In other depressing developments, Harriet Munfries has gone completely berserk; she wants to 'colour-coordinate' the entire children's list Pink and red. I'm not joking. The boy in the postroom (I don't bother learning their names any more) got drunk and threw away all letters addressed to anyone whose name started with an S. Don't ask me why. Miss Tilley was so impossibly rude to Kendrick that he tried to hit her with her telephone. I can't say I blame him, but telephones are hard to come by and we can't afford to lose-one. You must sack her the minute you come home.

If you need any further inducement to buy an aeroplane ticket, I can also tell you that I saw Juliet and Mark Reynolds looking very cosy at Cafe de Paris the other night. Their table was behind the velvet cordon, but from my seat in the slums, I could spy all the telltale signs of romance-he murmuring sweet nothings in her ear, her hand lingering in his beside the c.o.c.ktail gla.s.ses, he touching her shoulder to point out an acquaintance. I considered it my duty (as your devoted employee) to break it up, so I elbowed my way past the cordon to say h.e.l.lo to Juliet She seemed delighted and invited me to join them, but it was apparent from Mark's smile that he didn't want company, so I retreated. He's not a man to cross, that one, with his thin smile, no matter how beautiful his ties are, and it would break my mother's heart if my lifeless body was found bobbing in the Thames.

In other words, get a wheelchair, get a crutch, get a donkey, but come home now now.

Yours, Susan From Juliet to Sidney and Piers 12th April 1946 April 1946

Dear Sidney and Piers,

I've been ransacking the libraries of London for background on Guernsey. I even got a ticket to the Reading Room, which shows my devotion to duty-as you know, I'm petrified of the place.

I've found out quite a lot Do you remember a wretchedly silly series of books in the 1920s called called A-Tramp in Skye A-Tramp in Skye...or A-Tramp in Lindisfarrne A-Tramp in Lindisfarrne...or in Sheepholm- in Sheepholm- or whatever harbour the author happened to sail his yacht into? Well, in 1930 he sailed into St Peter Port, Guernsey, and wrote a book about it (with day trips to Sark, Herm, Alderney and Jersey, where he was mauled by a duck and had to return home). or whatever harbour the author happened to sail his yacht into? Well, in 1930 he sailed into St Peter Port, Guernsey, and wrote a book about it (with day trips to Sark, Herm, Alderney and Jersey, where he was mauled by a duck and had to return home).

Tramp's real name was Cee Cee Meredith. He was an idiot who thought he was a poet, and he was rich enough to sail anywhere, then write about it, then have it privately printed, and then give a copy to any friend who would take it. Cee Cee didn't trouble himself with dull fact he preferred to scamper off to the nearest moor, beach or flowery field, and go into transports with his Muse. But bless him anyhow; his book, real name was Cee Cee Meredith. He was an idiot who thought he was a poet, and he was rich enough to sail anywhere, then write about it, then have it privately printed, and then give a copy to any friend who would take it. Cee Cee didn't trouble himself with dull fact he preferred to scamper off to the nearest moor, beach or flowery field, and go into transports with his Muse. But bless him anyhow; his book, A-Tramp in Guernsey A-Tramp in Guernsey, was just what I needed to get the feel of the island.

Cee Cee went ash.o.r.e at St Peter Port, leaving his mother, Dorothea, to bob about the adjacent waters, retching in the wheel-house.

In Guernsey, Cee Cee wrote poems to the freesias and the daffodils. Also to the tomatoes. He was agog with admiration for the Guernsey cows and the pedigree bulls, and he composed a little song in honour of their bells ('Tinkle, tinkle, such a merry sound...'). Beneath the cows, in Cee Gee's estimation, were 'the simple folk of the country parishes, who still speak the Norman patois and believe in fairies and witches'. Gee Gee entered into the spirit of the thing and saw a fairy in the gloaming.

After going on about the cottages and hedgerows and the shops, Gee Gee at last reached the sea, or, as he'd have it, 'The SEA! It is everywhere! The waters: azure, emerald, silver-laced, when they are not as hard and dark as a bag of nails.' Thank G.o.d It is everywhere! The waters: azure, emerald, silver-laced, when they are not as hard and dark as a bag of nails.' Thank G.o.d Tramp Tramp had a co-author, Dorothea, who was made of sterner stuff and loathed Guernsey and everything about it. She was in charge of delivering the history of the island: and she was not one to gild the lily: had a co-author, Dorothea, who was made of sterner stuff and loathed Guernsey and everything about it. She was in charge of delivering the history of the island: and she was not one to gild the lily: As to Guernsey's history-well, least said, soonest mended. The Islands once belonged to the Duchy of Normandy, but when William, Duke of Normandy, became William the Conqueror, he took die Channel Islands and he gave them to England-with special privileges. These privileges were later added to by King John, and added to yet again by Edward III. WHY? What did they do to deserve it' Absolutely nothing! Later, when that weakling Henry VI managed to lose most of France to the French, the Channel Islands elected to stay a Crown Possession of England, as who would not.

The Channel Islands freely owe their allegiance and love to the English Crown, but heed this, dear reader-THE CROWN CANNOT MAKE THEM DO ANYTHING THEY DO NOT WANT TO DO!

