“Seen enough of Jersey already?” he asks.
“Ha-ha, no. Just a bag issue.” I shuffle forward in the seat as the car pulls away from the curb. “Listen, I’m sorry again that I shouted at you earlier. That was entirely uncalled for. I, um, I had a bad flight and, well, there’s no excuse. I don’t want you to think I’m some horrible person—especially if you are the only cabdriver on the island.”
“That’s OK,” he says with a nod. Then after a pause, “You do know I’m not the only cabdriver, right?”
He says it as though I’m a small child with limited capacity for understanding.
“Yeah, sure—I was joking.”
I sit back in my seat and pull out my phone. This is so awkward. I definitely prefer London-style cab apps where you know you’ll never see your driver again.
“I picked up the wrong suitcase,” I explain.
“Easily done,” he says. “Everyone has the same bag.”
OK, perhaps he doesn’t hate me. He’s just the quiet, unexpansive sort. Tom Hanks probably didn’t have great chat either, after being marooned on an island for years. I decide to text Vanya, to get her view on the suitcase situation, but halfway through typing, my gran calls. Gran has become a bigger part of my life since Mum died, and we check in with each other at least once a week.
“Hi, Gran. Hey, you’ll never guess where I am.”
“Timbuktu?” she says. “The Science Museum?” Then after a pause, “Your flat?”
She’s genuinely trying to guess; this could take a while.
“No, I’m in Jersey!”
I hear a familiar scrunching sound, and instantly picture Gran standing by her phone, sharpening her Sudoku pencils, which she keeps in an old Branston pickle jar on the hall table.
“I’m here to write about Mum and Dad’s love story for the website. I think I’m going to use Mum’s album to illustrate the piece—go to all the places they went that summer they fell in love and take photos of myself in the same locations, a sort of ‘Jersey Then and Now.’ If I could track down some pictures of my great-grandparents, I could show the journey of the coin passing through three generations.”
The idea sounds even better now than when I first pitched it.
Gran makes a disapproving tskkk sound.
“I wouldn’t go digging up the past, Laura. You shouldn’t get nostalgic for someone else’s memories.”
“I want to find out about my Jersey family too,” I say, ignoring her reservations. “I sent Aunt Monica a postcard, to ask if she’d meet me while I’m here.”
My dad’s “Mad Aunt Monica” is one of the few living relatives I’m aware of. I’m not in touch with anyone else in Dad’s family, but Monica sends an illegible Christmas card every year. If she responds to my card in time, I’m hoping I can meet her. She might remember stories I haven’t heard or have photos she could share.
“I should have come before,” I tell Gran, “but you know how funny Mum always was about Dad’s family.”
“Your great-aunt Monica is mad as a bandicoot, I wouldn’t rely on her to remember anything accurately,” Gran says, clearing her throat.
“What about Bad Granny, do we even know if she’s still alive?” I ask, smiling at the nickname Mum had for her mother-in-law. Apparently, they had some “big falling-out” after Dad’s funeral, and Dad’s mum, Sue, cut off all contact.
“You shouldn’t call her that,” Gran says sternly. “She and your mother might not have seen eye-to-eye, but she buried her son and her mother within a few months of each other. That would take its toll on anyone.” Gran goes quiet on the line. Then in a small, worried voice she says, “I wish you’d told me you were planning on going there, Laura. It was complicated, your mother’s relationship with your father’s family. Grief can make people behave in peculiar ways.”
Gran’s tone takes me by surprise. I thought she’d be excited to hear about my Jersey adventure, that she would be pleased I’m doing something positive.
“I didn’t know I was coming myself until two days ago,” I say defensively. “And I doubt I’ll even get a chance to see Aunt Monica. She might not get my postcard in time, and I’m flying back on Sunday night. You don’t have any contact details, do you, besides her address? I couldn’t find a phone number or an email address.”
“I’m afraid not. Well, you just try to enjoy having a change of scene,” Gran says, her voice back to its normal volume. “Did you take David with you?”
“Oh. No.” I should never have introduced David to Gran; we were only together for a total of four months, it was too soon. “David and I broke up.” I’ve been avoiding telling her this for three weeks.
“Oh, Laura, no! Why? I liked David. He had such lovely clean nails.”
Trust Gran to notice these things.
“Um. Yes, I liked him too.” I glance at the driver, to see if he looks to be listening to my conversation; he doesn’t. “It didn’t feel like what Mum and Dad had. We didn’t have enough in common. I don’t think he was my person, Gran.”
“Laura! This yardstick you’re using . . .” She trails off. “I think your mother painted you a rather rosy picture of life with your father, but it was not perfect by any means. You shouldn’t use her relationship as a benchmark for potential suitors.”
I smile at Gran’s old-fashioned idea of “suitors,” as though there’s a line of men wearing Regency fashion waiting to mark my dance card.
“Maybe she ruined my chance for happiness by setting the bar so high.” I’m teasing her now, but Gran doesn’t laugh.
“Look, I want to talk about all this properly, Laura, but Pam’s just arrived with more wood glue so I’m going to have to call you back.”
Gran and her friend Pam make miniature architectural models out of matchsticks. They spend months on each creation and, despite my concerns about it being a fire hazard, her bungalow is stuffed full of them.
“OK, happy gluing—love to Pam,” I say, hanging up the call.
Gran has always kept herself busy, as though perpetual motion might help her elude feeling sad. We do talk about Mum, but Gran’s of a generation who sees grief as a wound to be licked in private. One weekend when I wouldn’t get out of bed, she accused me of being a “Wallowing Wendy.” I called her a “Forget-About-It Fiona” and a “Move-Along Mandy,” and then we both started laughing and crying at the same time. I got up and that was the end of the conversation. That’s how it goes with Gran sometimes. Her own husband, a grandad I’ve never met, walked out when Mum was five, so I think Gran got used to taking care of herself.