The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society Part 1

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society.

Annie Barrows and Mary Ann Shaffer.

Synopsis:

January 1946: London is emerging from the shadow of the Second World War, and writer Juliet Ashton is looking for her next book subject. Who could imagine that she would find it in a letter from a man she's never met, a native of the island of Guernsey, who has come across her name written inside a book by Charles Lamb...

As Juliet and her new correspondent exchange letters, Juliet is drawn into the world of this man and his friends-and what a wonderfully eccentric world it is. The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society-born as a spur-of-the-moment alibi when its members were discovered breaking curfew by the Germans occupying their island-boasts a charming, funny, deeply human cast of characters, from pig farmers to phrenologists, literature lovers all.

Juliet begins a remarkable correspondence with the society's members, learning about their island, their taste in books, and the impact the recent German occupation has had on their lives. Captivated by their stories, she sets sail for Guernsey, and what she finds will change her forever.

Written with warmth and humor as a series of letters, this novel is a celebration of the written word in all its guises, and of finding connection in the most surprising ways.

PART ONE.

Mr Sidney Stark, Publisher Stephens & Stark Ltd 21 St James's Place London SW1

8th January 1946 January 1946

Dear Sidney,

Susan Scott is a wonder. We sold over forty copies of the book, which was very pleasant, but much more thrilling from my standpoint was the food. Susan managed to get hold of ration coupons for icing sugar and real eggs real eggs for the meringue. If all her literary luncheons are going to achieve these heights, I won't mind touring the country. Do you suppose that a lavish bonus could spur her on to b.u.t.ter? Let's try it-you may deduct the money from my royalties. for the meringue. If all her literary luncheons are going to achieve these heights, I won't mind touring the country. Do you suppose that a lavish bonus could spur her on to b.u.t.ter? Let's try it-you may deduct the money from my royalties.

Now for my grim news. You asked me how work on my new book is progressing. Sidney, it isn't. English Foibles English Foibles seemed so promising at first After all, one should be able to write reams about the Society to Protest Against the Glorification of the English Bunny. I unearthed a photograph of the Vermin Exterminators' Trade Union, marching down an Oxford street with placards screaming 'Down with Beatrix Potter!' But what is there to write about after a caption? Nothing, that's what. seemed so promising at first After all, one should be able to write reams about the Society to Protest Against the Glorification of the English Bunny. I unearthed a photograph of the Vermin Exterminators' Trade Union, marching down an Oxford street with placards screaming 'Down with Beatrix Potter!' But what is there to write about after a caption? Nothing, that's what.

I no longer want to write this book-my head and my heart just aren't in it. Dear as Izzy Bickerstaff is-and was-to me, I don't want to write anything else under that name. I don't want to be considered a light-hearted journalist any more. I do acknowledge that making readers laugh-or at least chuckle-during the war was no mean feat, but I don't want to do it any more. I can't seem to dredge up any sense of proportion or balance these days, and G.o.d knows one can't write humour without them.

In the meantime, I am very happy that Stephens & Stark is making money on Izzy Bickerstaff Goes to War Izzy Bickerstaff Goes to War. It relieves my conscience over the debacle of my Anne Bronte biography.

My thanks for everything and love, Juliet

P. S. I am reading the collected correspondence of Mrs Montagu. Do you know what that dismal woman wrote to Jane Carlyle? 'My dear little Jane, everyone is born with a vocation, and yours is to write charming little notes.' I hope Jane spat at her.

From Sidney to Juliet Miss Juliet Ashton 23 Glebe Place Chelsea London SW3

10th January 1946 January 1946

Dear Juliet,

Congratulations! Susan Scott said you took to the audience at the luncheon like a drunkard to rum-and they to you-so please stop worrying about your tour next week. I have no doubt of your success. Having witnessed your electrifying performance of 'The Shepherd Boy Sings in the Valley of Humiliation' eighteen years ago, I know you will have every listener coiled around your little finger within moments. A hint perhaps in this case you should refrain from throwing the book at the audience afterwards.

Susan is looking forward to ushering you through bookshops from Bath to Yorks.h.i.+re. And of course, Sophie is agitating for an extension of the tour into Scotland. I've told her in my most infuriating older-brother manner that It Remains To Be Seen. She misses you terribly, I know, but Stephens & Stark must be impervious to such considerations.

I've just received 7zz/s sales figures from London and the Home Counties-they are excellent. Again, congratulations!

Don't fret about English Foibles; English Foibles; better that your enthusiasm should die now than after six months spent writing about bunnies. better that your enthusiasm should die now than after six months spent writing about bunnies.

The cra.s.s commercial possibilities of the idea were attractive, but I agree that the topic would soon grow horribly fey. Another subject-one you'll like-will occur to you.