Guernsey's ruling body, such as it is, is named the States of Deliberation but called the States for short. The real head of everything is the President of the States, who is elected by the STATES, and called the Bailiff In fact, everyone is elected, not appointed by the King. Pray, what is a monarch for, if NOT TO APPOINT PEOPLE TO THINGS?

The Crown's only representative in this unholy melange is the Lieutenant Governor. While he is welcome to attend the meetings of the States, and may talk, and advise all he wants, he does NOT HAVE A VOTE. At least he is allowed to live in Government House, the only mansion of any note in Guernsey-if you don't count Sausmarez Manor, which I don't.

The Crown cannot impose taxes on the Islands-or conscription. Honesty forces me to admit the Islanders don't need conscription to make them go to war for dear, dear England. They volunteered and made very respectable, even heroic, soldiers and sailors against Napoleon and the Kaiser. But take note-these selfless acts do not make amends for the fact THAT THE CHANNEL ISLANDS PAY NO INCOME TAX TO ENGLAND. NOT ONE SHILLING. IT MAKES ONE WANT TO SPIT!

Those are her kindest words-I will spare you the rest, but you get her drift.

One of you, or better still both of you, write to me. I want to hear how the patient and the nurse are. What does your doctor say about your leg, Sidney-I swear you've had time to grow a new one.

x.x.xx.x.x, Juliet From Dawsey to Juliet 15th April 1946 April 1946

Dear Miss Ashton,

I don't know what ails Adelaide Addison. Isola says she is a blight because she likes being a blight-it gives her a sense of destiny. Adelaide did me one good turn though, didn't she? She told you, better than I could, how much I was enjoying Charles Lamb.

The biography came. I read it quickly-too impatient not to. But I'll go back and start again-reading more slowly this time, so I can take everything in. I did like what Mr Lucas said about him-he could make any homely and familiar thing into something fresh and beautiful. Lamb's writings make me feel more at home in his London than I do here and now in St Peter Port.

But what I cannot imagine is Charles, coming home from work and finding his mother stabbed to death, his father bleeding and his sister Mary standing over both with a b.l.o.o.d.y knife. How did he make himself go into the room and take the knife away from her? After the police had taken her off to the madhouse, how did he persuade the Judge to release her to his care and his care alone? He was only twenty-one years old-how did he talk them into it?

He promised to look after Mary for the rest of her life-and, once he put his foot on that road, he never stepped off it It is sad he had to stop writing poetry, which he loved, and had to write criticism and essays, which he did not honour much, to make money.

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 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 pa.s.sion 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 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 Bronte, 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 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 4ike 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 arid 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 pa.s.sers-by and children play, and I am soothed-somewhat...

81 Oakley Street was demolished by a random V-l 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-l 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 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. 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 G.o.d. 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 Daily Mirror sponsored an essay contest-five hundred words on 'What Women Fear Most'. I knew what the sponsored an essay contest-five hundred words on 'What Women Fear Most'. I knew what the Mirror 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 s.e.x, awarded me first prize. Five pounds and I was, at last, in print. The 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 s.e.x, awarded me first prize. Five pounds and I was, at last, in print. The Daily Mirror 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 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 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 G.o.dmother 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 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 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 b.u.t.ter. 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 20 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. 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.

Of all the sights I saw the day they left, there is one picture I can't get out of my mind. Two little girls, all dressed up in pink dresses, stiff petticoats, shiny shoes-as if they were going to a party. How cold they must have been crossing the Channel.

All the children were to be dropped off at the school by their parents. It was there we had to say our goodbyes. Buses came to take the children down to the pier. The boats, just back from Dunkirk, had to cross the Channel again for the children. There was no time to get a convoy together to escort them. There was no time to get enough lifeboats on board-or life jackets.

That morning we stopped first at the hospital for Eli to say goodbye to his mother. He couldn't do it His jaw was clamped shut so tight, he could only nod. Jane held him for a bit, and then Elizabeth and I walked him down to the school. I hugged him hard and that was the last time I saw him for five years. Elizabeth stayed because she had volunteered to help get the children inside ready.

I was walking back to Jane in the hospital, when I remembered something Eli had once said to me. He was about five years old, and we were walking down to La Courbiere to see the fishing boats come in. There was an old canvas bathing shoe lying in the middle of the path. Eli walked round it, staring. Finally, he said, 'That shoe is all alone, Grandpa.' I answered that yes it was. He looked at it again, and then we walked on. After a bit, he said, 'Grandpa, that's something I never am.' I asked him, 'What's that?' And he said, 'Lonesome in my spirits.'

There! I had something happy to tell Jane after all, and I prayed it would stay true for him.

Isola says she wants to write to you herself about what happened at the school. She says she was witness to a scene you will want to know about as an auth.o.r.ess: Elizabeth slapped Adelaide Addison in the face and made her leave. You do not know Miss Addison, and you are fortunate in that-she is a woman too good for daily wear.

Isola told me you that might come to Guernsey. I would be glad to offer you hospitality.

Yours, Eben Ramsey Telegram from Juliet to Isola 23rd April 1946 April 1946