Mary Shaffer - The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

8th January, 1946

Mr. Sidney Stark, Publisher

Stephens & Stark Ltd.

21 St. Jamess Place

London S.W.1

England

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 procure ration coupons for icing sugar and real eggs for the meringue. If all her literary luncheons are going to achieve these heights, I wont mind touring about the country. Do you suppose that a lavish bonus could spur her on to butter? Lets try ityou 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 isnt.

English Foibles seemed so promising at first. After all, one should be able to write reams about the Society to Protest 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, thats what.

I no longer want to write this bookmy head and my heart just arent in it. Dear as Izzy Bickerstaff isand wasto me, I dont want to write anything else under that name. I dont wantto be considered a light-hearted journalist anymore. I do acknowledge that making readers laughor at least chuckleduring the war was no mean feat, but I dont want to do it anymore. I cant seem to dredge up any sense of proportion or balance these days, and God knows one cannot write humor without them.

In the meantime, I am very happy Stephens & Stark is making money on Izzy Bickerstaff Goes to War. It relieves my conscience over the debacle of my Anne Bront 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, everybody is born with a vocation, and yours is to write charming little notes. I hope Jane spat on her.

10th January, 1946

Miss Juliet Ashton

23 Glebe Place

Chelsea

London S.W. 3

Dear Juliet:

Congratulations! Susan Scott said you took to the audience at the luncheon like a drunkard to rumand they to youso please stop worrying about your tour next week. I havent a 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 when you finish.

Susan is looking forward to ushering you through bookshops from Bath to Yorkshire. And of course, Sophie is agitating for an extension of the tour into Scotland. Ive 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.

Ive just received Izzys sales figures from London and the Home Countiesthey are excellent. Again, congratulations!

Dont fret about English Foibles; better that your enthusiasm died now than after six months spent writing about bunnies. The crass commercial possibilities of the idea were attractive, but I agree that the topic would soon grow horribly fey. Another subjectone youll likewill occur to you.

Dinner one evening before you go? Say when.

Love,

Sidney

P.S. You write charming little notes.

11th January, 1946

Dear Sidney,

Yes, lovelycan 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 Izzys sales are good. Are they good enough that I dont have to pack a bag and leave London?

Since 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.

12th January, 1946

Mrs. Alexander Strachan

Feochan Farm

by Oban

Argyll

Dear Sophie,

Of course Id adore to see you, but I am a soul-less, will-less automaton. I have been ordered by Sidney to Bath, Colchester, Leeds, and several other garden spots I cant recall at the moment, and I cant just slither off to Scotland instead. Sidneys brow would lowerhis eyes would narrowhe would stalk. You know how nerve-racking it is when Sidney stalks.

I wish I could sneak away to your farm and have you coddle me. Youd let me put my feet on the sofa, wouldnt you? And then youd tuck blankets around me and bring me tea. Would Alexander mind a permanent resident on his sofa? Youve 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 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 Im gloomygloomier than I ever was during the war. Everything is so broken, Sophie: the roads, the buildings, the people. Especially the people.

This is probably the aftereffect 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 methey were the most demoralizing collection of individuals Ive ever encountered. The talk was of bombs and starvation. Do you remember Sarah Morecroft? She was there, all bones and gooseflesh and bloody lipstick. Didnt she use to be pretty? Wasnt she mad for that horse-riding fellow who went up to Cambridge? He was nowhere in evidence; shes married to a doctor with grey skin who clicks his tongue before he speaks. And he was a figure of wild romance compared to my dinner partner, who just happened to be a single man, presumably the last one on earthoh Lord, how miserably mean-spirited I sound!

I swear, Sophie, I think theres something wrong with me. Every man I meet is intolerable. Perhaps I should set my sights lowernot so low as the grey doctor who clicks, but a bit lower. I cant even blame it on the warI was never very good at men, was I?

Do you suppose the St. Swithins furnace-man was my one true love? Since I never spoke to him, it seems unlikely, but at least it was a passion unscathed by disappointment. And he had that beautiful black hair. After that, you remember, came the Year of Poets. Sidneys quite snarky about those poets, though I dont see why, since he introduced me to them. Then poor Adrian. Oh, theres no need to recite the dread rolls to you, but Sophiewhat is the matter with me? Am I too particular? I dont want to be married just to be married. I cant think of anything lonelier than spending the rest of my life with someone I cant talk to, or worse, someone I cant be silent with.

What a dreadful, complaining letter. You see? Ive succeeded in making you feel relieved that I wont be stopping in Scotland. But then again, I maymy fate rests with Sidney.

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