The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, Page 2

  Come to that, how does he know where Susan and I are staying? What trains we are taking? All his flowers have met me upon my arrival. I don’t know whether to feel flattered or hunted.

  Love,

  Juliet

  From Juliet to Sidney

  23rd January, 1946

  Dear Sidney,

  Susan just gave me the sales figures for Izzy—I can scarcely believe them. I honestly thought everyone would be so weary of the war that no one would want a remembrance of it—and certainly not in a book. Happily, and once again, you were right and I was wrong (it half-kills me to admit this).

  Traveling, talking before a captive audience, signing books, and meeting strangers is exhilarating. The women I’ve met have told me such war stories of their own, I almost wish I had my column back. Yesterday, I had a lovely, gossipy chat with a Norwich lady. She has four daughters in their teens, and just last week, the eldest was invited to tea at the cadet school in town. Arrayed in her finest frock and spotless white gloves, the girl made her way to the school, stepped over the threshold, took one look at the sea of shining cadet faces before her—and fainted dead away! The poor child had never seen so many males in one place in her life. Think of it—a whole generation grown up without dances or teas or flirting.

  I love seeing the bookshops and meeting the booksellers—booksellers really are a special breed. No one in their right mind would take up clerking in a bookstore for the salary, and no one in his right mind would want to own one—the margin of profit is too small. So, it has to be a love of readers and reading that makes them do it—along with first dibs on the new books.

  Do you remember the first job your sister and I had in London? In crabby Mr. Hawke’s secondhand bookshop? How I loved him—he’d simply unpack a box of books, hand one or two to us and say, “No cigarette ashes, clean hands—and for God’s sake, Juliet, none of your margin notes! Sophie, dear, don’t let her drink coffee while she reads.” And off we’d go with new books to read.

  It was amazing to me then, and still is, that so many people who wander into bookshops don’t really know what they’re after—they only want to look around and hope to see a book that will strike their fancy. And then, being bright enough not to trust the publisher’s blurb, they will ask the book clerk the three questions: (1) What is it about? (2) Have you read it? (3) Was it any good?

  Real dyed-in-the-wool booksellers—like Sophie and me—can’t lie. Our faces are always a dead giveaway. A lifted brow or curled lip reveals that it’s a poor excuse for a book, and the clever customers ask for a recommendation instead, whereupon we frog-march them over to a particular volume and command them to read it. If they read it and despise it, they’ll never come back. But if they like it, they’re customers for life.

  Are you taking notes? You should—a publisher should send not just one reader’s copy to a bookshop, but several, so that all the staff can read it, too.

  Mr. Seton told me today that Izzy Bickerstaff makes an ideal present for both someone you like and someone you don’t like but have to give a present to anyway. He also claimed that 30 percent of all books bought are bought as gifts. Thirty percent??? Did he lie?

  Has Susan told you what else she has managed besides our tour? Me. I hadn’t known her half an hour before she told me my make-up, my clothes, my hair, and my shoes were drab, all drab. The war was over, hadn’t I heard?

  She took me to Madame Helena’s for a haircut; it is now short and curly instead of long and lank. I had a light rinse, too—Susan and Madame said it would bring out the golden highlights in my “beautiful chestnut curls.” But I know better; it’s meant to cover any grey hairs (four, by my count) that have begun to creep in. I also bought a jar of face cream, a lovely scented hand lotion, a new lipstick, and an eye-lash curler—which makes my eyes cross whenever I use it.

  Then Susan suggested a new dress. I reminded her that the Queen was very happy wearing her 1939 wardrobe, so why shouldn’t I be? She said the Queen doesn’t need to impress strangers—but I do. I felt like a traitor to crown and country; no decent woman has new clothes—but I forgot that the moment I saw myself in the mirror. My first new dress in four years, and such a dress! It is the exact color of a ripe peach and falls in lovely folds when I move.

  The saleslady said it had “Gallic Chic” and I would too, if I bought it. So I did. New shoes are going to have to wait, since I spent almost a year’s worth of clothing coupons on the dress.

