Persey continued, gravel crunching underfoot until she stopped a few feet away. She glanced back to the house, sensing rather than seeing Dido staring after her from the dining room windows.
Turning back to him, words escaped her. It could be him, it really could. She could see familiarity but she wondered if she was forcing herself to see it. The last time she’d seen Stefan had been that day at the cliffs in August 1930. It had been almost ten years ago. They’d been so young and now they were twenty-five. If it was him. He had left at the end of the summer, returned to Germany. And then … nothing. Stefan’s annual visits had come to an abrupt end that summer. He had never come back to Guernsey despite his promises he would. Persey had often wondered why he never returned, why he never wrote to them. She had thought about it over and over and now … It was him. It had to be him.
She stood straight and searched his eyes. ‘It is you, isn’t it?’
Now she’d asked it, she felt mad and expected a rebuttal.
But the man smiled and there it was, that smile and the slight narrowing of the eyes that had always come with it.
‘Hello, Persephone.’
Chapter 4
2016
The Solicitor had told Clara Dido’s funeral wishes as stipulated in the will and she and Lucy had complied easily. But it had turned out to be a far more interesting affair than Lucy had expected. She couldn’t think of a single time in the five funerals she’d been to where the vicar had spoken about the deceased with such warm and genuine affection, almost as if he had actually known her. She didn’t know anyone who went to church anymore. She had opted out of the annual pilgrimage for Christmas carols and mulled wine at the lovely little church near her flat in Camberwell. But Dido had been a fairly regular churchgoer, arranging the flowers and compiling the parish newsletter and it had been the vicar’s pleasure to offer to deliver the eulogy, quipping about Dido in her later years. Lucy had been relieved, but Clara had grumbled she felt surplus to requirements.
‘But we didn’t actually know her,’ Lucy had hissed as the vicar finished his short speech. ‘Not really.’
Clara became engaged in conversation with parishioners at the church doors at the end of the service – thanking those who had come – but Lucy extricated herself gently. To those that offered a consolatory ‘sorry for your loss’, Lucy mumbled words of thanks in reply but felt very false mourning someone she had hardlyknown. Thank goodness for nibbles and drinks at Deux Tourelles afterwards. That might help lubricate conversation a bit.
Despite asking Lucy to come back to Guernsey to help with preparations, all Clara had let Lucy organise was the wake, but she assumed it was the moral support Clara needed more than any actual help. She’d stocked up on endless bags of frozen sausage rolls and mini quiches along with other various nibbles and plenty of wine. And at Deux Tourelles, after a few minutes of passing these around, Lucy moved away, not quite knowing who to talk to or how to engage herself in conversation with parishioners who were engrossed discussing house prices, energy bills and how long it was taking them to get a doctor’s appointment.
Clara was in the kitchen taking a long drink of water. She found a clean glass and poured one for Lucy and the two girls stood, backs against the kitchen cupboards, in unified silence.
Later, when everyone had left, Lucy asked, ‘Do you think any of them actually knew Dido or her sister?’ as she and Clara tidied up at Deux Tourelles. ‘I mean, really knew them? Other than the vicar I mean.’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Well when people realised I was related to Dido in a small way, they were kind about her but I couldn’t get anything interesting out of them about her. They mostly knew her through church or whist and that was it,’ Lucy said.
‘What were you expecting?’ Clara turned from cleaning a red wine stain that had appeared on the edge of the sink.
‘I don’t know, really. A lot of people clearly admired and liked her but I’m not sure any of them were real friends.’
‘At least she got out and about,’ Clara said. ‘That’s a lot more than some elderly people do from what I gather.’
‘I suppose,’ Lucy replied, putting the last of the glasses in the dishwasher.
Lucy’s five-year-old niece Molly ran into the kitchen, wearing her school uniform.
‘Hello, trouble,’ Lucy said. ‘How was school?’
‘Fine.’ Molly gave her aunty a hug and then descended on the leftover mini sausage rolls.
‘What did you do?’ Lucy prompted.
‘Can’t remember,’ Molly said, her mouth still full.
‘Awesome.’ Lucy laughed and then popped a mini quiche in her own mouth.
‘Are you going home now the funeral’s over?’ Molly asked.
‘Not yet. No. I think we have things to sort. Boring grown-up things,’ Lucy joked. ‘So you’ve got me for a while longer. Did you worry I was leaving?’
Molly shrugged and reached for another sausage roll. ‘I heard Mum say you’d be going to a hotel or something and she thought you’d be gone by now.’
Lucy started. ‘Oh. Right then.’ She glanced at Clara who was obviously pretending not to hear. She thought Clara might have changed her mind about Lucy staying. After all, she’d been there nearly a week without a grumble from her sister.
