“Exhausted, mummy. I think he needs a holiday to get over it!” Greta mused.
“Oh, darling! Is there something more you want to tell me?” Jeanne probed. Her eyes lit up in anticipation.
“No, except for most of the time, he was deep sea diving; left me to sunbathe and read endless novels. I suppose I really ought to learn to dive properly and not just snorkel about in the shallow bits.”
“That would help, darling. Then you could join Maxim on his epic underwater adventures. Trawling the oceans together to discover new worlds!” Jeanne sounded disappointed.
“I think I’ll stick to reading. Max does enough trawling for both of us,” Greta replied.
“How are you feeling? When are you planning to go back to work?” Jeanne sipped her cup of tea and crossed her legs.
“I go back next week. Yes, I’m feeling fine thanks, no worse for wear.”
“Have you time to pop over to the Island for the weekend? Maybe have lunch out? The father and I would love to see you both.”
“That would be great, mummy! We haven’t anything planned. We can travel down on Saturday and stay until Sunday evening. If that’s okay with you?”
“Of course! Superb darling. I’ll reserve a table at the Smuggler’s Hide. I’ll book you a ferry as well. See you on Saturday! Byeee!”
Greta ended the call and tapped the phone against her arm. She closed her eyes, smiled and visualised her childhood spent running free in the woodlands and fields around her parent’s country house on the Isle of Wight. She recalled the family Christmases that, as she fondly remembered, were the best ever. Christmases were, however, never quite the same when she learnt about Father Christmas, thanks to her younger brother, Leo, and his matter of fact announcement that a jolly old elf, dressed in red, clambering down the tight space of a chimney, was practically impossible, as was delivering presents to children all over the world on Christmas Eve. Leo’s theory was remarkable for a child of only six at the time.
Since leaving the Island to work in London, Greta dreamed about the possibility of one day returning to the Island and finding a place to live in the countryside. Not necessarily near her parents, but mainly to return to her roots; to be enveloped in freedom and the fresh air once more; to be near the sea. Max wasn’t so keen. He had a relatively secure job in the City and commuting wasn’t really on his bucket list. The thoughts of dark nights, howling winds and cancelled ferry crossings didn’t enlighten him either. Fortunately for Greta, he did empathise with her dream. They had discussed the matter on numerous occasions; usually when Greta was premenstrual or when she was at her peak of passion, lying beneath him in their bed. But, so far, he had managed to sweep her dreams under the carpet, giving logical explanations why it would mean a massive change to both their lives. He didn’t want to lose his enviable short commute into the City. A move away would create unnecessary complications on his currently comfortable logistics.
A confirmation phone call later on in the day from Jeanne, affirming she had booked both the ferry and a table at the local pub, gave Greta a warm feeling inside.
“I have invited your brother and his girlfriend as well, darling! It will be a real family occasion!” It amused Greta as she thought of Leo and his girlfriend, Ardi. As a couple it sounded like Laurel and Hardy; ironic as Leo could certainly qualify as a clown, due to his irritating habit of constantly taking the rise out of Greta. Her mother chattered on about the weather and various local topics before Greta ended the call by making an excuse there was somebody at her front door. After successfully ending the call, she sighed and picked up the daily newspaper and began to scan the headlines. She flicked through the pages till she reached the entertainment section; she glanced at an advert that had caught her eye. It mentioned a celebrity spiritual medium that was on a nationwide tour with her live stage show. He eyes scanned the name. She dropped the paper on to the floor and reached for her mobile phone. She dialled her best friend Sophie’s mobile number.
“Hi, Sophie; it’s me. Listen, I have just seen an ad in the newspaper this morning and I wonder if you might like to come along with me to one of those clairvoyant evenings. It’s Nonie Spangler; you know, she is supposed to be really good. She has been on TV a few times. I think it would be great fun. Shall I book tickets?”
Greta and Sophie both held a keen interest in the paranormal. Greta felt she had certain psychic abilities and was susceptible to sensing involuntary supernatural incidents. Max always thought otherwise and brushed off her whims with laughter.
