Mary Shaffer: The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

Yours sincerely,

Juliet Ashton

February 5, 1946

Dear Miss Ashton,

I didn’t fire the delivery boy—I promoted him. He got me what I couldn’t manage to get for myself: an introduction to you. The way I see it, your note is a figurative hand-shake and the preliminaries are now over. I hope you’re of the same opinion, as it will save me the trouble of wangling an invitation to Lady Bascomb’s next dinner party on the off-chance you might be there. Your friends are a suspicious lot, especially that fellow Stark, who said it wasn’t his job to reverse the direction of the Lend-Lease and refused to bring you to the cocktail party I threw at the View office.

God knows, my intentions are pure, or at least, nonmercenary. The simple truth of it is that you’re the only female writer who makes me laugh. Your Izzy Bickerstaff columns were the wittiest work to come out of the war, and I want to meet the woman who wrote them.

If I swear that I won’t kidnap you, will you do me the honor of dining with me next week? You pick the evening—I’m entirely at your disposal.

Yours,

Markham Reynolds

6th February, 1946

Dear Mr. Reynolds,

I am no proof against compliments, especially compliments about my writing. I’ll be delighted to dine with you. Thursday next?

Yours sincerely,

Juliet Ashton

February 7, 1946

Dear Juliet,

Thursday’s too far away. Monday? Claridge’s? 7:00?

Yours,

Mark

P.S. I don’t suppose you have a telephone, do you?

7th February, 1946

Dear Mr. Reynolds,

All right—Monday, Claridge’s, seven.

I do have a telephone. It’s in Oakley Street under a pile of rubble that used to be my flat. I’m only sub-letting here, and my landlady, Mrs. Olive Burns, possesses the sole telephone on the premises. If you would like to chat with her, I can give you her number.

Yours sincerely,

Juliet Ashton

7th February, 1946

Dear Miss Ashton,

I’m certain the Guernsey Literary Society would like to be included in your article for the Times . I have asked Mrs. Maugery to write to you about our meetings, as she is an educated lady and her words will sound more at home in an article than mine could. I don’t think we are much like literary societies in London.

Mr. Hastings hasn’t found a copy of the Lucas biography yet, but I had a postcard from him saying, “Hard on the trail. Don’t give up.” He is a kind man, isn’t he?

I’m hauling slates for the Crown Hotel’s new roof. The owners are hoping that tourists may want to come back this summer. I am glad of the work but will be happy to be working on my land soon.

It is nice to come home in the evening and find a letter from you.

I wish you good fortune in finding a subject you would care to write a book about.

Yours sincerely,

Dawsey Adams

8th February, 1946

Dear Miss Ashton,

Dawsey Adams has just been to call on me. I have never seen him as pleased with anything as he is with your gift and letter. He was so busy convincing me to write to you by the next post that he forgot to be shy. I don’t believe he is aware of it, but Dawsey has a rare gift for persuasion—he never asks for anything for himself, so everyone is eager to do what he asks for others.

He told me of your proposed article and asked if I would write to you about the literary society we formed during—and because of—the German Occupation. I will be happy to do so, but with a caveat.

A friend from England sent me a copy of Izzy Bickerstaff Goes to War . We had no news from the outside world for five years, so you can imagine how satisfying it was to learn how England endured those years herself. Your book was as informative as it was entertaining and amusing—but it is the amusing tone I must quibble with.

I realize that our name, the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, is an unusual one and could easily be subjected to ridicule. Would you assure me you will not be tempted to do so? The Society members are very dear to me, and I do not wish them to be perceived as objects of fun by your readers.

Would you be willing to tell me of your intentions for the article and also something of yourself ? If you can appreciate the import of my questions, I should be glad to tell you about the Society. I hope I shall hear from you soon.

Yours sincerely,

Amelia Maugery

10th February, 1946

Mrs. Amelia Maugery

Windcross Manor

La Bouvée

St. Martin’s, Guernsey

Dear Mrs. Maugery,

Thank you for your letter. I am very glad to answer your questions. I did make fun of many war-time situations; the Spectator felt a light approach to the bad news would serve as an antidote and that humor would help to raise London’s low morale. I am very glad Izzy served that purpose, but the need to be humorous against the odds is—thank goodness—over. I would never make fun of anyone who loved to read. Nor of Mr. Adams—I was glad to learn one of my books fell into such hands as his.

Since you should know something about me, I have asked the Reverend Simon Simpless, of St. Hilda’s Church near Bury St. Edmunds, Suffolk, to write to you. He has known me since I was a child and is fond of me. I have asked Lady Bella Taunton to provide a reference for me too. We were fire wardens together during the Blitz and she wholeheartedly dislikes me. Between the two of them, you may get a fair picture of my character.

I am enclosing a copy of a biography I wrote about Anne Brontë, so you can see that I am capable of a different kind of work. It didn’t sell very well—in fact, not at all, but I am much prouder of it than I am of Izzy Bickerstaff Goes to War .

If there is anything else I can do to assure you of my good will, I will be glad to do so.

Yours sincerely,

Juliet Ashton

12th February, 1946

Dearest Sophie,

Markham V. Reynolds, he of the camellias, has finally materialized. Introduced himself, paid me compliments, and invited me out to dinner—Claridge’s, no less. I accepted regally—Claridge’s, oh yes, I have heard of Claridge’s—and then spent the next three days fretting about my hair. It’s lucky I have my lovely new dress, so I didn’t have to waste precious fretting time on my clothes.

As Madame Helena said, “The hairs, they are a disaster.” I tried a roll; it fell down. A French twist; it fell down. I was on the verge of tying an enormous red velvet bow on the top of my head when my neighbor Evangeline Smythe came to the rescue, bless her. She’s a genius with my hair. In two minutes, I was a picture of elegance—she caught up all the curls and swirled them around in the back—and I could even move my head. Off I went, feeling perfectly adorable. Not even Claridge’s marble lobby could intimidate me .

Then Markham V. Reynolds stepped forward, and the bubble popped. He’s dazzling. Honestly, Sophie, I’ve never seen anything like him. Not even the furnace-man can compare. Tan, with blazing blue eyes. Ravishing leather shoes, elegant wool suit, blinding white handkerchief in breast pocket. Of course, being American, he’s tall, and he has one of those alarming American smiles, all gleaming teeth and good humor, but he’s not a genial American. He’s quite impressive, and he’s used to ordering people about—though he does it so easily, they don’t notice.