When I hear footsteps outside my door, I sit bolt upright in bed. I assume it must be Ted, also unable to sleep. Opening the front door, I squint into the dim morning light, the amber glow of sunrise still languishing behind the hill beyond Sans Ennui.
‘Ted?’ I whisper.
‘Only me,’ I hear Gerry’s voice. ‘Sorry, did I wake you with my shuffling feet?’
‘Oh. Hi, Gerry, you’re up early.’
‘My last early morning beach walk,’ he says. ‘Care to join me?’
Pulling a cardigan around my shoulders, I slip on my flip-flops.
‘Can’t sleep either?’ he asks, and I shake my head.
Gerry leads us down the small path between the fields towards the sea. We walk at a glacial pace, but I don’t mind; I’m glad of the opportunity to talk with Gerry.
‘Your last night in the house. Was that what kept you awake?’
‘Sleep’s always a challenge,’ he says. ‘My body keeps me awake, not my brain, muscles just can’t turn off. Every few hours, if I haven’t conked, I have to get up and stretch my legs. It can be less exhausting walking about, giving your limbs a purpose.’
‘That sounds hard, I’m sorry.’
‘Is what it is. I don’t know where I’ll walk at the new place,’ he mutters, with a note of sadness I haven’t heard in his voice before. ‘I always head to the beach when lying down gets too much. Though Sandy says I shouldn’t go out alone any more, I’ve had too many falls recently.’ He lifts his bandaged arm to illustrate. Then he reaches out for my arm and frowns. ‘Will you promise to push me in the sea if I keep sounding so sorry for myself?’
‘Absolutely not,’ I say, pressing my hand onto his, ‘or I’d have to go in too and it looks bitingly cold.’
We get to the bottom of the footpath and turn left along the sand, heading towards the distant silhouette of La Corbière Lighthouse at the southern end of the bay. The beach is deserted, silent but for the whispering rush of waves and birds pattering about in the incoming tide.
We chat about the party; I apologise for leaving early, but tell him how much I enjoyed talking to all his friends, how honoured I felt to be included.
As we talk, Gerry stumbles, reaching again for my arm to steady himself.
‘Are you alright?’ I ask. He nods silently, then turns his face away. Beneath his self-deprecating humour, I glimpse a man ashamed of a body that is failing him.
‘So, I was helping Ted clear out some of the things in your house last night,’ I say once he’s recovered his gait, ‘and I found something.’
‘If it was the body under the radiator in the hall, it weren’t me, Guv’nor,’ Gerry says, and I hug his arm affectionately.
‘It was a page of a letter Belinda wrote to you, with her contact details.’ I look across at him for a reaction.
‘Oh dear,’ says Gerry.
‘Why wouldn’t you have given that to Ted?’
‘Hmmm,’ he says with a guilty sigh. ‘How did Ted react?’
‘I didn’t show it to him,’ I admit. ‘Not yet.’
Gerry lets out a long breath, his arm juddering against mine.
‘She sent it, must have been a few months after she left,’ he explains. ‘I called her, said it wasn’t the way to do things, to just abandon ship like that. I tried to persuade her to speak to him and—’ Gerry falters. It’s clearly hard for him to talk about. ‘She was upset, said it wasn’t working between them, that they wanted different things, but Ted would never be the one to give it up. She thought he just needed time to get used to her not being there – that she was a bad habit he needed to break, cold turkey. She persuaded me it was for the best, and I agreed I’d give it another month, gave her my word. I put that letter somewhere safe.’ He closes his eyes briefly, ‘And then I couldn’t think for the life of me where. I was convinced I’d thrown it out with the Christmas cards. My memory must have filed it in an unmarked bin, and I felt too much of an old fool to tell Ted that I’d lost it.’
‘Oh dear,’ I sigh. ‘Were you and she very close?’
‘Oh, she’s one of life’s gems, Belinda is,’ Gerry grins, as though remembering what fun she was, and I feel an illogical stab of jealousy. ‘No one thinks of their poor parents when they separate, of what we lose.’ He pulls a silly face, as though it is a joke, but I can see there is truth to it. ‘In any case, I don’t think Belinda is really what Ted is searching for any more.’
I want to ask what he means by that, but I’m drawn back to the question of the letter.
‘Should I give it to Ted, then? It’s addressed to you; you know the situation better than me.’
Gerry stops, lets go of my arm, and slowly bends down to pick up an empty cider can from the sand. He hands it to me.
‘We’ll put that in the bin.’ He holds his stick up in the air. ‘This is probably as far as I go these days.’
We turn around together, and Gerry slows. It takes him a moment to get momentum in a new direction. I offer him my arm again.
‘What went wrong between them? They must have been deeply in love if splitting up was so difficult for them both.’
‘I come out here most nights, Laura. When I had more steam, I’d go to the end of the beach and then back along the road.’ He points with his stick to the far end of L’Étacq, where the road curves around behind a long line of houses facing the shore. It sounds like he hasn’t heard my question, but I listen patiently. ‘I always pick up any litter I come across when I’m out. What do you think the young people coming back from the bars think when they see an old man wobbling his way along the road at three in the morning, holding an arm full of empty cider cans? What do you think they assume the story is?’
I let out a gentle hum of appreciation.
‘People like to fill in the gaps, to paint their own picture, but no one really knows the truth of someone else’s story.’
