The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

Little is known in the UK about the German occupation of the Channel Islands during the Second World War. Indeed, little seems to be taught in schools or documented in books concerning the plight of the Channel Islands, the only British Crown Dependencies to suffer occupation. It is shocking that due to either lack of sympathy or a feeling of public shame the hardships suffered by Guernsey, Jersey, Alderney, Sark and Herm are virtually unknown in a society that has spent decades deconstructing and exposing every crime of WWII.

Deemed to be no longer strategically important the Channel Islands were left completely undefended against German assault. Ships were sent to offer the islanders a means of escape before the German army reached them. Most of the inhabitants of Alderney took this opportunity, in Guernsey parents faced the heart-wrenching choice of keeping their children with them in danger or sending them to live with strangers for the remainder of the war and in Jersey the majority of the residence stayed. Unaware that the islands had been left undefended the Germans approached with caution and, mistaking some tomato export lorries for troop vehicles, heavily bombed St Peter Port.

During the occupation the islanders suffered greatly at the hands of their conquerors, although many of the troops saw their time in the Channel as a glorified holiday. The food quickly ran low and the islanders were deported to concentration camps on the continent for such crimes as listening to radios, having Jewish grandparents and aiding the slave workers who were brought to the islands. Eager to preserve his victory in conquering a little piece of England Hitler fortified the Channel Islands more than the beaches at Normandy. About six thousand slave workers were brought in, imprisoned in camps and forced to build a forest of concrete fortifications around the islands.

When D-Day finally came and Normandy was liberated the supply lines to the Channel Islands were cut in an attempt to starve out the German forces, the islanders starved with them. It wasn’t until six months later that a Red Cross ship was permitted to approach the Channel Islands bring much needed relief to the malnourished inhabitants.

Even when the islands were liberated when the war ended in 1945 there was no end to the suffering of the islanders. Many were accused of aiding the enemy, although the allegations were quickly discovered to be unfounded, and the women who had had relationships with German officers during the occupation, ‘Jerry-bags’, suffered acts of revenge.

Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows’ The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society is a touching, witty combination of expertly researched fact and cleverly conceived fiction. It dramatises the occupation of Guernsey in a way both unique and moving, weaving a tale of tragedy and loss, of heroism and bravery and of people pulling together during a time of great hardship. When war comes to Guernsey all social barriers are broken, all lives thrown into turmoil and an unlikely band of friends forced together. Set in 1946 this humorous and hopeful story is veiled in a shroud of mourning, relating the past by softly touching on the memories of a collective group, slowly eking out the painful truth.

This novel successfully captures and recreates the shell-shocked mood of a continent recovering from war and does not shy away from subjects which a post war Britain was eager to dust under the carpet. With many quick-witted and eccentric narrators this novel will make you want to drop all your responsibilities, fly to Guernsey and never come back.

The Curious Case of the Dried Squirrel: Part 1

It is said that imitation is the best form of flattery and also that laughter is the best form of medicine. With this in mind I hope you will enjoy the initial installment of the great detective Smithe's first case, as told by his very dear and very anonymous friend. This excellent work of satirical fiction is dedicated to one Captain Riley, kind in heart and enamoured of squirrels, to whom it owes questionable plot.

Our story opens in a dark and dreary lodging in central London where a tall and well-tailored man strides restlessly back and forth, twirling his pocket watch on its fine gold chain. The rooms in question belong to my good friend Mr Richard Smithe, a private detective by trade, who receives most of his worldly income from kindly benefactors such as myself and the odd piece of thespian work. I feel it necessary to mention my friend’s occupation in order for you to understand his somewhat questionable standard of living as well as the reason for the eminent Lord Hubert of a great estate in Derbyshire to be pacing so to and fro before my esteemed friend’s hearth.