  Between Susan, my hair, my face, and my dress, I no longer look a listless, bedraggled thirty-two-year-old. I look a lively, dashing, haute-couturéd (if this isn’t a French verb, it should be) thirty.

  Apropos of my new dress and no new shoes—doesn’t it seem shocking to have more stringent rationing after the war than during the war? I realize that hundreds of thousands of people all over Europe must be fed, housed, and clothed, but privately I resent it that so many of them are Germans.

  I am still without any ideas for a book I want to write. It is beginning to depress me. Do you have any suggestions?

  Since I am in what I consider to be the North I’m going to place a trunk call to Sophie in Scotland tonight. Any messages for your sister? Your brother-in-law? Your nephew?

  This is the longest letter I’ve ever written—you needn’t reply in kind.

  Love,

  Juliet

  From Susan Scott to Sidney

  25th January, 1946

  Dear Sidney,

  Don’t believe the newspaper reports. Juliet was not arrested and taken away in handcuffs. She was merely reproved by one of Bradford’s constables, and he could barely keep a straight face.

  She did throw a teapot at Gilly Gilbert’s head, but don’t believe his claim that she scalded him; the tea was cold. Besides, it was more of a skim-by than a direct hit. Even the hotel manager refused to let us compensate him for the teapot—it was only dented. He was, however, forced by Gilly’s screams to call in the constabulary.

  Herewith the story, and I take full responsibility for it. I should have refused Gilly’s request for an interview with Juliet. I knew what a loathsome person he was, one of those unctuous little worms who work for The London Hue and Cry. I also knew that Gilly and the LH&C were horribly jealous of the Spectator’s success with the Izzy Bickerstaff columns—and of Juliet.

  We had just returned to the hotel from the Brady’s Booksmith party for Juliet. We were both tired—and full of ourselves—when up popped Gilly from a chair in the lounge. He begged us to have tea with him. He begged for a short interview with “our own wonderful Miss Ashton—or should I say England’s very own Izzy Bickerstaff ?” His smarm alone should have alerted me, but it didn’t—I wanted to sit down, gloat over Juliet’s success, and have a cream tea.

  So we did. The talk was going smoothly enough, and my mind was wandering when I heard Gilly say, “… you were a war widow yourself, weren’t you? Or rather—almost a war widow—as good as. You were to marry a Lieutenant Rob Dartry, weren’t you? Had made arrangements for the ceremony, hadn’t you?”

  Juliet said, “I beg your pardon, Mr. Gilbert.” You know how polite she is.

  “I don’t have it wrong, do I? You and Lieutenant Dartry did apply for a marriage license. You did make an appointment to be married at the Chelsea Register Office on 13th December, 1942, at 11:00 a.m. You did book a table for luncheon at the Ritz—only you never showed up for any of it. It’s perfectly obvious that you jilted Lieutenant Dartry at the altar—poor fellow—and sent him off alone and humiliated, back to his ship, to carry his broken heart to Burma, where he was killed not three months later.”

  I sat up, my mouth gaping open. I just looked on helplessly as Juliet attempted to be civil: “I didn’t jilt him at the altar—it was the day before. And he wasn’t humiliated—he was relieved. I simply told him that I didn’t want to be married after all. Believe me, Mr. Gilbert, he left a happy man—delighted to be rid of me. He didn’t slink back to his ship, alone and betrayed—he went str
aight to the CCB Club and danced all night with Belinda Twining.”

  Well, Sidney, surprised as Gilly was, he was not daunted. Little rodents like Gilly never are, are they? He quickly guessed that he was on to an even juicier story for his paper.

  “OH-HO!” he smirked, “What was it, then? Drink? Other women? A touch of the old Oscar Wilde?”

  That was when Juliet threw the teapot. You can imagine the hubbub that ensued—the lounge was full of other people having tea—hence, I am sure, the newspapers learning of it.

  I thought his headline, “IZZY BICKERSTAFF GOES TO WAR—AGAIN! Reporter Wounded in Hotel Bun-Fight,” was a bit harsh, but not too bad. But “JULIET’S FAILED ROMEO—A FALLEN HERO IN BURMA” was sick-making, even for Gilly Gilbert and the Hue and Cry.