“It sounds like fun, Greta, I would love to; in fact, I can’t wait!” Sophie excitedly returned. “When is it? Is it in London?”
“Yes, in the West End; in a fortnight’s time. I’ll go online and buy the tickets. I can’t wait either; should be fun! Speak soon, bye!”
Seizing the moment, Greta grabbed her laptop from the coffee table and typed in the Nonie Spangler website address printed in the paper. She bought two tickets. She nodded with contentment, closed the laptop and resumed reading the paper. She scanned a few more pages to find a worrying report.
‘Medium is a Phoney’. Reading the article, she realised the medium concerned was no other than Nonie Spangler. It reported that Nonie had been branded a fake. It was alleged, at her last show; she had been fed information about certain members of the audience via a simple but elaborate sound system whereby they would be asked to fill in a card about themselves and deceased relatives or friends. This information was then relayed to Nonie on the cleverly disguised device. Greta was very disappointed. She phoned Sophie back with her news.
“So do you think the show will still go ahead?” Sophie was just as disappointed as Greta was.
“I hope so; I’ve just parted with £50 for the tickets. You can’t believe what you read in the papers all of the time, can you?” She sounded doubtful. “And there was nothing on the website to say that the tour had been cancelled.”
“No, you’re right. We’ll still go. Then we can see for ourselves if she is a fake or not; if they try to get us to fill in cards about our relatives, we should give them some duff information!”
Greta tried to laugh it off but inside was full of doubt. She was unfortunately known for her gullibility and didn’t want to be impressed by someone who could be a fake. She would be the laughing stock not only with Max who would offer her countless ‘I told you so’s… but her brother Leo’s tormenting would be unbearable, he would have fuel for life. Greta decided she wouldn’t tell anyone that she and Sophie were going.
Chapter Three
Greta and Max drove on to the car ferry, which was berthed at Southampton Docks. They were guided by a crewmember to the upper deck. They jumped out of the car, climbed down the steep stairway to the lounge and grabbed a seat with a view over the car deck. In the distance, the Island’s rural coastline beckoned their return. The private beach, where Queen Victoria had spent a lot of time, at Osborne, the blue slipper clay landslips around Hamstead were also clearly visible. Greta could see the downs running through the centre of the Island’s ‘backbone’. She fondly remembered the year she had partaken in the annual charity fundraiser, the Walk the Wight event. She went on her own as Max refused to walk. Greta completed 26 miles across the centre of the Island, taking in steep downland trails, and unlevel bridleways, past the haunted Knighton Gorges, where she twisted her ankle; through historic Arreton and on towards the West Wight along the Tennyson Trail. She recalled the joy of finishing at Alum Bay; her well earned medal she proudly wore and her tired, aching feet and knees, which hurt for days afterwards. She snuggled in her seat with a glowing satisfaction.
“I can’t wait to see Mum and Dad again; it seems ages since we saw them last.” She looked over at Max.
“It wasn’t that long ago, darling; you know, they were at our wedding.” Max shook his head.
“I know, but I just love coming back to visit. The Island has such a draw on people. If you leave it, and some Islanders do, it somehow lures you
back. I always feel so safe. You always know you are going home when you get on the ferry!” Greta smiled and closed her eyes. She snuggled close to Max. “Oh, and before the queue gets too long, I could really murder a latte and a cake!”
“Yes, mine commandant!” Max mused. “Your wish is my command!”
“Thank you, sweetie!” She kissed his cheek and stared out of the window, trying to get another glimpse of the Island’s coastline as the ferry slowly chugged its way through the grey and blue waters of Southampton River, past all the large container and cargo ships, the cruise liners refuelling with both passengers and supplies, and into the Solent.
Max returned after a lengthy absence clutching on to a dark wood veneer tray. He swayed in time with the ferry as it reached the choppy centre of the Solent where the waters meet from The Channel and Southampton River.
“I thought you’d left me!” Greta exclaimed. “I thought you might have run away back to London!”
“The thought had crossed my mind.” Max placed the tray onto the circular lipped table. “But, fortunately for you, I couldn’t be bothered!”