Dinner one evening before you go? Say when.

Love, Sidney

P. S. You write charming little notes.

From Juliet to Sidney 11th January 1946 January 1946

Dear Sidney,

Yes, lovely-can it be somewhere on the river? I want oysters and champagne and roast beef, if obtainable; if not, a chicken will do. I am very happy that Izzy;s Izzy;s sales are good. Are they good enough for me not to have to pack a suitcase and leave London? sales are good. Are they good enough for me not to have to pack a suitcase and leave London?

As you and S&S have turned me into a moderately successful author, dinner must be my treat.

Love, Juliet

P. S. I did not throw 'The Shepherd Boy Sings in the Valley of Humiliation' at the audience. I threw it at the elocution mistress. I meant to cast it at her feet, but I missed.

From Juliet to Sophie Strachan Mrs Alexander Strachan Feochan Farm by Oban Argyll

12th January 1946 January 1946

Dear Sophie,

Of course I'd adore to see you, but I am a soulless, will-less automaton. I have been ordered by Sidney to Bath, Colchester, Leeds, and several other places I can't remember at the moment, and I can't just slope off to Scotland instead. Sidney's brow would lower-his eyes would narrow-he would stalk. You know how nerve-racking it is when Sidney stalks.

I wish I could sneak away to your farm and be coddled. You'd let me put my feet on the sofa, wouldn't you? And then you'd tuck me up in blankets and bring me tea? Would Alexander mind a permanent presence on his sofa? You've told me he is a patient man, but perhaps he would find it annoying.

Why am I so melancholy? I should be delighted at the prospect of reading Izzy Izzy to an entranced audience. You know how I love talking about books, and you know how I adore receiving compliments. I should be thrilled. But the truth is that I'm gloomy-gloomier than I ever felt during the war. Everything is so to an entranced audience. You know how I love talking about books, and you know how I adore receiving compliments. I should be thrilled. But the truth is that I'm gloomy-gloomier than I ever felt during the war. Everything is so broken broken, Sophie: the roads, the buildings, the people. Especially the people.

It's probably the after-effect of a horrid dinner party I went to last night The food was ghastly, but that was to be expected. It was the guests who unnerved me-they were the most demoralising collection of individuals I've ever encountered. The talk was of bombs and starvation. Do you remember Sarah Morecroft? She was there, all bones and gooseflesh and b.l.o.o.d.y lipstick. She used to be pretty, didn't she? Wasn't she mad about that riding chap who went up to Cambridge? He was nowhere to be seen; she's married to a doctor with grey skin who clicks his tongue before he speaks. And he was positively romantic compared to the man sitting next to me, who just happened to be single, presumably the last unmarried man on earth-G.o.d, how miserably mean-spirited I sound! I swear, Sophie, I think there's something wrong with me. Every man I meet is intolerable. Perhaps I should set my sights lower-not as low as the grey doctor who clicks, but a bit lower. I can't even blame it on the war-I was never very good at men, was I?

Do you suppose the St Swithin's furnace-man was my one true love? Since I never spoke to him, it seems unlikely, but at least it was a pa.s.sion unscathed by disappointment And he had such beautiful black hair. After that, you remember, came the Year of Poets. Sidney scoffs about those poets, though I don't see why, since he introduced me to them. Then poor Adrian. Oh, there's no need to recite the dread rolls to you, but, Sophie-what is is the matter with me? Am I too choosy? I don't want to be married just for the sake of being married. I can't think of anything lonelier than spending the rest of my life with someone I can't talk to, or worse, someone I can't be silent with. the matter with me? Am I too choosy? I don't want to be married just for the sake of being married. I can't think of anything lonelier than spending the rest of my life with someone I can't talk to, or worse, someone I can't be silent with.

What a dreadful, complaining letter. You see? I've succeeded in making you feel relieved that I won't be visiting Scotland. But then again, I may-my fate rests with Sidney.

Kiss Dominic for me and tell him I saw a rat the size of a terrier the other day.

Love to Alexander and even more to you, Juliet From Dawsey Adams, Guernsey, Channel Islands, to Juliet Miss Juliet Ashton 81 Oakley Street Chelsea London SW3

12th January 1946 January 1946

Dear Miss Ashton,

My name is Dawsey Adams, and I live on my farm in St Martin's Parish, Guernsey. I know of you because I have an old book that once belonged to you-The Selected Essays of Elia, by an author whose name in real life was Charles Lamb. Your name and address were written inside the front cover.

I will speak plain-I love Charles Lamb. My own book says Selected Selected, so I wondered if that meant he had written other things to choose from? These are the pieces I want to read, and though the Germans are gone now, there aren't any bookshops left in Guernsey.

