Gerry squeezes my arm tight and taps the end of his stick in the sand.
“Well, Laura, if we consult the book of Gin and Gibberish, it would say, the question is only—‘What are you doing with your life today?’ I think I told you my philosophy is not to look too far back, or too far ahead.”
“Well then, today I am going on a boat trip with a lovely young man, I am writing my article as best I can, and I am in a breathtakingly beautiful place, having a wonderful walk with you, Gerry.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound all that bad.”
Helping Gerry up the path from the beach, I think he definitely shouldn’t be coming down here on his own, he’s so unsteady on his feet.
When we near the garden, I ask, “So, what should I do then, about Belinda’s letter?”
“I’ll leave it up to you. I’ll probably have forgotten all about this conversation by tomorrow or fallen over again and knocked it clean out of my head.” He makes a funny face by squinting his eyes and pulling his bottom lip up over his top one. I squeeze his arm tighter. For someone whose body is so out of his control, Gerry is astonishingly at ease with the world. It’s as though he knows some secret contentment that the rest of us are not privy to; being in his company is enough to make you feel it might rub off on you.
It is strange to think I have known Gerry such a short time and that tomorrow I will go home and not have a chance to know him better. I wonder if this feeling of being stuck, of being left behind, has come from not traveling much these last two years—not stepping out of my own small sphere, not meeting new people, not seeing new places. Every trip I took in my early twenties sent me home with a broader mind and a new perspective on the person I wanted to be. Then again, there’s something about this island and the people I have met here. It feels like more than a research trip or a holiday to me; it feels like something I might want to stay connected to when my real life resumes.
Chapter 19
When we get back to the house, Sandy is sitting in her garden with a hot drink and a newspaper.
“Morning! I’m surprised to see you up so bright and early, Laura,” she calls over the wall, waving an arm for us to come and join her. I look to Gerry.
“Hold on, I just need a run up,” Gerry says, backing up as though he’s about to take a flying leap over the garden wall. It must show on my face that, for a moment, I think he’s seriously going to attempt such a thing, because Gerry laughs, points at my face, and then rocks forward on his stick to get his balance again.
“Maybe not today,” he says. “I’ll leave you ladies to it. Sandy, why don’t you show Laura round the barn? I think she’d be interested.”
“The barn?” I ask.
“My life’s work,” he says cryptically, then he gives a small bow, turns, and starts slowly making his way up to the house.
“What’s the barn?” I ask Sandy as I clamber over the low stone wall.
“Well, Gerry must rate you if he wants you to see the barn,” Sandy says. “It’s just across the road, we’ll have a gander in a bit. How are you feeling?” Her ruddy, round face breaks into a knowing grin.
“I’ve felt fresher,” I say, climbing the slope of her garden. “I blame you entirely for that lethal sangria you kept plying me with last night.”
Sandy offers me a croissant from a basket on the table.
“I’ve put together a box of basics for your kitchen, just some milk, bread, and oatcakes—a few things to keep you going. In the meantime—breakfast.”
“This is delightful, thank you, Sandy,” I say, helping myself to one.
“So . . .” She raises her eyebrows at me. “Did anything happen last night?”
I frown, unsure how she knows about Jasper.
“Luckily I managed to sober up enough to finally meet Suitcase Man.”
Sandy’s face falls. “Oh, I thought maybe you and Ted— I saw him take you up to the house?”
“No, no.” I shake my head firmly. “He was helping me because I was a little worse for wear—sangria on an empty stomach.”
“Oh no!” Sandy puts a hand over her face. Then, peeping her eyes through her fingers, she says, “It’s fine, he’s a doctor, I’m sure he’s seen worse.” She pauses, taking a sip of tea. “So you met this suitcase bloke then.”
“I did,” I say, and I can’t stop myself from grinning.
“I see,” Sandy says with a sigh. “Like that, is it? He wasn’t a rotter then?”
“Definitely not a rotter. Gerry seemed to enjoy himself last night,” I say, changing the subject. I’m not sure I want to tell Sandy more about Jasper; she doesn’t feel like a receptive audience on the topic.
“Oh, it was great to see him in such good form. He’s had a few low days, so I’m pleased yesterday was a good one for him.”
“You’re such a good neighbor to him. Ilídio’s sister was telling me you’re always cooking Gerry meals.” I don’t even know the names of the people in the flats above and below us in London. I only know their faces to nod to on the stairs; I resolve that when I get home I will go and introduce myself properly.
“Nah. He’s the one who’s been a great neighbor to me. I’m going to miss him, I like cooking for him.” Sandy looks pensive for a moment, frowning down into her mug. “That’s one of the challenges with Parkinson’s, making sure you eat right, you need to get enough calories. You see how thin he is. That’s another reason he needs to go to Acrebrooke, to eat three proper meals a day, no excuses.” Sandy blinks back tears, her cheerful front momentarily fractured.
“I’m sure he’ll still appreciate your cooking when he comes back to visit,” I say gently, as she wipes her eyes with a sleeve.
“Who knows who we’ll have moving in. Someone with screaming kids, knowing my luck. Don’t get me wrong, I love children, but I get enough of that at work.”
Sandy explains she’s a swimming teacher. As we finish our breakfast, she makes me laugh describing some of the little characters she’s taught to swim over the years.
“Morning, Laura,” says Ilídio, striding out of their house carrying a toolbox. He pauses when he sees Sandy, puts his tools down, squeezes her shoulders, kisses her neck, cracks his knuckles, and then picks up the toolbox again. I love their easy physical affection.
“Hey, hun, would you show Laura the workshop? Gerry suggested it,” Sandy says.
“You want to see?” Ilídio asks, tilting his head toward me.