“You are a tease!” Greta squeezed his leg as he sat heavily down beside her. “Ooh lovely! Danish pastries are my favourite.” She eagerly reached out to take the pastry.
“That, my sweet, is mine,” Max announced and slapped her hand in jest. “This one is yours.” He gestured towards the wrapped banana and toffee flavoured muffin. She giggled at the name on the wrapper.
“Is this for real?” she asked, looking at the muffin that looked incredibly fattening.
“Only the best for you, my dear!” Max took a large bite out of the Danish pastry and smiled back at Greta.
The ferry ploughed its way along the last part of its voyage across the Solent and reached the Island about an hour later. Greta and Max sat patiently in the car as the ferry’s ramp was lowered and vehicles alighted at East Cowes. The drive to Greta’s parents’ house was lengthy, along narrow, winding lanes. By the time they reached the house, Greta was very excited. “Oh look, there it is! Not long now!” She sat forward in her seat.
“You’re just like a kid, aren’t you?” Max laughed at his wife.
“The Island makes me feel childlike again; I told you that before, haven’t I?”
“On many occasions.” Max drew up outside the family home.
Jeanne Standing was waiting on the doorstep as a welcoming committee and frantically waved a tea towel in the air to commemorate their arrival. Greta shrieked.
“Look! There’s mummy!”
“Hang on! Let me park the car, then you can get out!” Max felt like he was speaking to a child.
“Hello Mummy! How are you?” Greta leapt from the car and ran towards her mother. She was acting like she hadn’t seen her for years.
“Oh darling, how lovely! Come on in! Hello Maxim! How are you? The kettle has just boiled, tea will be served shortly!” she trumpeted as Max pulled two overnight bags from the boot of the car and slammed the tailgate firmly shut.
“Hello Jeanne, you are looking extremely well. Must be all this sea air!” Max pecked a welcome kiss on Jeanne’s cheek and she blushed.
“Oh thank you Maxim. Come on in; Charles is in the drawing room!”
Greta hushed her voice into a whisper. “She means the lounge; you know mummy has got a thing about having a drawing room. We’ll just placate her.” She nudged Max forward.
Jeanne brought a laden tray of bone china floral teacups, a fat brown teapot and highly decorative matching side plates into the drawing room and placed them on to a large oak coffee table. Charles, white-haired, slightly balding with a small white military-style moustache that turned up at the edges, got up from his armchair and offered his out-stretched hand to Max.
“Good to see you old boy; how are things in the City? Plenty of business?” he asked as he vigorously shook Max’s hand.
“Yes, fortunately very busy, thanks Charles. Despite all this gloom and downturn, our company isn’t doing too badly. Looks like we will be in line for a decent bonus again at the end of the year.”
“That is very good news, Max.” Charles indicated for him to sit down. Jeanne promptly placed a floral china side plate with a cream linen napkin on Max’s knee and thrust a fat wedge of Victoria sandwich with her china-handled cake knife on to it. Max gulped. He was still full from the Danish pastry he had eaten on the ferry and, no doubt, Jeanne would have prepared a very generous evening meal for them to enjoy later.
“You are very kind, Jeanne. But I am trying to watch my weight!” Max tried to blag.
“Since when?” Greta looked over at Max with a puzzled expression.
“Since the ferry, you know, the Danish…” Max felt guilty as he could feel Jeanne’s eyes boring into him.
“Oh that is such a shame; I spent the entire afternoon creating this masterpiece, especially for you!” She looked down at the slice of cake. “Well, perhaps you might like it later, Maxim.” She snatched the plate away from him and slammed it on to the tray. Charles leant forward to take the plate. Jeanne glared at him.
“Charles, no dear! This is your piece!” She thrust a plate containing a sliver of cake. It was virtually see-through. He looked extremely disappointment. “You definitely have to watch your waistline!”
Max closed his eyes. He desperately tried to stifle his laugh as Greta came to his rescue. “Oh mummy! Don’t be so mean to the father. Give him Max’s piece of cake, for heaven’s sake!”
