Joe’s cards and notes lead us to conclude that he was in this area for around two years. We have two birthday cards for Gracie, two packs of gum for me, and a smattering of postcards. Although one is from St Ives and one is from Tintagel, the other postmarks all seem to be in the Bude area, on the north coast.
We’ve headed here, to a place called Widemouth Bay, staying in the only B & B we could find that had vacancies. The vacancies are understandable, as we are all sharing a room, there’s no ensuite, and the landlady looks like she eats babies for breakfast.
We initially tried the library, after Michael had the bright idea of going through electoral rolls, but we were told by a pitying librarian there that the rolls are organised by street, so unless we could be more specific we’d be there for weeks. There are a lot of streets in Bude.
We followed up with a day-long traipse around bars and pubs and cafés in the town, on the basis that Geraldine might have continued in her old line of business – but we end up with nothing but sore feet and a lifelong hatred of cream teas.
Now, as the sun slides into the ocean and the last few surfers make the most of the quieter beaches, we are sitting on a small stone wall by a shack that sells waffles and crêpes, dejectedly pondering our next moves.
There is a completely different feel to the place at night, when the families have packed up. You can hear the waves foaming onto the sand, and see dog walkers and couples, and imagine it back in the days that Daphne du Maurier described.
The hovering sunlight reflecting off the water gives it a ghostly feel, the incoherent outlines of soaring seabirds misting in and out of sight like spirits surfing the air currents. It smells tangy with salt, and I gaze at the beach, picturing Joe here. It’s not hard, and if I squint I can see him, walking the ridged lines of wet sand, waves foaming onto his feet.
We’re reluctant to go back to the B & B just yet, particularly Michael, who has been reduced to actual tears by its lack of Wi-Fi. As Belinda and I sit silently, lost in the view and our own thoughts, he is busily working social media and internet searches with the zeal of the true believer, thanks to the online gods of the waffle hut.
‘You’d have thought,’ he says, as his fingers fly over his phone, ‘that there would be a lot less Geraldine Doyles here, wouldn’t you? And you’d be right. I can’t find a single one. Maybe we’re wrong … maybe we’re in the wrong part of Cornwall?’
‘That could be the case,’ I reply, resigned to it. I’ve been thinking this through, and we don’t really know that this was where Joe lived. Or that he was even with Geraldine. He could have lived elsewhere and worked in Bude, or posted the cards when he visited, or have moved to the moon to raise wild boar on the Sea of Tranquillity. We just don’t know.
Michael pauses, distracted by the passing of two especially well-shaped surfer dudes in form-fitting wetsuits, then cocks his head on one side as though he’s come up with something. He looks a bit like a spaniel.
‘What was the name of their kid?’ he asks eventually. ‘Geraldine and Adrian’s son. I know Bernie mentioned it, but I can’t quite recall.’
‘That’s because you were seven mojitos in,’ replies Belinda, also following the surfer dudes with her gaze. I wouldn’t have thought they were her type, but what do I really know? When she got pregnant with Mal, none of us even knew the father – it was someone she’d met on holiday in Crete. I don’t even know if she’s stayed in touch with him, or if he’s been part of Malachi’s life all these years.
‘Jamie,’ I say quietly. ‘It was Jamie. Are you still in touch with Mal’s dad, the one you met in Crete?’
I don’t know why I add that last bit. I’m pretty sure Mal only has the one dad, and it is indeed the one she met in Crete. She probably remembers that.
She looks at me with a fierce side-eye, and Michael pipes up: ‘Oh! I haven’t heard this story. Who is he? Mal’s dad? Or was it a one-night thing? Or is he a film star? Or a multimillionaire Greek yacht owner? It would be super cool to have one of those as your baby daddy!’
‘Baby daddy?’ she growls, frowning. ‘Baby daddy? Don’t you think that’s a racially stereotypical term? Are you assuming that some black stud impregnated me, because that’s what people like me do?’
Michael’s mouth falls open, and he looks both ashamed and terrified. He stares at her, and replies: ‘Are you messing with me again? You’re just messing with me, aren’t you?’
‘No! I’m genuinely insulted!’
‘Oh, well, gosh, I’m so sorry, I really didn’t think … I didn’t mean to insult you, I … I …’
‘’S’OK,’ she finally says, grinning at him like a tigress playing with her food. ‘I actually was just messing with you. You make it too easy. And yeah, Jess, I am. I never expected anything from him – it was just a holiday fling – but it’s actually been OK. He’s stayed in touch, helped out where he can, listened to me moan, had Mal to stay. He’s a doctor now. Lives in London.’
Michael, still unsettled by the emotional roller-coaster that is Belinda’s company, throws the last piece of his waffle onto the sand where it is immediately attacked by a white flurry of seagulls.
He continues to scroll through screens on his phone, and after a few moments, declares that he might be on to something. In fact, what he says, in a mock-Sherlock Holmes voice, is: ‘A-ha! The game is afoot!’
‘What is it?’ asks Belinda, shuffling closer to him on the wall. ‘What have you got?’
‘Jamie Doyle. He’s eighteen now, and I’ve found him on his college’s website. He won an art prize, clever boy. The college is local, so we have to assume he is. Hang on … let me do a bit more digging … I’ll do it better without you breathing down my neck like a hungry bear, Belinda! I can almost feel your Adam’s apple from here!’
I can tell she wants to slap him, but restrains herself as Michael continues his odyssey. I see the pages of Facebook flicker by, the little blue bird of Twitter tweeting past, a page from what looks like a local newspaper website, and the Trip Advisor owl. A world of logos. We’d have managed all of that in the end, I’m sure, but Michael really is so much better at it than us. It makes me feel ancient.
‘Right,’ he says, smiling smugly. ‘Well, obviously I’m a genius. I’ve found them. Jamie’s artistic talents have extended to painting a mural on the walled garden of the family business – a restaurant up in them there hills. Looks nice, one of those organic farm-to-table type places. Bit out of the way, but gets good reviews. And Geraldine was proving elusive because she’s no longer a Doyle.’
‘What is she?’ asks Belinda, obviously wondering – as am I – if she’s swapped Doyle for Ryan.
‘She’s a Bennett. Must have remarried. Not to Joe. Unless he changed his name as well, which would be really weird, and—’
‘We could go there now,’ I interrupt, glancing at my watch and seeing that it’s just past nine p.m. ‘It’s not that late, especially in the restaurant business. Plus it’d mean we didn’t have to go back to the wicked stepmother’s B & B for a while longer. I’m sure she’s got a load of poisoned apples lined up for us.’