The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer Page B

water-delivery route. He nodded, and I started out with the pram. But then I turned back and said, ‘You can borrow the book, if you like.’ You would have thought I was giving him the moon. We exchanged names and shook hands.
    After that, he would often help me carry up water, and then he’d offer me a cigarette, and we’d stand in the road and talk—about Guernsey’s beauty, about history, about books, about farming, but never about the present—always things far away from the war. Once, as we were standing, Elizabeth rattled up the road on her bicycle. She had been on nursing duty all day and probably most of the night before, and like the rest of us her clothes were more patches than cloth. But Christian broke off in mid-sentence to watch her coming. Elizabeth drew up to us and stopped. Neither said a word,but I saw their faces, and I left as soon as I could. I hadn’t realised they knew each other.
    Christian had been a field surgeon, until his shoulder wound sent him from Eastern Europe to Guernsey. In early 1942, he was ordered to a hospital in Caen; his ship was sunk by Allied bombers and he was drowned. Dr Lorenz, the head of the German Occupation hospital, knew we were friends and came to tell me of his death. He meant for me to tell Elizabeth, so I did.
    The way that Christian and I met may have been unusual, but our friendship was not. I’m sure many Islanders grew to be friends with some of the soldiers. But sometimes I think of Charles Lamb and marvel that a man born in 1775 enabled me to make two such friends as you and Christian.
    Yours truly,
    Dawsey Adams
    From Juliet to Amelia
4th April 1946
    Dear Mrs Maugery,
    The sun is out for the first time for months, and if I stand on my chair and crane my neck, I can see it sparkling on the river. I’m averting my eyes from the mounds of rubble across the road and pretending London is beautiful again.
    I’ve received a sad letter from Dawsey Adams, telling me about Christian Hellman, his kindness and his death. The war goes on and on, doesn’t it? Such a good life—lost. And what a grievous blow it must have been to Elizabeth. I am thankful she had you, Mr Ramsey, Isola Pribby and Mr Adams to help her when she had her baby.
    Spring is nearly here. I’m almost warm in my puddle of sunshine. And down the street—I’m not averting my eyes now—a man in a patched jumper is painting the door to his house sky blue. Two small boys, who have been walloping one another with sticks, are begging him to let them help. He is giving them a tiny brush each. So—perhaps there is an end to war.
    Yours sincerely,
    Juliet Ashton
    From Mark to Juliet
5th April 1946
    Dear Juliet,
    You’re being elusive and I don’t like it. I don’t want to see the play with someone else—I want to go with you. In fact, I don’t give a damn about the play. I’m only trying to rout you out of that apartment. Dinner? Tea? Cocktails? Boating? Dancing? You choose, and I’ll obey. I’m rarely so docile—don’t throw away this opportunity to improve my character.
    Yours,
    Mark
    From Juliet to Mark
    Dear Mark,
    Do you want to come to the British Museum with me? I’ve got an appointment in the Reading Room at two o’clock. We can look at the mummies afterwards.
    Juliet
    From Mark to Juliet
    To hell with the Reading Room and the mummies. Come have lunch with me.
    Mark
    From Juliet to Mark
    You consider that docile?
    Juliet
    From Mark to Juliet
    To hell with docile.
    M.
    From Will Thisbee to Juliet
7th April 1946
    Dear Miss Ashton,
    I am a member of the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. I am an antiquarian ironmonger, though it pleases some to call me a rag-and-bone man. I also invent labour-saving devices—my latest being an electric clothes peg that wafts the washing on the breeze, saving the wrists.
    Did I find solace in reading? Yes, but not at first. I’d just go and