Jeanne flashed a glare at Greta.
“I know what is best for the father, Greta! Here, take it Charles!” She indicated for him to take the minuscule slice and Charles meekly accepted his offering. Jeanne, clearly relieved she had restored order in the drawing room, patted her skirt and sat down beside Greta.
“Now dear, before Leo and Ardi arrive, tell me all about your honeymoon!”
Max groaned and looked at Charles. “Fancy a wander around the garden, Charles? You can show me how the vegetable patch is getting on.”
“Good idea, my boy. I’ll fetch my boots.” Charles jumped up from his chair along with a cascade of Victoria sandwich crumbs. Jeanne looked down at the carpet in horror.
“Oh, Charles! Do please be careful, dear!” She indicated to the floor and promptly dropped to her knees to rescue the cake crumbs from the carpet by sweeping the carpet with her cupped hands into a paper napkin. She pecked at the carpet with her fingers like an over-enthusiastic chicken, clearing every morsel of crumb till the floor was clean.
Charles chose to ignore Jeanne’s exaggerated anguish and continued on his mission to retrieve his Wellingtons from the boot room.
“Right mummy; honeymoon… Maldives. Where do you want me to start?”
“From the very beginning, dear. You know me; I need to know every single inch of information!” Jeanne shuffled closer to where Greta was sitting until her face was inches away from Greta’s; her expression was of total concentration.
Chapter Four
“They raise their own beef cattle, you know.” Charles enthusiastically cut into a thick slice of Aberdeen Angus roast beef. He thrust a forkful of beef into his mouth and commenced chewing.
“Oh Charles, teeth on fork, dear!” Jeanne groaned as the metal of Charles’s fork rattled irritatingly against his dentures.
“Mummy, don’t be so rotten to the father; he’s really enjoying his roast beef.” Greta looked sympathetically at her father who was totally oblivious to his wife’s latest outburst of nagging.
“Damn good job they make of it too! Carbon footprint, local produce and all that sustainability stuff…” Charles continued to eat hungrily; his moustache rose and fell like little white boat oars as he chewed, up and down, in and out. Jeanne rolled her eyes. It was another of Charles’s habits that irritated the life out of her, speaking with his mouth full of food.
Jeanne looked around the table at her family and smiled in contentment. The Smuggler’s Hide was bustling as usual with a brisk Sunday lunch tr
ade. All the tables were reserved, due to its popularity. A quaint, solitary hostelry that had stood for over four hundred years at the foot of the downs, which shielded it from the prevailing southerly winds, the Smuggler’s Hide held an unprecedented history. Originally a blacksmith’s forge, it had diversified centuries ago into an inn. It was famed for its association with smuggling in the seventeenth century and was the centre of local folklore.
“Oh this is so wonderful, isn’t it? All the family are together again. Isn’t it grand, Leo?”
Leo looked up momentarily from his plate.
“Yeah, spose so. But I must say this meal is top notch. Best nosh I’ve had in a pub for ages. It makes me feel like I could even put up with sitting opposite Greta for a couple of hours!”
Greta chose to ignore Leo.
“We’ve eaten here a few times lately and never had a duff meal yet, have we Charles? Oh, don’t bother to answer; I know you are going to rattle that fork on your teeth again if you do! Either that or choke on a sprout!” Jeanne shook her head. Charles momentarily fixed a grin without speaking. He continued to chew his food like a cow chewing the cud, methodical and thoughtful, with the occasional expelling of wind.
“There are such lovely views of the countryside from ‘ere, Mrs Standing,” Ardi cooed from the corner of the table. Demure and petite, Ardi delicately picked at her meal like a bird, taking a small mouthful and each time being very careful not to hit her fork on her teeth, for fear of reprisal. She gazed around her as she silently chewed. “We don’t have places like this in my country; it is all built up, like a concrete jungle. The Island is very beautiful, so unspoilt. You are very lucky to leeve ‘ere.”
Greta didn’t look at Max; she didn’t have to. He knew exactly what she was thinking. She tried to infiltrate his mind with her thoughts.
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