Part 6 (1/2)

I see you will not be advised by me. I came upon Isola Pribby at her market stall, scribbling a letter-in response to a letter from you! I tried to resume my errands calmly, but then I came upon Dawsey Adams posting a letter-to you! Who will be next, I ask? This is not to be borne, and I seize my pen to stop you.

I was not completely candid with you in my last letter. In the interests of delicacy, I drew a veil on the true nature of that group and their founder, Elizabeth McKenna. But now, I see that I must reveal all: The Society members have colluded to raise the b.a.s.t.a.r.d child of Elizabeth McKenna and her German paramour, Dr/Captain Christian h.e.l.lman. Yes, a German soldier! I don't wonder at your shock.

Now, I am nothing if not just I do not say that Elizabeth was what the ruder cla.s.ses called a Jerry-bag, cavorting around Guernsey with any any German soldier who could give her gifts. I never saw Elizabeth wearing silk stockings or silk dresses (indeed, her clothing was as disreputable as ever), smelling of Parisian scent, guzzling chocolates and wine, or SMOKING CIGARETTES, like other Island hussies. German soldier who could give her gifts. I never saw Elizabeth wearing silk stockings or silk dresses (indeed, her clothing was as disreputable as ever), smelling of Parisian scent, guzzling chocolates and wine, or SMOKING CIGARETTES, like other Island hussies.

But the truth is bad enough.

Herewith, the sorry facts: in April 1942, the UNWED Elizabeth McKenna gave birth to a baby girl-in her own cottage. Eben Ramsey and Isola Pribby were present at the birth-he to hold the mother's hand and she to keep the fire going. Amelia Maugery and Dawsey Adams (An unmarried man! For shame!) did the actual work of delivering the child, before Dr Martin could arrive. The putative father? Absent! In fact, he had left the Island a short time before. 'Ordered to duty on the Continent'-SO THEY SAID. The case is perfectly clear-when the evidence of their illicit connection was irrefutable, Captain h.e.l.lman abandoned his mistress and left her to her just deserts.

I could have foretold this scandalous outcome. I saw Elizabeth with her lover on several occasions-walking together, deep in talk, gathering nettles for soup, or collecting firewood. And once, I saw him put his hand on her face and follow her cheekbone down with his thumb.

Though I had little hope of success, I knew it was my duty to warn her of the fate that awaited her. I told her she would be cast out of decent society, but she did not heed me. In fact, she laughed. I bore it. Then she told me to get out of her house.

I take no pride in my prescience. It would not be Christian.

Back to the baby-named Christina, called Kit Barely a year later, Elizabeth, as f.e.c.kless as ever, committed a criminal act expressly forbidden by the German Occupying Force-she helped shelter and feed an escaped prisoner of the German Army. She was arrested and sentenced to prison on the Continent.

Mrs Maugery, at the time of Elizabeth's arrest, took the baby into her home. And since that night? The Literary Society has raised that child as its own-pa.s.sing her around from house to house. The princ.i.p.al work of the baby's maintenance was undertaken by Amelia Maugery, with other Society members taking her out-like a library book-for several weeks at a time.

They all cosseted the baby, and now that the child can walk, she goes everywhere with one or another of them-holding hands or riding on their shoulders. Such are their standards! You must not glorify such people in The Times The Times!

You won't hear from me again-I have done my best. On your head be it.

Adelaide Addison Cable from Sidney to Juliet 20th March 1946 March 1946

Dear Juliet,

Trip home delayed. Fell off horse, broke leg. Piers nursing.

Love, Sidney

Cable from Juliet to Sidney 21st March 1946 March 1946

Oh, G.o.d, which leg? Am so sorry.

Love, Juliet Cabk from Sidney to Juliet 22nd March 1946 March 1946

It was the other one. Don't worry-little pain. Piers excellent nurse.

Love, Sidney Cable from Juliet to Sidney 22nd March 1946 March 1946

So happy it wasn't the one I broke. Can I send anything to help your convalescence? Books-recordings-poker chips-my life's blood?

