American friendship results from advertisement for rubber pants.

Mrs Ethel Mahy interviewed by Margaret Le Cras
Edited transcript of recording.

I was living at Les Rosiers, Annevilles Road, in the Vale.
After the occupation, let’s start there. I received lots of parcels from my relatives in England, my parents, because they knew we were short of everything, and amongst them, eventually, there was a parcel from America, and I opened this parcel, and in it there were two or three pairs of babies rubber pants. Well, I had a six-month-old baby, and I thought, just what I wanted. Who know I need rubber pants, must be someone who knows I’ve got a baby. Must be my brother’s new relatives. I was thrilled with these, I had her address, written on the outside, so I wrote to her, thanked her very much, and asked her how I knew that I needed rubber pants.
Well, on Liberation day we went down to the harbour, my husband and I took it in turns to push the pram. I didn’t go in the morning, he did. He went in the morning, and saw the German Commandant being marched down to the Beaver to go aboard, and we went in the afternoon, my daughter had a seat on the back of the bicycle, so we took it in turns to push the pram and ride the bike. And we met lots of friends, stood by the harbour, and on the harbour bed, it was low tide, there was an American boat, with the fronts open and lorries bringing out things for us. Everybody was very excited. In the evening we went again. The MOH had been using my husband’s car, so he went to ask him if he could borrow it. He said yes, as long as I have it for seven o’clock tomorrow morning. Oh he said I’ll bring it back tonight. So we took the children to my in-laws, and went down to the harbour, all our friends there again, but this time the American boat was riding high, high tide, so they were just on the quay. So we were singing to them Sarnia Cherie, and they were singing to us. And I suppose they called out questions — I don’t know what was said. Apparently the Guernsey Press had put a photograph of this boat on the front page of the next day’s Press, and that lady who had sent the pants had had a son on that boat, and he had bought the Press and sent it to his mother, and in the paper there was an exchange column. I’d put an advert in, in exchange, girls Viola dress, in exchange for baby’s rubber pants, and this lady read that, and thought, Oh, there’s a mother with a baby and no rubber pants. She went straight out and bought some rubber pants and sent them. And that started a life-long correspondence. She was called Clara La Rochelle, and we corresponded all the time, she had three children, two who were grown up, and eventually I had a letter from her and she said “My daughter and I are coming to England for seven days and we hope to come and see you”. And they came over and stayed two days with us, a very very tiny eighty-four year old lady, and her daughter was much bigger. And we took them round the Island, and we talked, and she was very interested in needlework, like I was, and after two days — and we talked all the time — it was time for them to go back, and we took them to the Airport, and as we were waiting for the plane, she leaned over to me and said “Isn’t it a good thing we got on so well — we might have hated the sight of each other!”
And it’s amazing how quickly these friendships start, just like that. I haven’t heard from her for years, now, of course I’m older than she was then, I’ve written to them, both of them, after Christmas, I’ve never heard from them. I wrote to her, she was in a home, like this, and they haven’t replied, and so I‘ve never heard anything.

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