“Laura’s also writing about Jersey,” Jasper says, saving June from answering, “a travel article about local dishes and traditions. I thought you could give her a few of your local recipes, Mum.”
“I’d be delighted,” says Maude, standing up. “Why don’t you come inside with me for a moment, Laura? We’ll have a root around. I might even have some old snaps of Jasper in his birthday suit you’ll find amusing.”
“Mum.” Jasper rolls his eyes but looks secretly pleased.
Glancing across at June, I’m worried she’ll think me rude to leave before she’s answered my question, but Keith is now talking to her quietly and her eyes drop to her lap.
Inside, Maude ducks into the kitchen and picks up a large leather book stuffed with loose pages, then she shows me through to the living room and offers me a seat on a blue sofa. I perch uncomfortably on the edge, wondering if Keith’s naked body has lain here before me.
“Local recipes, right, let’s see what I have,” says Maude. As she flicks through the huge book in her lap, I explain my idea for a travel piece told through food.
“It sounds like a wonderful idea. My late husband and I traveled around Europe a great deal, and you know the strongest memories I have of those trips are the meals we shared: a game tortellini in Tuscany, currywurst from the Rhine. You must taste a place to remember it.” Maude pauses, smiling to herself. “What is the taste of Jersey then? You’ve got Jersey wonders, of course, cabbage loaf,” she starts ticking off a list on her fingers, “bean crock, apple layer cake, ormer stew, oysters, Jersey Royals done properly, there’s an art to that.”
I start taking notes on my phone. This is just what I need. Jasper was right about his mother being an excellent resource.
“June used to make a mean apple layer cake,” Maude says, pausing to catch my eye. “She has dementia now.” She waits a moment for this to sink in, then goes on, “She hasn’t a clue who’s who. She’s in full-time care, but Keith likes to take her out at the weekend. She’ll still go with him, despite not knowing his name. There’s an acknowledgment that she’s somewhere safe, with people who love her.”
Her words hit me like a punch to the chest, the strange dynamic between them immediately making sense.
“Oh, how sad,” I say, my voice quiet. I feel rebuked, though Maude has been nothing but kind.
“Poor Keith has had a hard time of it,” Maude says. “I sometimes think I was luckier to have Frank die on me, than to have endured what Keith has—to see the person he loves fade away in front of his eyes.”
A tight ball of shame forms in my stomach; shame at the assumptions I made about people whose lives I knew nothing about. I think of my conversation on the beach with Gerry this morning—about assuming too much.
“Last year, June came here, and she said, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name, but I remember I love you.’ I cried, and she didn’t know why I was crying.” Maude blots at her eye with the edge of her hand, and turns to look out of the window. “You know, love is not all about the grand gestures and the cutie meets, Laura.” I smile that she still hasn’t got the phrase right. “That’s the shiny book cover, not the story inside.”
She looks back at me with a piercing look. “You want to know what I think is romantic?” Maude asks, standing up and walking over to a dark wooden bureau in the corner of the room. She opens one of the drawers and pulls out a faded blue journal, holding it up and tapping it with the other hand.
“Six years ago, when June was first diagnosed, she came to me and asked for my help with something. She wanted me to write down some memories of her life with Keith—trips they took together, jokes they shared, the bricks of experiences that make up a life together.” Maude looks down at the book in her hands. “She wanted to have it all written down, so that when she goes, I can give it to Keith, and the final words he hears of hers will not be the words of a woman who does not know him.”
Maude pinches her lips together, her eyes watery, and I have to bite my lip too.
“Why am I telling you this?” Maude asks with a frown, and it sounds like a genuine question, as though she has forgotten. “Ah yes, we were talking about love and romance. Well, to me, this is love. On the day she was given this terrible diagnosis, the first thing June thought to do was to try to make it easier for Keith. And you know, most of the memories written in here, they aren’t the grand gestures or expensive holidays; they are hill walking in Wales, memorable meals they shared, taking their son swimming in the sea for the first time, the way Keith always positioned her slippers by the bed so she wouldn’t get cold toes in the night.”
Maude takes a moment to compose herself before stowing the journal carefully back in the bureau. “I think sometimes your generation gets caught up in the wrapping paper of love.” Maude makes a low hum. “This suitcase story you’ve got Jasper so excited about—he’s very trusting. Don’t let him get too carried away until you know him a little better.”
A heat rises up my neck, like she somehow knows that I was kissing another man less than two hours ago.
“Do you think it’s possible to find love again, after you’ve been married for a long time?” I ask.
Maude gives a small smile.
“The human heart is like a flowerbed, Laura. Once the first blooms die, there’s room enough for something else to grow, but it will never be quite the same as that first flower, the initial thrill of seeing what your heart is capable of.”
Maude allows me to take pictures of her recipes with my phone. While I have it in my hand, I show her some of the photos of my trip—the pictures I have tried to re-create from my mother’s album. She flicks through the photos of me with the cow, the beach at Rozel, the cliff top and Plémont headland, then she pauses, taking my phone and putting on her glasses to look more closely.
“What’s this one, dear? Is that my coat alcove?”
“Er . . .”
“There you are,” says Jasper, walking in at just the right moment. “Are you ready to cut the cake, Mum?”
* * *
* * *
After the party, Jasper offers to drive me home, but his sisters are leaving in a few hours, and they clearly want to spend time with him, so I insist on making my own way back to L’Étacq.
“Thank you for inviting me today. I so enjoyed meeting everyone,” I say, as we stand together on Maude’s doorstep.
“My sisters can be intense,” he says, pulling his mouth into a wide grimace. “But Mrs. Harvey said to me, ‘Don’t screw this one up, Jasper, she’s a beauty.’ ”