Cable from Sidney to Juliet 23rd March 1946 March 1946

No blood, no books, no poker chips. Just keep sending long letters to entertain us.

Love, Sidney and Piers From Juliet to Sophie 23rd March 1946 March 1946

Dear Sophie,

I only got a cable so you know more than I do. But whatever the circ.u.mstances, it's absolutely ridiculous for you to consider flying off to Australia. What about Alexander? And Dominic? And your lambs? They'll pine away.

Stop and think for a moment, and you'll realise why you shouldn't fuss. First, Piers will take excellent care of Sidney. Second, better Piers than us-remember what a vile patient Sidney was last time? We should be glad he's thousands of miles away. Third, Sidney has been stretched as tight as a bow-string for years. He needs a rest, and breaking his leg is probably the only way he'll allow himself to take one. Most important of all, Sophie: he doesn't want us there he doesn't want us there.

I'm perfectly certain Sidney would prefer me to write a new book than to appear at his bedside in Australia, so I intend to stay right here in my dreary flat and cast about for a subject I do have a tiny infant of an idea, much too frail and defenceless to risk describing, even to you. In honour of Sidney's leg, I'm going to nurse it and feed it and see if I can make it grow.

Now, about Markham V. Reynolds (Junior). Your questions regarding that gentleman are very delicate, very subtle, very much like being struck on the head by a mallet Am I in love with him? What kind of a question is that' It's a tuba among the flutes, and I expect better of you. The first rule of snooping is to come at it sideways-when you began writing me dizzy letters about Alexander, I didn't ask if you were in love with him, I asked what his favourite animal was. And your answer told me everything I needed to know about him-how many men would admit that they loved ducks? (This brings up an important point I don't know what Mark's favourite animal is. I doubt if it's a duck.) Would you care for a few suggestions? You could ask me who his favourite author is (Dos Pa.s.ses! Hemingway!!). Or his favourite colour (blue, not sure what shade, probably royal). Is he a good dancer? (Yes, far better than I, never steps on my toes, but doesn't talk or even hum while dancing. Doesn't hum at all as far as I know.) Does he have brothers or sisters? (Yes, two older sisters, one married to a sugar baron and the other widowed last year. Plus one younger brother, dismissed with a sneer as an a.s.s.) So-now that I've done all your work for you, perhaps you can answer your own ridiculous question, because I can't I feel addled when I'm with Mark, which might be love but might not It certainly isn't restful. I'm rather dreading this evening, for instance. Another dinner party, very brilliant, with men leaning across the table to make a point and women gesturing with their cigarette holders. Oh dear, I want to nuzzle into my sofa, but I have to get up and put on an evening dress. Love aside, Mark is a terrible strain on my wardrobe.

Now, darling, don't fret about Sidney. He'll be stalking around in no time.

Love, Juliet From Juliet to Dawsey 25th March 1946 March 1946

Dear Mr Adams,

I have received a long letter (two, in fact!) from a Miss Adelaide Addison, warning me not to write about the Society in my article. If I do, she will wash her hands of me for ever. I will try to bear that affliction with fort.i.tude. She does work up quite a head of steam about Jerry-bags, doesn't she?

I have also had a wonderful long letter from Clovis Fossey about poetry, and one from Isola Pribby about the Bronte sisters. Apart from delighting me-they gave me brand-new thoughts for my article. Between them, you, Mr Ramsey and Mrs Maugery, Guernsey is virtually writing my article for me. Even Miss Adelaide Addison has done her bit-defying her will be such a pleasure.

I don't know as much about children as I would like to. I am the G.o.dmother to a marvellous three-year-old boy named Dominic, the son of my friend Sophie. They live in Scotland, near Oban, and I don't see him very often. I am always astonished, when I do, by his increasing personhood-no sooner had I got used to carrying a warm lump of baby than he stopped being one and started rus.h.i.+ng around on his own. I missed six months, and lo and behold, he learnt how to talk! Now he talks to himself, which I find terribly endearing, as I do, too.