I wake feeling surprisingly well rested. Looking out of the window, there’s still no sign of Ted’s car in the driveway. Where did he sleep? Has he left the island to go and find her? How worried about him should I be?
I need to check my emails now the Wi-Fi is back on, but I left my laptop at Sandy’s, and when I climb over the wall, no one is home and the house is shut up. This would have been enough to send me into a panic yesterday, but this morning I feel uncharacteristically calm. It is Sunday; surely I can afford to be disconnected for one morning of the weekend. So instead of fretting, I decide to go for a sea swim.
Stepping into the garden with my towel wrapped around my bikini, I close my eyes, and turn my face to the sky. The sun feels brighter here somehow, though the September air is still cool beneath the cloudless sky. Running barefoot down the path to the sea, I throw off my towel as I hit the sand and plunge headfirst into the waves, not giving myself a chance to wimp out. The icy water winds me, stripping me back to something elemental. Then, once I’ve caught my breath, I look out to the watery horizon; Gerry’s spirit level, leveling me.
In the sea, I can’t help thinking back over the conversation I had with Dee, before she got upset with me. Her theory that my search for the impossibly perfect guy could be a distraction, because I don’t believe I deserve to be happy. She’s wrong—I do think I deserve happiness, and honestly, I don’t think my subconscious is that clever. But maybe I need to rethink where that happiness is going to come from. The feeling of contentment in the workshop last night—it gave me a glimpse of a different kind of happiness, the one you can only find from within.
Even if I do have some soul-searching to do, there’s no denying I had a great time with Jasper yesterday. I laughed, I felt fun; there is such levity and brightness to him. But then Ted feels like this anchor point, drawing me in. And in the map of my mind, all roads lead back to that kiss. He made it clear enough that it was a mistake; I need to forget what happened on the sand. I hope he is OK, though. I would like to know that he is OK.
After warming up in a scalding shower, I get dressed in coral shorts, a white V-neck T-shirt, and vintage gold flats. Still no car on the drive. I decide to take up Sandy on her offer to lend me her bike. It’s a beautiful day, only a few miles to Monica’s house, and I could use the exercise.
It turns out the road is a lot more uphill than I remember from the car journey, and I’m glowing by the time I knock on the hedgehog-shaped door knocker.
“Ah, Laura, you came, fabulous!” Aunt Monica cries as she opens the door. “Now, I must apologize—I had my facts muddled when I saw you on Friday. It was my nephew Oliver who nearly married a woman who had all those phobias, not Alexander. She was called Annie too, which is where the confusion came from.”
“Don’t worry,” I say as I take off my jacket. “I thought it might be something like that.”
“Now, there’s someone here who’d like to meet you, and a chocolate log, made fresh today. Kitty, more work for you, dear!”
She leads me through to the chintz-laden sitting room, where another woman is sitting in one of the mustard-colored armchairs, holding a cup and saucer in her hands. I guess her to be in her eighties; her body is of a sturdier physique than Monica’s, and she has white hair set into a bob. She is dressed in green corduroy trousers, a neat checked shirt, and a sweater vest with a green enamel peacock brooch pinned to it. Her eyes are gray and glazed; the look of someone who might be blind or partially sighted.
“Laura, this is Sue, your grandmother,” says Aunt Monica.
“My grandmother,” I say, reaching a hand to my pendant, suddenly, inexplicably nervous to meet Bad Granny.
Sue carefully reaches out a hand to feel for the coffee table next to her, so she can put down her cup and saucer. Then she reaches her empty hands out to me, so I walk toward her and offer up my hands for her to squeeze.
“Laura,” she says, as though it is a foreign word. “I met you once, you know, a long time ago.”
“You must have been knee-high to a hedgehog,” chips in Monica from the kitchen.
Looking at my grandmother’s face, there’s something so familiar about her. Then I realize what it is: She has my nose, the same narrow bridge and pert tip.
“I have the same nose as you,” I blurt out.
She peers at me, squinting her eyes.
“May I see, with my hands?” she asks. “My eyes aren’t so good.”
I nod, guiding her hand to my face. She runs a finger down the bridge and then gently pinches each side. The last person to touch my nose was probably my mother. Whenever I asked questions about her love life, she’d pinch it gently and say, “All right, Nosy Nora.” My grandmother’s touch unlocks the memory; I’d forgotten all about Nosy Nora.
“That’s certainly a Blampied nose,” she says with a nod. “A very fine nose it is too.”
“Mum used to say that,” I say, softly.
Sue invites me to sit down. She asks how I’m enjoying my first trip to Jersey, which parts of the island I have seen. Her voice is clipped, reminding me of my old headmistress from school. I tell Sue about my mother’s album, about me retracing her steps, while Monica listens in from the kitchen, where she is dusting her chocolate log with icing sugar. I explain I came here to write about the coin but confess that the version of the story I was told might not have been accurate. Sue pauses for a moment, reaching out a hand for mine.
“I’m glad you didn’t know what really went on. It was all so silly, Laura.” Sue sighs. “I’m afraid your mother and I didn’t see eye to eye on a few things and, well, time marches relentlessly on without anyone noticing.”
“What did you fall out about?” I ask. “Was it money, Dad’s will?”
“It wasn’t money,” Sue says, shaking her head, “well, not any old money. It was that wretched coin—the ha’penny.”
Monica comes through from the kitchen with cups of tea for us both.
“When our mother, Margorie, passed away, she wanted her husband’s coin buried with her,” Monica explains. “But your mother had it and she wouldn’t give it back, certainly didn’t want it buried in the ground. We were all so raw after Alex’s accident . . .” Monica trails off.
“It felt like another thing Annie had taken from us.” Sue speaks slowly, but her voice has a resonance to it, as though she is used to having an audience.
“Another thing?” I ask, feeling myself frown.
Sue’s face creases into a wince.
“All these years later, it won’t hold up to logic. I was a grieving mother and reason gets sent to the back of the queue behind pain and anger. This extra work he took on, the well-paid job in Morocco; he did it all so he could contribute, so he could help Annie. Would he have rushed off otherwise, so soon after the summer season? I’m not sure.” Sue shakes her head, and I feel my jaw tense at the implication. “Perhaps that was unfair,” she adds quickly, “but I’m just explaining how it was we lost touch. I did write to Annie once, you know, an olive branch of sorts, but she didn’t reply. I’m only glad Monica kept the door open all these years, giving you the chance to eventually walk back through.”