“What a beautiful place,” I say, half whispering. “It’s like a postcard.”
“Your photo—it’s taken at low tide over there,” says Ted, nodding toward the rock pools. “And the Hungry Man kiosk up there does the best hot chocolate on the island.”
“Would you like a drink?” I ask. “Call it a thank-you for rescuing me from death by cow.”
“That isn’t necessary.” He shakes his head.
“It would be my pleasure.”
He looks across at me, scratches his beard, and then slowly moves to unbuckle his seatbelt.
At the kiosk, I order a hot chocolate for myself, on his recommendation, and a black coffee for Ted. We take a seat across from each other on one of the wooden bench tables. Ted looks about as comfortable as a cat stuck up a washing line, as though he’s never been out to coffee with anyone in his life. He was right about the hot chocolate—it’s spectacular; piled high with cream and decorated with marshmallows and Maltesers.
“So, what’s the best local cuisine, besides this hot chocolate?” I say, hugging my elbows toward me and clapping my hands together. “What else have I got to try while I’m here?”
Ted’s eyes crease into a smile, he looks amused by my enthusiasm.
“Black butter, I suppose—it’s a sort of apple jam—oysters fresh from the tide, Jersey wonders—my mother used to make them, they’re like doughnuts. You’re only supposed to fry them when the tide is going out.”
“Ooh, I love traditions like that,” I say, leaning toward him.
Ted catches my eye for a moment before quickly turning his attention to picking at a splinter of wood on the table. I start telling him about my job, the article I’m writing about my parents, the coin, and my great-grandfather who started it all. Ted listens attentively, as though he is genuinely interested.
“These photos in the album are of that first summer they spent together, falling in love. By September, they were engaged.” I feel myself beaming as I tell the story that is so familiar, it feels like my own. “When I was fifteen Mum gave the coin to me”—I show Ted the pendant around my neck—“so that I would always have their story close to me. I’ve always believed it must possess talismanic qualities—to have led my mother to the love of her life.”
Ted is watching me now, his face entirely still.
“Your dad took all these photos of her then?” he asks.
“Yes. Dad was a chef, she was a dance teacher. They worked together at the Pontins holiday resort. Mum managed to get a summer job there at the last minute, so she could stay on the island and be with him. On their evenings off, he would cook for her, and she taught him to dance beneath the stars. She tried to teach me when I was young, she’d get me dancing around the washing line as she hung up clothes, but I’m about as graceful as a panda. She always said Dad was a better student than me.” I feel myself grin. I love telling people their story. “You see this picture of her in a cave?” I say, showing Ted a photo in the album. “This is where my dad proposed. It’s at the bottom of a blowhole. Everything you say in the cave travels right up to the cliff path above. Mum said he asked her there, so that the blowhole would broadcast her saying ‘yes’ to the entire island.”
Ted’s eyes drop back to the coffee spoon and I shake my head, aware I’ve gotten carried away as usual. I reach for my phone to occupy my hands.
“Look, your cow photo already has a hundred and forty-six likes,” I say, showing him the Instagram post. He frowns in incomprehension. “So, how about you?” I ask, changing the subject. “How did you meet your wife, was it here in Jersey?”
“No, in London,” he says, glancing up at me. Perhaps he glimpses my disappointment that he hasn’t offered more, because after slowly shaking his head from side to side he adds, “I don’t live here anymore. I grew up here, but I’m only back to help my dad with something.”
“What a place to spend your childhood,” I say, nodding toward the boys still jumping from the harbor wall. “Do you have a favorite memory, of growing up here?”
It’s a trite question, perhaps too personal, but Ted looks to be considering it seriously. He gazes out across the cove, tapping a finger against his mug.
“When I was younger, I used to drive around with Dad in his cab when my mum was working. Passengers didn’t seem to mind. I loved hearing him talk to people; he always knew the right thing to say. He could tell when someone wanted to talk, when they didn’t. People always left his cab happier than they got in. Even those having a bad day, it was as though he drove them away from whatever had upset them. All these years later, if ever I’m stressed, all I want to do is drive . . .”
He trails off.
“It’s a happy association for you,” I offer. He nods.
Taking a swig of coffee, he stands up, turns to lean both hands on the white railing, and looks down into the sea below.
I walk over to stand next to him, keen to keep the conversation going.
“I think objects can be powerful conduits for memories.” I hold out my arm to show him my wristwatch. “This was my dad’s. He died when I was three. I’ve worn it ever since my wrists were thick enough to hold it. I had to have an extra hole put into the strap so it would fit. I know it’s big and ugly, but it’s all I have left of him.” I stroke my finger across the face of the watch. “I often think how the leather is ingrained with his sweat. I like to imagine how many times he must have glanced at the face, just as I do. Maybe something of him is still in there.”
When I look up, Ted is watching me almost reverently. Then his eyes quickly fall to his wedding ring, and he turns it around and around between his finger and thumb.
“That’s a beautiful way to think of it. I . . .”
“Ted? Ted Palmerston?” comes a voice from behind us. We both turn to see a thickset, muscular man with a shock of ginger hair and a tattoo of the Jersey flag, a white rectangle with a diagonal red cross, on his arm. He has his hand outstretched toward Ted, a huge grin on his face. “While I live and breathe, Palmerston returns.” He laughs.
Ted’s eyes seem to grow larger as he holds up a palm in greeting.
“Hey, Danny,” he says.
Danny looks at me, waiting for an introduction he doesn’t get.
“I’m sorry to hear about your dad,” he says, turning back to Ted. “I always poke my nose into his porch whenever I pass L’Étacq. You know, check he’s OK.”
“That’s decent of you, Danny.”
I look back and forth between the two men.