Part 19 (2/2)

Dear Sophie,

Ivor has come and gone, and Oscar Wilde's letters are safely back in Isola's biscuit tin. I've settled down as much as I can until Sidney reads them-I'm dying to know what he thinks. I was very calm on the day of our adventure. It was only later, once Kit was in bed, that I began to feel skittish, and started pacing the floor.

Then there was a knock at the door. I was amazed-and a little fl.u.s.tered-to see Dawsey through the window. I threw open the door to greet him, only to be greeted by Remy, too. They had come to see how I was. How kind. Howdisappointing.

Surely Remy's homesick by now? I have been reading an article by a woman called Giselle Pelletier, a political prisoner held at Ravensbriick for five years. She writes about how difficult it is for you to get on with your life as a camp survivor. No one in France-neither friends nor family-wants to know anything about your life in the camps, and they think that the sooner you put it out of your mind-and out of their hearing-the happier you'll be.

According to Miss Pelletier, it is not that you want to belabour anyone with details, but it did happen to you and you can't pretend it didn't 'Let's put everything behind us,' seems to be France's cry. 'Everything-the war, the Vichy, the Milice, Drancy, the Jews-it's all over now. After all, everyone suffered, not just you.' In the face of this inst.i.tutional amnesia, she writes, the only thing that helps is to talk to fellow survivors. They know what life in the camps was. You speak, and they can speak back. They talk, they rail, they cry, they tell one story after another-some tragic, some absurd. Sometimes they can even laugh together. The relief is enormous, she says. Perhaps communication widi other survivors would be a better cure for Remy's distress than bucolic Island life. She is physically stronger now-she's not as shockingly thin as she was-but she still seems haunted.

Mr Dilwyn is back from his holiday, and I must make an appointment to talk to him about Kit soon. I keep putting it off-I'm so dreadfully afraid that he'll refuse to consider it I wish I looked more motherly-perhaps I could buy a fichu. If he asks for character references, will you give me one? Does Dominic know his alphabet yet? If so, he can write out this: Dear Mr Dilwyn, Dear Mr Dilwyn, Juliet Dryhurst Ashton is a very nice lady-sober, clean and responsible. You should let her be Kit McKenna's mother.

Yours sincerely, James Dominic Strachan James Dominic Strachan I didn't tell you, did I, about Mr Dilwyn's plans for Kit's inheritance in Guernsey? He's engaged Dawsey, and a crew Dawsey is to select, to restore the Big House: banisters replaced; graffiti removed from the walls and paintings; windows put in; torn-out plumbing replaced with new; chimneys cleaned; wiring checked and terrace paving stones repointed-or whatever it is you do to old stones. Mr Dilwyn is not yet certain what can be done with the wooden panelling in the library-it had a beautiful carved frieze of fruit and ribbons, which the Germans used for target practice.

As no one will want to holiday on the Continent for the next few years, Mr Dilwyn is hoping that the Channel Islands will become a tourist haven again-and Kit's house would make a wonderful holiday home.

But on to stranger events: the Benoit sisters asked me and Kit to tea this afternoon. I had never met them, and it was quite an odd invitation. They asked if Kit had 'a steady eye and a good aim'. Did she like rituals? Bewildered, I asked Eben if he knew the Benoit sisters. Were they sane? Was it safe to take Kit there? Eben roared with laughter and said yes, the sisters were safe and sane. He said Jane and Elizabeth had visited them every summer for five years. They always wore starched pinafores, polished court shoes and little lace gloves. We would have a lovely time, he said, and he was glad to know the old traditions were coming back. We would have a lavish tea, with entertainments afterwards, and we should go-None of which told me what to expect. They are identical twins, in their eighties. Very prim and ladylike, dressed in ankle-length gowns of black georgette, larded with jet beads at bosom and hem, their white hair piled like swirls of whipped cream on top of their heads. So charming, Sophie. We did have a sinful tea, and I'd barely put my cup down when Yvonne (older by ten minutes) said, 'Sister, I do believe Elizabeth's child is too small yet.' Yvette said, 'I believe you're right, Sister. Perhaps Miss Ashton would help us?'

I think it was very brave of me to say, 'I'd be delighted,' when I had no idea what they were proposing.

'So kind, Miss Ashton. We denied ourselves during the war-so disloyal to the Crown, somehow. Our arthritis has grown very much worse; we cannot even join you in the rites. It will be our pleasure to watch!'

