Her mother still looked rather frayed around the edges, but she had managed to spirit a picnic lunch from somewhere, which a grateful Samuel stowed in his bag.
The three of them set off, weaving their way down towards the water without saying much.
It was not an uncomfortable silence, however, more of a measured calm, and when Pepper stole a glance across at her mother, she looked utterly lost in thought. That was to be expected, though. Yesterday had been a big day – and not just for Keira and her father.
They meandered through narrow streets past tall, square buildings, shops, pubs and a grand, mottled church. Hanging baskets overflowed with flowers, colourful strips of bunting fluttered along the High Street, and pigeons peered inquisitively from window ledges and the tops of walls.
There were far more boats in the harbour here than there had been in Barcelona, and the yellow marble of the sun above the hundreds of masts resembled a vast game of KerPlunk. Pepper was enchanted by the quaint beauty of the place, by the bright yellow phone boxes and deep blue post boxes, and by the smiles on the faces of the locals.
‘According to the leaflet I discovered on the hotel reception desk, if we follow this path here,’ Pepper said, pointing off to the right, ‘it will take us around the coast. Then we need to head inland at a place called Petit Bot Bay.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ approved Samuel. He was in shorts and a bright yellow polo shirt today and kept stopping every few yards to brush midges off his front.
It wasn’t long before the paving slabs gave way to a gritty shingle, and the crunch of their shoes as they walked across it added a steady percussion to the swish and fold of the sea.
‘You OK back there, Mum?’
Her mother raised her eyes. They still looked a little bloodshot, Pepper noted. Perhaps she should have left her mother to rest. When she and Samuel had concocted their plan in the early hours of the morning, it had felt important to Pepper that she follow through with it. The place she wanted to show her mother only existed on Guernsey.
‘I may have drunk a bit too much wine,’ her mother allowed, pausing as they came to a fork in the path. They could continue along the edge of the coast or take a detour through a wooded area. Pepper and her mother agreed they were happy either way.
‘Come on.’ Samuel headed towards the treeline. ‘If there was ever a place for spotting pixies . . .’
Pepper could smell the earthy tang of wild garlic and hear the gentle chatter of birds. The trees were tall and slim like Samuel, each one leaning inland as though buffeted by wind.
There was a fallen log just off the path, and Pepper bent to touch it. She never had been able to resist running her fingers over the springy fur of moss.
‘This is a bluebell wood,’ her mother said. She had moved off ahead and was examining a sign. ‘What a shame it’s too late in the year for them.’
‘If you like bluebells, I’ll happily paint you some,’ Pepper found herself saying, thinking wistfully of the lilac tile she had so painstakingly created all those weeks ago only to smash it. Despite not having done any new work since the fire, she had been trying hard to keep hold of the inner confidence that had bloomed inside her when she was painting her city scenes. Far from being anxious about the prospect of giving her mum something she had made herself, Pepper found that she loved the idea.
They walked on, Pepper doing her best to commit as much of the scenery as she could to memory. She appreciated how much things had been left to grow wild here, and how the signs they passed were inscribed stones rather than ugly structures made from metal or plastic. Not that they needed much help with direction – it was impossible to get lost when the sea was calling out to them, its gentle roar preventing them from straying too far.
When they emerged back out into the sunshine, it was to a steep hilly path that wound up and across the cliffs, the trodden line of the path nipping and twisting like a dropped ribbon through the grass. Samuel was halfway up the first slope when he stopped abruptly and beckoned for her and her mother to catch up.
‘Look,’ he breathed, smiling as a mother duck waddled into view with her two downy ducklings following carefully behind.
‘Makes up for missing bluebells,’ Pepper said, stepping cautiously out of the way so the birds could pass. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a duck so far from water before – unless they go in the sea? Do they, Mum?’
Her mother didn’t answer, so Pepper turned, shocked to see her face wet with tears.
‘Sorry,’ she stuttered, as Pepper fished in her bag for a tissue and, finding none, pulled out the spare pair of socks she’d chucked in there just in case. She expected her mother to at least smile when she saw them, but she didn’t even seem to notice.
‘This is why I never drink white wine,’ she said, dabbing her eyes. ‘Turns me into an emotional wreck.’
‘I think white wine does that to all of us,’ Samuel said comfortingly.
Pepper knew she should put an arm around her mother, or touch a hand to her shoulder – something, anything, even the smallest form of contact – but she didn’t want to risk upsetting her more, as she had last night. She understood now that when it came to her mother, small steps forward were the only option.
‘I don’t think it’s too much further to the beach now,’ she said, as they crested the clifftop and peered down at waves that were slamming up against the rocks. Pepper was reminded anew that they were on a small island – a floating collection of stones and minerals, plants and trees, houses and people. A tiny dot on the landscape of an entire world.
She glanced across at Samuel. He was so different from Finn but had somehow become an equally vital cog in her life. The closed bud of their friendship had blossomed this summer into something she truly cherished. She had never thought to introduce Finn to her mother – had been too wrapped up in her own time with him to invite any complication the single occasion he had flown over to see her – but Samuel now not only knew her mum, he also understood how tricky things were between them and tried his best to help.
‘This must be it,’ she said, as a spoon-shaped cove of caster sugar sand came into view below them. Rough stone steps led away down the hillside, and Samuel used his foot to push aside the sticky tendrils of goose grass that were growing across them. The landscape in Guernsey was charmingly unkempt – a scruffy-haired poet as opposed to a slick film star – and Pepper liked it all the more because of it. It was impossible to know what her mother thought – she had fallen silent in the aftermath of her tears and did not answer when first Pepper, and then Samuel, pointed out the heather, or the sprigs of white straggly flowers, or the grand-looking houses perched high above them.
It felt good to step off the trail and onto the damp sand of Petit Bot Bay beach. Waves scurried importantly up to greet them, bowing in a wet salute before returning back out to sea. Large, flat stones littered the shoreline, their speckled surfaces reminding Pepper of the boiled egg she’d had for breakfast and making her stomach rumble.
‘Anyone hungry?’
Her mother was squinting out at the horizon, her eyes searching for what, it was impossible to tell.
‘Pardon?’ she murmured. ‘Oh, I . . . No, not at the moment. But you two go ahead.’
Pepper looked at Samuel, who lifted his shoulders.