  Juliet is worried she may have embarrassed Stephens & Stark, but she is literally sick over Rob Dartry’s name being slung around in this fashion. All I could get her to say to me was that Rob Dartry was a good man, a very good man—none of it was his fault—and he did not deserve this!

  Did you know Rob Dartry? Of course, the drink/Oscar Wilde business is pure rot, but why did Juliet call off the wedding? Do you know why? And would you tell me if you did? Of course you wouldn’t; I don’t know why I’m even asking.

  The gossip will die down of course, but does Juliet have to be in London for the thick of it? Should we extend our tour to Scotland? I admit I’m of two minds about this; the sales there have been spectacular, but Juliet has worked so hard at these teas and luncheons—it is not easy to get up in front of a roomful of strangers and praise yourself and your book. She’s not used to this hoopla like I am and is, I think, very tired.

  Sunday we’ll be in Leeds, so let me know then about Scotland. Of course, Gilly Gilbert is despicable and vile and I hope he comes to a bad end, but he has pushed Izzy Bickerstaff Goes to War onto the Best Seller List. I’m tempted to write him a thankyou note.

  Yours in haste,

  Susan

  P.S. Have you found out who Markham V. Reynolds is yet? He sent Juliet a forest of camellias today.

  Telegram from Juliet to Sidney

  AM TERRIBLY SORRY TO HAVE EMBARRASSED YOU AND STEPHENS & STARK. LOVE, JULIET

  From Sidney to Juliet

  26th January, 1946

  Miss Juliet Ashton

  The Queens Hotel

  City Square

  Leeds

  Dear Juliet,

  Don’t worry about Gilly—you did not embarrass S&S; I’m only sorry that the tea wasn’t hotter and you didn’t aim lower. The Press is hounding me for a statement regarding Gilly’s latest muckraking, and I am going to give them one. Don’t worry; it’s going to be about Journalism in these degenerate times—not about you or Rob Dartry.

  I just spoke to Susan about going on to Scotland and—though I know Sophie will never forgive me—decided against it. Izzy’s sales figures are going up—way up—and I think you should come home.

  The Times wants you to write a long piece for the supplement—one part of a three-part series they plan to publish in successive issues. I’ll let them surprise you with the subject, but I can promise you three things right now: they want it written by Juliet Ashton, not by Izzy Bickerstaff; the subject is a serious one; and the sum mentioned means you can fill your flat with fresh flowers every day for a year, buy a satin quilt (Lord Woolton says you no longer need to have been bombed out to buy new bedcovers), and purchase a pair of real leather shoes—if you can find them. You can have my coupons.

  The Times doesn’t want the article until late spring, so we will have more time to think up a new book possibility for you. All good reasons to hurry back, but the biggest one is that I miss you.

  Now, about Markham V. Reynolds, Junior. I do know who he is, and the Domesday Book won’t help—he’s an American. He is the son and heir of Markham V. Reynolds, Senior, who used to have a monopoly on paper mills in the States and now just owns most of them. Reynolds, Junior, being of an artistic turn of mind, does not dirty his hands in making paper—he prints on it instead. He’s a publisher. The New York Journal, the Word, View—those are all his, and there are several smaller magazines as well. I knew he was in London. Officially, he’s here to open the London office of View, but rumor has it that he’s decided to begin publishing books, and he’s here to beguile England’s finest authors with visions of plenty and prosperity in America. I didn’t know his technique included roses and camellias, but I’m not surprised. He’s always had more than his fair share of what we call cheek and Americans call can-do spirit. Just wait till you see him—he’s been the undoing of stronger women than you, including my secretary. I’m sorry to say she’s the one who gave him your itinerary and your address. The silly woman thought he was so romantic-looking, with “such a lovely suit and handmade shoes.” Dear God! She couldn’t seem to grasp the concept of breach of confidentiality, so I had to sack her.

  He’s after you, Juliet, no doubt about it. Shall I challenge him to a duel? He would undoubtedly kill me, so I’d rather not. My dear, I can’t promise you plenty or prosperity or even butter, but you do know that you’re Stephens & Stark’s—especially Stark’s—most beloved author, don’t you?