Yvette went to a drawer in the sideboard, while Yvonne opened one of the double doors between the drawing room and the dining room. Taped to the previously hidden panel was a full-page, full-length newspaper portrait in sepia of the d.u.c.h.ess of Windsor, Mrs Wallis Simpson as was Mrs Wallis Simpson as was (cut out, I gather, from the Society pages of the (cut out, I gather, from the Society pages of the Baltimore Sun Baltimore Sun in the late '30s). in the late '30s).

Yvette handed me four silver-tipped, finely balanced, evil-looking darts. 'Go for the eyes, dear,' she said. So I did.

'Splendid! Three-for-four, Sister. Almost as good as dear Jane! Elizabeth always rumbled at the last moment! Shall you want to try again next year?'

It's a simple story, but sad. Yvette and Yvonne adored the Prince of Wales. 'So darling in his little plus fours.'

'How the man could waltz!'

'How debonair in evening dress!' So admirable, so royal-until that hussy got hold of him. 's.n.a.t.c.hed him from the throne! His crown-gone!' It broke their hearts. Kit was enthralled-as well she might be. I am going to practise my aim-four-for-four being my new goal in life.

Don't you wish we had known the Benoit sisters while we were growing up?

Love and kisses, Juliet From Juliet to Sidney 2nd September 1946 September 1946

Dear Sidney,

Something happened this afternoon; while it ended well, it was disturbing, and I can't get to sleep. I am writing to you instead of Sophie, because she's pregnant and you're not You don't have a delicate condition to be upset in, and Sophie does-I am losing my grip on grammar.

Kit was with Isola, making gingerbread men. Remy and I needed some ink and Dawsey needed some sort of putty for the Big House, so we all walked together into St Peter Port We took the cliff walk by Fermain Bay. It's beautiful-a rugged path that wanders up and around the headlands. I was a little in front of Remy and Dawsey because the path had narrowed. A tall, red-haired woman walked around the large boulder at the path's turning and came towards us. She had a dog with her, a huge Alsatian. He wasn't on a lead and seemed overjoyed to see me. I laughed, and the woman called out, 'Don't worry. He never bites.' He put his paws on my shoulders, attempting a big, s...o...b..ring kiss.

Then, behind me, I heard an awful gulping gasp: a deep gagging that went on and on. I can't describe it. I turned and saw that it was Remy; she was bent over almost double and vomiting. Dawsey had caught her and was holding her as she went on vomiting, deep spasms of it, over both of them. It was terrible to see and hear. Dawsey shouted, 'Get that dog away, Juliet! Now!'

I frantically pushed the dog away. The woman was crying and apologising, almost hysterical herself. I held on to the dog's collar and kept saying,' It's all right! It's all right! It's not your fault. Please go. Go!' At last she did, hauling her poor confused pet along by his collar. Remy was quiet then, only gasping for breath. Dawsey looked over her head and said, 'Let's get her to your house, Juliet It's the nearest' He picked her up and carried her, I trailing behind, helpless and frightened.

Remy was cold and shaking, so I ran her a bath, and once she was warm again, put her to bed. She was already half-asleep, so I gathered her clothes into a bundle, and went downstairs.

Dawsey was standing by the window, looking out Widiout turning he said, 'She told me once that those guards used big dogs. Riled them up and deliberately let them loose on the lines of women standing for roll call-just to watch the fun. Christ! Christ! 'I've been ignorant, Juliet I thought being here with us would help her forget Goodwill isn't enough, is it, Juliet? Not nearly enough.' 'I've been ignorant, Juliet I thought being here with us would help her forget Goodwill isn't enough, is it, Juliet? Not nearly enough.'

'No,' I said, 'it isn't.' He didn't say anything else, just nodded to me and left. I telephoned Amelia to tell her where Remy was and why and then started the was.h.i.+ng. Isola brought Kit back; we had supper and played Snap until bedtime.

But I can't sleep. I'm so ashamed of myself. Had I really thought Remy well enough to go home-or did I just want her to go? Did I think it was well time for her to go back to France-to just get on with It, whatever It might be? I did-and it's sickening.

Love, Juliet

P. S. As long as I'm confessing, I might as well tell you something else. Bad as it was to stand there holding Remy's awful clothes and smelling Dawsey's ruined ones, all I could think of was what he said: Goodwill isn't enough, is it? Goodwill isn't enough, is it? Does that mean that is all he feels for her? I've chewed over that errant thought all evening. Does that mean that is all he feels for her? I've chewed over that errant thought all evening.

Night Letter from Sidney to Juliet 4th September 1946 September 1946

Dear Juliet,

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