Smithe, was late. As Smithe was want to be, for almost every appointment I had ever kept with him. Smithe saw no reason for his life to be so continually regimented by the chiming of the church clock in that dismal area of our great capital and so, more often than not, he chose simply to ignore it’s lofty bells. Lord Hubert huffed and sighed and trod down the carpet as he waited. I sat, in my usual chair, smoking as I usually did. To say that I was at home in my dear friends lodgings would be an understatement. We were, you must understand, the closest of companions. For Smithe was a perfect hermit, he confided his ingenious machinations in none, none save me, the most avid and attentive admirer of his work.

Smithe and I had met a few years back at a country club in southern England. He was a man a good ten years younger than I, a mere boy was really. Fresh faced and clean-shaven I had taken him under my wing as he strode self-consciously around the snooker table. Ever upright and assertive with that quick wit and razor sharp intellect Smithe was brash and outgoing but underneath it all I sensed a shyness and a fear that I felt it necessary to take out of the lad with my fatherly advice and friendship. From that day on Smithe, though a genius in his own right, always sought my help and guidance, and I always found it the greatest pleasure to offer it to him in all his endeavours.

It was a good fifteen minutes after the scheduled start of the appointment that I finally heard his quick light step on the stair and the door opened to reveal the petit frame of my friend. He was by no means a tall man, and extremely slim, with no shoulders to speak of. He had a small face with soft features and large pale eyes. He moved swiftly into the room, moving with a grace and poise that I always found myself most envious of, great bear that I am. Smithe laid his hat and cane on the table and removed his gloves before turning to address his guest.

‘My dear Lord Hubert,’ he said, bowing, ‘I do hope I have not kept you waiting long.’

‘You most certainly have Mr Smithe.’ The gentleman replied stiffly.

‘Then please accept my most sincere apologies. You must forgive me sir, for I was detained for some time in the courts, overseeing the conclusion of a previous case.’ Hubert was obviously deeply impressed.

‘You are most meticulous in your work Mr Smithe.’

‘I pride myself in that sir.’ Smithe had since crossed the room to his bookcase and I watched him with sly eyes and a smirk as he slipped a betting slip from the three o’clock race from his inside jacket pocket into a dog-eared volume. Smithe was, amongst many things, a man’s man. He gambled prolifically, drunk like a fish and could never be trusted around women. Even then, in our meeting with a lord, I caught the distinct whiff of whiskey as he passed the back of my chair.

Smithe gestured to the chair opposite my own and Lord Hubert sat, with somewhat affected dignity in my opinion, and slowly and deliberately crossed his legs. I opened my cigarette case and offered it to the two gentlemen. Hubert declined but Smithe, as usual, took one of the French cigarettes between his long pale fingers and stooped over my chair to allow me to light it for him. Smithe gently blew a thin stream of smoke from between his pursed lips and moved over to the window to gaze on the street below. Hubert shuffled indignantly.

‘I can tell from your countenance Sir,’ Smithe began, ‘that you are not a man to suffer fools lightly, nor a man whose time one can waste so I shall get straight down to the point. I see that you have come here in great haste, followed for some distance by a dog. I see also that you came on foot, which you are not often wont to do and that you lunched yesterday with the Duke of Kent. I can tell also that you have been recently disturbed by some great tragedy that happened late last night and you wish to consult me on the most mysterious circumstances of you late wife’s death.’ Smithe turned with a flourish and smiled jovially at his client’s ashen face.

‘What kind of trickery is this?’ cried the Lord. ‘Are you a spy sir or something more sinister?’ The stricken lord had risen from his seat but Smithe shushed him back down with a dignified air and a simple wave of the hand.

‘I am nothing sir, merely a detective. It’s all really very simple you see. I examined you the minute you walked through the door. I can tell from the restless way you paced up and down and you attitude to my tardiness that I must not waste your time and I can see from your general apparel that you dressed in great haste this morning. Your waistcoat is, I am afraid to say, incorrectly buttoned. Your boots are dusty from the street and the hem of your coat is soiled from the many hands of paupers and beggars that have been laid upon it this morning. This is a common problem for a finely dressed Lord I would imagine and so I would assume that a man such as yourself would more often than not travel by carriage. There is also a single strand of dog hair on the back of your trouser leg, not enough surely to indicate the presence of a dog in your home but sign enough that you have encountered one recently. I can see from the crumb of cheese on your lapel not yet dusted away that you dined yesterday and Stilton is an old favourite of the Duke of Kent, is it not? As for the tragedy it is plain from your pallid appearance that you have not slept. Also, when I stepped out this morning on my usual early rounds of the streets I heard from that great untapped resource of maids and footmen that most policemen choose to ignore that the wife of a certain Lord Hubert had been brutally murdered in the night.’ Hubert slumped slightly in his chair.