I want to ask a kindness of you. Could you send me the name and address of a bookshop in London? I would like to order more of Charles Lamb's writings by post. I would also like to ask if anyone has ever written his life story, and if they have, could a copy be found for me? For all his bright and turning mind, I think Mr Lamb must have had a great sadness in his life.

Charles Lamb made me laugh during the German Occupation, especially when he wrote about the roast pig. The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society came into being because of a roast pig we had to keep secret from the German soldiers, so I feel a kins.h.i.+p to Mr Lamb.

I am sorry to bother you, but I would be sorrier still not to know about him, as his writings have made me his friend.

Hoping not to trouble you, Dawsey Adams

P. S. My friend Mrs Maugery bought a pamphlet that once belonged to you, too. It is called Was There a Burning Bush? A Defence of Moses and the Ten Commandments Was There a Burning Bush? A Defence of Moses and the Ten Commandments. She liked your margin note, 'Word of G.o.d or crowd control???' Did you ever decide which?

From Juliet to Dawsey Mr Dawsey Adams Les Vaux Lavens La Bouvee St Martin's, Guernsey

15th January, 1946 January, 1946

Dear Mr Adams,

I no longer live in Oakley Street, but I'm so glad that your letter found me and that my book found you. It was a sad wrench to part with the Selected Essays of Elia Selected Essays of Elia. I had two copies and a dire need of shelf-room, but I felt like a traitor selling it. You have soothed my conscience.

I wonder how the book got to Guernsey? Perhaps there is some secret sort of homing instinct in books that brings them to their perfect readers. How delightful if that were true.

Because there is nothing I would rather do than rummage through bookshops. I went at once to Hastings & Sons upon receiving your letter. I have gone to them for years, always finding die one book I wanted-and then three more I hadn't known I wanted. I told Mr Hastings you would like a good, clean copy (and not not a rare edition) of a rare edition) of More Essays of Elia More Essays of Elia. He will send it to you by separate post (invoice enclosed) and was delighted to know you are also a lover of Charles Lamb. He said the best biography of Lamb was by E. V. Lucas, and he would hunt out a copy for you, though it may take a little while.

In the meantime, will you accept this small gift from me? It is his Selected Letters Selected Letters. I think it will tell you more about him than any biography ever could. E. V. Lucas sounds too stately to include my favourite pa.s.sage from Lamb: Buz, buz, buz, b.u.m, b.u.m, b.u.m, wheeze, wheeze, wheeze, fen, fen, fen, rinky, tinky, tinky, cr'annch! I shall certainly come to be condemned at last. I have been drinking too much for two days running. I find my moral sense in the last stage of a consumption and my religion getting faint. Buz, buz, buz, b.u.m, b.u.m, b.u.m, wheeze, wheeze, wheeze, fen, fen, fen, rinky, tinky, tinky, cr'annch! I shall certainly come to be condemned at last. I have been drinking too much for two days running. I find my moral sense in the last stage of a consumption and my religion getting faint.

You'll find that in the Letters Letters (it's on page 244). They were the first Lamb I ever read, and I'm ashamed to say I only bought the book because I'd read elsewhere that a man named Lamb had visited his friend Leigh Hunt, in prison for libelling the Prince of Wales. (it's on page 244). They were the first Lamb I ever read, and I'm ashamed to say I only bought the book because I'd read elsewhere that a man named Lamb had visited his friend Leigh Hunt, in prison for libelling the Prince of Wales.

While there, Lamb helped Hunt paint the ceiling of his cell sky blue with white clouds. Next they painted a rose trellis on one wall. Then, I further discovered, Lamb offered money to help Hunt's family-though he himself was as poor as a man could be. Lamb also taught Hunt's youngest daughter to say the Lord's Prayer backwards. You naturally want to learn everything you can about a man like that.

That's what I love about reading: one tiny thing will interest you in a book, and that tiny thing will lead you on to another book, and another bit there will lead you on to a third book. It's geometrically progressive-all with no end in sight, and for no other reason than sheer enjoyment.

The red stain on the cover that looks like blood-is blood. I was careless with my paper knife. The enclosed postcard is a reproduction of a painting of Lamb by his friend William Hazlitt.

If you have time to correspond with me, could you answer several questions? Three, in fact Why did a roast-pig dinner have to be kept a secret? How could a pig cause you to begin a literary society? And, most pressing of all, what is a potato peel pie-and why is it included in your society's name?

I am renting a flat in Chelsea, 23 Glebe Place, London SW3. My Oakley Street flat was bombed in 1945 and I still miss it Oakley Street was wonderful-I could see the Thames out of three of my windows. I know that I am fortunate to have any place at all to live in London, but I much prefer whining to counting my blessings. I am glad you thought of me to do your Elia Elia hunting. hunting.

Yours sincerely, Juliet Ashton