“I volunteer for Hedgehog Rescue,” Aunt Monica explains. “Always scooping them out of drains and ditches, we are. I like to be prepared, hence—” She points down to her feet.
“The galoshes,” I say.
“Now, Laura, I must tell you how sorry I was to hear about your mother passing. To lose both your parents too soon, well, that’s a raw straw as they say.”
“Thank you.” I nod, clasping my mug with both hands.
“Despite all the upset, I never had a word to say against your mother. I thought she was a ray of sunshine—Alex was a fool to let her go.” Monica shakes her head, lost in recollection. “And then to waste his last years on this earth in arguing.”
“What do you mean, ‘let her go’?” I ask, shuffling forward in my chair and putting the tepid milk down on a side table.
“Well, he should have made a go of it, shouldn’t he? I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but he was a prize chump, my nephew, bounded about from woman to woman. Didn’t have the sense to see when he should stop dillydallying and settle down—especially with you on the way.”
“But—” I feel myself squinting in confusion. Aunt Monica must be mistaken or thinking of someone else. “They did settle down. They got married.”
Monica makes a face, then laughs.
“They—they got engaged on the beach down there . . .” I trail off, thrusting my arm in the direction of the sea. Monica clasps her hands together, resting them against her chin.
“Who told you this then?” she asks.
“Mum did.” I feel myself frown.
“Laura, your parents never married, and if they were engaged then your father certainly never told any of us. I’m sure they had a merry time of it that summer while it lasted, but— I don’t know why she would have told you that.” She pauses, picking up a hedgehog pincushion from the side and starting to redistribute the pins more evenly. “Maybe Annie was old-fashioned, didn’t want you to feel ‘illegitimate.’ ” Monica whispers the word. “Though I thought nobody worried about that kind of thing these days.”
“Of course they got married,” I say, standing up and pacing the room. “Why would Mum make something like that up?”
Monica shrugs and carries on rearranging pins.
“The way I saw it, they had a gorgeous fling, got their story in the paper, then Alex got the jitters and broke it off. He’d never had a girl last more than a few months before. I’m not sure he knew how to be in love, especially with all the attention, and they were both so young. Annie flew back to Bristol and found out you were on the way.” Monica sighs. “In my day, they’d have been hauled up the aisle before the bump got too big.”
I sit down again and cross and recross my legs, then clasp my hands on my lap, unable to compute what she’s telling me. None of this makes any sense.
“Of course all your mother’s phobias didn’t make life easy for anyone. Not that Al wasn’t sympathetic, but I’m sure that took its toll.”
“What phobias? Mum didn’t have phobias!” Clearly Monica has no idea who or what she’s talking about.
“Oh, she was terrified of the dark, of storms, of seagulls. I remember Alex saying they had to sleep with the lights on—quite exhausting.”
“She didn’t have anything like that.”
“Really?” Monica taps her lip thoughtfully. “I’m sure it was her who had a whole catalog of phobias.”
The telephone rings, and Monica springs across the room to answer it.
“Yes, Hedgehog Rescue . . . Yes. You think it’s alive? Don’t get too close, you’ll scare her. Address? . . . Don’t try to pick her up. I’ll be there with a box in a jiffy.”
She scribbles a note on a pad and then hurries to put her coat on.
“Sorry, Laura, duty calls. Prickler in distress.” She pulls a pair of pink washing-up gloves from an inside coat pocket. “Look, I’m sure your mother thought it was for the best. Such a shame she fell out with everyone, though. I always liked her, and, of course, we all wanted to know you. Now, you must come for tea when I’m not on call. I’ve got photos to show you—your father as a boy, and I want to hear all about your life, about this website you write for. Do you have pets? Any health conditions? What day starts the week for you? It’s a Wednesday for me, which I know is unusual.” She starts hustling me out of the door and picks up a purple flatcap to match her galoshes. Then she pauses for a moment, holding both my hands with her pink gloves, “You know, it’s rather disconcerting to see his good looks on a woman.”
“That’s kind, Aunt. I’ll try and come back. It’s just I’ve got a lot to fit in before I head home on Sunday.” I try to hide the disappointment in my voice. Clearly Mad Aunt Monica is not going to be a reliable source for my article.
We walk together down her drive, and Monica climbs into a heavily dented green Škoda. As she’s about to drive off, she rolls down the window and asks, “Do you need a lift anywhere?”
“No, I’m fine, thank you.”
“I’m visiting my sister, Sue, your grandmother, tomorrow. All that unpleasantness between her and Annie was a long time ago. Now that you’re here, I’m sure she’d want to see you, patch things up.”
Patch things up, with Bad Granny? Mum told me they fell out over Dad’s will. I found a letter from her saying as much when I packed up Mum’s house. I wonder if the Jersey family convinced themselves Mum and Dad were never married so they could rationalize cutting Mum off.
“I’ve got your number now, you wrote it in the card, we’ll make a plan for Sunday,” Monica shouts as she reverses down the drive. “I’ll make us a Swiss log, everyone likes Swiss log—except for psychopaths. You’re not a psychopath, are you, Laura?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Excellent.”
Then the green Škoda, hedgehog stickers lining the rear window, shoots off up the road. The whole encounter leaves me feeling completely bemused. I don’t know what I’d expected Aunt Monica to be like, what I’d expected her to say, but it wasn’t that. I’m not having much success on any fronts today. There’s still no word from J. Le Maistre, and Maude hasn’t called me back.
I check my phone again, hopeful for a message, but the screen is blank, the battery gone. Oh no, what if they’ve tried to call? My watch says it’s five past two—and I realize I’m now late to meet Ted. Running back down the road to the car park, I see his cab, but he’s not inside. I rush down to the Plémont beach café, looking to see if he’s waiting for me, but there’s no sign of him. Maybe he nipped to the loo, he can’t have gone far. While I’m waiting for him to appear, I walk around the café to the top of the steep steps that lead down onto the beach. The stairs look as though they’ve been rebuilt many times over the years, a constant battle to stave off the destructive power of the sea. I can see why Ted warned me about the tides now—the waves are lapping against the bottom of the steps and they are the only way off this beach.