  Dinner the first evening you are home?

  Love,

  Sidney

  From Juliet to Sidney

  28th January, 1946

  Dear Sidney,

  Yes, dinner with pleasure. I’ll wear my new dress and eat like a pig.

  I am so glad I didn’t embarrass S&S about Gilly and the teapot—I was worried. Susan suggested I make a “dignified statement” to the press too, about Rob Dartry and why we did not marry. I couldn’t possibly do that. I honestly don’t think I’d mind looking like a fool, if it didn’t make Rob look a worse one. But it would—and of course, he wasn’t a fool at all. But he’d sound that way. I’d much prefer to say nothing and look like a feckless, flighty, cold-hearted bitch.

  But I’d like you to know why—I’d have told you before, but you were off with the Navy in 1942, and you never met Rob. Even Sophie never met him—she was up at Bedford that fall—and I swore her to secrecy afterwards. The longer I put off saying anything, the less important it became for you to know, especially in light of how it made me look—witless and foolish for getting engaged in the first place.

  I thought I was in love (that’s the pathetic part—my idea of being in love). In preparation for sharing my home with a husband, I made room for him so he wouldn’t feel like a visiting aunt. I cleared out half my dresser drawers, half my closet, half my medicine chest, half my desk. I gave away my padded hangers and brought in those heavy wooden ones. I took my golliwog off the bed and put her in the attic. Now my flat was meant for two, instead of one.

  On the afternoon before our wedding, Rob was moving in the last of his clothes and belongings while I delivered my Izzy article to the Spectator. When I was through, I tore home, flew up the stairs, and threw open the door to find Rob sitting on a low stool in front of my bookcase, surrounded by cartons. He was sealing the last one up with gummed tape and string. There were eight boxes—eight boxes of my books bound up and ready for the basement!

  He looked up and said, “Hello, darling. Don’t mind the mess, the porter said he’d help me carry these down to the basement.”

  He nodded toward my bookshelves and said, “Don’t they look wonderful?”

  Well, there were no words! I was too appalled to speak. Sidney, every single shelf—where my books had stood—was filled with athletic trophies: silver cups, gold cups, blue rosettes, red ribbons. There were awards for every game that could possibly be played with a wooden object: cricket bats, squash racquets, tennis racquets, oars, golf clubs, Ping-Pong paddles, bows and arrows, snooker cues, lacrosse sticks, hockey sticks, and polo mallets. There were statues for everything a man could jump over, either by himself or on a horse. Next came the framed certificates—for shooting the most birds on such and such a date, for First Place in footraces, for Last Man
Standing in some filthy tug-of-war against Scotland.

  All I could do was scream, “How dare you! What have you DONE?! Put my books back!”

  Well, that’s how matters started. Eventually, I said something to the effect that I could never marry a man whose idea of bliss was to strike out at little balls and little birds. Rob countered with remarks about damned bluestockings and shrews. And it all degenerated from there—the only thought we probably had in common was, What the hell have we talked about for the last four months? What, indeed? He huffed and puffed and snorted—and left. And I unpacked my books.

  Remember the night last year when you met my train to tell me my home had been bombed flat? You thought I was laughing in hysteria? I wasn’t—it was in irony—if I’d let Rob store all my books in the basement, I’d still have them, every one. Sidney, as a token of our long friendship, you do not need to comment on this story—not ever. In fact, I’d far prefer it if you didn’t.

  Thank you for tracing Markham V. Reynolds, Junior, to his source. So far, his blandishments are entirely floral, and I remain true to you and the Empire. However, I do have a pang of sympathy for your secretary—I hope he sent her some roses for her trouble—as I’m not certain that my scruples could withstand the sight of handmade shoes. If I ever do meet him, I’ll take care not to look at his feet—or I’ll lash myself to a flagpole first and then peek, like Odysseus.

  Bless you for telling me to come home. Am looking forward to the Times proposal for a series. Do you promise on Sophie’s head it will not be a frivolous subject? They aren’t going to ask me to write about the Duchess of Windsor, are they?