‘You’re very wise, Gerry,’ I say, as we get back to the footpath that leads up the hill to Sans Ennui. ‘Have you ever thought about becoming a guru? You could write a book full of all your wisdom.’
Gerry lets out a throaty cackle.
‘I’d have to call it Gin and Gibberish.’ Gerry taps my arm with his hand then and asks, ‘What has you up so early, then, besides worrying about Ted?’
‘I don’t know, everything.’ I sigh. ‘Work, thinking about my mum and dad, wondering what I’m doing with my life.’
‘What are you doing with your life?’ he asks, and his tone is so serious, it catches me off guard.
‘Well, that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?’ Watching the waves foaming over the rocks, I feel a new clarity as to what’s unsettling me. ‘When I was twenty, if you told me that by twenty-nine I’d be alone in the world, with all my friends moving on, clinging to my job because it’s the only solid thing—’ I let out a sigh. ‘I guess that’s why I have to believe the universe has a plan for me, because if it doesn’t, maybe I’m simply doing everything wrong.’
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 gurning, and I
squeeze his arm a little 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 travelling 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 that topic.
‘Oh, it was great to see him on 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 neighbour 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, and I resolve that when I get home, I will go and introduce myself properly.
‘Nah, he’s the one who’s been a great neighbour 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 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 towards me.
‘Sure,’ I shrug, no clearer on what I’m agreeing to.
Ilídio and I follow the path up and across the road, coming to a large one-storey barn on the opposite side. He opens the worn, wooden door and shows me inside. As I peer into the gloom, my eyes growing accustomed to the dark, I see a room overflowing with woodwork equipment, machinery, and workbenches. There are tree trunks sliced into long planks hanging on every wall, lending the space the feel of a deconstructed forest.
‘Wow,’ I say. Gerry was right; I wouldn’t want to have missed seeing this.
‘This used to be Gerry’s workshop,’ Ilídio says. ‘He built the barn himself, took me on as an apprentice eleven years ago. Now I have an apprentice of my own.’
‘And this is all wood you’re going to use to make furniture?’ I ask, pointing at the huge slices of tree along every wall.
‘Eventually. They can take decades to dry out. Gerry makes things the old-fashioned way, timeless pieces, built to last for generations. Not many people do it like this now – it’s too expensive, too time-consuming,’ Ilídio explains. ‘Easier to make it cheap, even if it doesn’t last.’
I walk around the room, admiring the craftsmanship of a bench that sits at the far end. Narrow cylinders of wood bend and curve in the most intriguing way, as though the bench might have grown itself.
‘Did the wood come like this?’ I ask, stroking the curved panels.
‘No.’ Ilídio shakes his head. ‘You have to steam-bend it. It’s a skilled job to bend wood this thick – Gerry designed his own steamer to do it.’
I notice at the far end of the workshop a bench with a soldering iron, just like the one Mum used to use for jewellery making.
‘Does Gerry still come in here?’ I ask.
‘He does. He still has lots of opinions, ideas for how to solve problems. He knows from smelling the wood how long it’s been there.’ He shakes his head. ‘It’s such a waste; all that knowledge in his head, that can’t get out through his hands.’
Wandering around the workshop, I find myself reaching out to touch things, feeling the potential of what they might become. Then I’m struck by an idea.
‘Ilídio, can I commission you to make something, a present for Ted?’
‘Of course, what is it you want?’
‘Do you have any paper? I’ll need to draw it.’
Ilídio finds some graph paper, and I sketch out my idea.
‘Can you make it?’ I ask, when I’ve finished drawing.
Ilídio taps a pencil on the paper.
‘Easy.’ Then he looks
up at me. ‘He’ll like this, Laura. I’ll start it now, so you can have it before you leave.’
We agree a price. I know Ilídio is undercharging me, but he is firm on what he’s willing to accept. I walk around the workshop as he starts picking out pieces of wood for the project. I want to stay and watch him work, but checking my watch, I realise I need to go and get ready for my date with Jasper.
As I walk back across the garden, I glance up to the kitchen window of Sans Ennui, half hoping I might see Ted, but there’s no sign of him. In any case, I need to get dressed, get organised. My chat with Gerry and the tour of the workshop has inspired me. I should stop overthinking things I can’t change, focus instead on the potential of the day ahead.
Back at the cottage, I have a shower, then look fondly down at my suitcase on the floor. I have so many options, clothes that actually fit me. I pick out my slim-fit dark capri pants and the fitted blue blouse with the white scalloped cuff and collar. Then I tie a thin blue silk headscarf around my head as a hairband. Glancing in the bathroom mirror, I smile, seeing myself again, rather than a ragamuffin.
Picking up my phone, I make the mistake of checking my email and my buoyant mood bursts like a balloon. There are over fifty new messages in my inbox, on a Saturday morning. At least half of them look to be from Suki and have subjects like: ‘Feature ideas – Teen property developers – how young is too young to start your portfolio?’ I skim through, looking for any emails addressed specifically to me.
I find several, sent throughout the night and the early hours of the morning.
Laura,
Disappointed in your social media performance today. Unpolished content and off brand messaging.
S
Laura,
Can you find a ‘How Did You Meet?’ couple who met at a train station? Network Trains want an advertorial. In fact, any train-themed love stories – we could create a ‘Love on the Line’ feature?
Just Haven't Met You Yet Page 18