hats. Their eyes didn't see anyone or anything—just stared straight ahead. That was scarier than the rifles slung over their shoulders, or the knives and grenades stuck in their boot-tops.

Mr Ferre, who'd been behind us, grabbed my arm. He'd fought on the Somme. Tears were running down his face, and not knowing it, he was twisting my arm, wringing it, saying, ‘How can they be doing this again? We beat them and here they are again. How did we let them do this again?'

Finally, Elizabeth said, ‘I've seen enough. I need a drink.'

I keep a good supply of gin in my cupboard, so we came home.

I will close now, but I will be able to see you soon and that gives me joy. We all want to come and meet you—but a new fear has struck me. There could be twenty other passengers on the mail boat, and how will I know which one is you? That book photo is a blurry little thing and I don't want to go kissing the wrong woman. Could you wear a big red hat with a veil and carry lilies?

Your friend,

Isola

From an Animal Lover to Juliet
Wednesday evening

Dear Miss,

I too am a member of the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society—but I didn't write to you about my books, because I only read two—children's tales about dogs, loyal, brave and true. Isola says you are coming to maybe write about the Occupation, and I think you should know the truth of what our States did to animals! Our own government, mind, not the dirty Germans! They would be ashamed to tell of it, but I am not.

I don't much care for people—never have, never will. I got my reasons. I never met a man half so true as a dog. Treat a dog right and he'll treat you right—he'll keep you company, be your friend, never ask you no questions. Cats is different, but I never held that against them.

You should know what some Guernsey people did to their pets when they got scared the Germans was coming. Thousands of them left the island—sailed away to England, and left their dogs and cats behind. Deserted them, left them to roam the streets, hungry and thirsty—the swine!

I took in as many dogs as I could find, but it wasn't enough. Then the States stepped in to take care of the problem—and did worse, far worse. The States warned in the newspapers that, because of the war, there might not be enough food for humans, let alone animals. ‘You may keep one family pet,' they said, ‘but the States will have to put the rest to sleep. Feral cats and dogs, roaming the island, will be a danger to the children.' And that is what they did. The States gathered them animals into trucks, and took them to St Andrew's Animal Shelter, and those people put them all to sleep. As
fast as they could kill one truckload of pets, another truckload would arrive.

I saw it all—the collecting, the unloading at the shelter, and the burying. I saw one woman come out of the shelter and stand in the fresh air, gulping it down. She looked sick enough to die herself. She had a cigarette and then she went back in to help with the killing. It took two days to kill all the animals.

That's all I want to say, but put it in your book.

An Animal Lover

From Sally Ann Frobisher to Juliet
15th May 1946

Dear Miss Ashton,

Miss Pribby told me you would be coming to Guernsey to hear about the war. I hope we will meet then, but I am writing now because I like to write letters. I like to write anything, really. I thought you'd like to know how I was personally humiliated during the war—in 1943, when I was twelve. I had scabies.

There wasn't enough soap in Guernsey to keep clean—not our clothes or ourselves. Everyone had skin diseases of one sort or another—scales or pustules or lice. I myself had scabies on my head—under my hair—and they wouldn't go away. Eventually, Dr Ormond said I must go to Town Hospital and have my head shaved and the tops of the scabs cut off to let the pus out. I hope you will never know the shame of a seeping scalp. I wanted to die.

That is where I met my friend Elizabeth McKenna. She helped the nurses on my ward. The nurses were always kind, but
Miss McKenna was kind
and
funny. Her being funny helped me in my darkest hour. When my head had been shaved, she came into my room with a basin, a bottle of Dettol, and a sharp scalpel.

I said, ‘This isn't going to hurt, is it? Dr Ormond said it wouldn't hurt.' I tried not to cry.

‘He lied,' Miss McKenna said. ‘It's going to hurt like hell. Don't tell your mother I said hell.'