‘Good Lord,’ said I, ‘in England?’

‘It is all exactly as you say Mr Smithe. Brutally, most brutally murdered. My darling angel.’

‘And the police?’

‘Completely at a loss.’

‘Fools,’ spat Smithe from the corner.

‘You’re my final hope Mr Smithe. Without our help this foul fiend will get away scot-free.’ Smithe turned back to the window.

‘Tell me everything,’ he commanded, ‘omit nothing.’

Thoughts for the Week

So this week, as with many since I graduated, I’ve been looking back and looking forward. How did I come to this point? How did the tiny decisions I made along the way make such substantial differences to my present life? It’s difficult for any graduate right now to make any kind of decision. It’s always a trade off, which is the lesser of the two evils? Sometimes of many evils. There is no definite answer, no right or wrong course of action and you can never be sure where each decision will lead. I know people who have made huge decisions and travelled to the other side of the Earth and sometimes it’s worked out and sometimes it hasn’t. I’ve seen people make the most insignificant choices possible and a whole spiralling series of consequences have led them in some unimaginable direction. It’s ridiculous I know to appear surprised by the randomness of the human existence. I mean people have made this discovery over and over again since we first started thinking and feeling and reflecting on the world around us. You would have thought by now that we would have learnt to simply listen to the observations of our predecessors, but we don’t. We are continually amazed, like the way we are constantly perplexed by how dark it can be at five o’clock in the evening despite the fact that the nights draw in at that time in December every year. Perhaps this is an endearing quality among the human race, like new born infants we are perpetually bamboozled by what is around us, never learning, never growing in wisdom, never worldly.

Take my situation for example, no amount of presupposition could have guessed where my choices would lead me. After the summer of my graduation I chose to return to my university city. I applied for tens of jobs and heard nothing. Finally, out of desperation, I took a flexible part time job at a well-known coffee chain at the recommendation of a friend who worked there. That was over a year ago now and though it’s not my ideal career path I’ve made friends, met my current partner and saved enough money to see some small section of the world. Others have not been so fortunate. Waiting for that dream job to come is a long exercise, longer than any of us ever thought it would be.

I keep wondering, what if any one of those other jobs had got back to me? Who then would be my friends or my boyfriend? Would I ever go into that coffee shop and order a drink with blank indifference from the people I could have known so well? More to the point all this questioning leads me to wonder about the future. Should I do the postgraduate course? Should I wander around the globe until the funds dry up? With so much hanging upon the smallest choice the big decisions fill me with dread. What if I choose the wrong one? I see people moving on around me and people standing still. It’s frightening. It feels like it’s a constant battle to stay in one group and not drift into the other. My friends move away, get job interviews, get opportunities, get partners and trot off across the world. I see people from my school working the same job they did five years ago and the regulars at work, turning up day after day for the same shifts, sometimes with their daughters, old and young, who have followed in their footsteps. I know that for me a mundane nine to five and a comfortable home will never be enough. I’m not saying that I need fame or fortune but adventure would be nice, or freedom. Week in week out you can see the steady grind of life crushing the spirit out of people and it’s terrifying.

Although surely all this musing should have taught me that there’s no point worrying. We’ll never know how things are going to turn out. All we can do is make the best decision with the information available to us and then hold on for dear life as the consequences unravel. So I guess the conclusion I’ve come to this week is that there’s hope, hope for all of us unemployed, underpaid, disillusioned wastrels. I’ve seen fellow colleagues move from cappuccinos to business suits so why can’t I? There’s no one pivotal moment that will get me there, just sheer determination and the slow erosion of time.