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I laugh. It’s one of those laughs when you’ve been about to cry, and then someone says something, and their words tack your boat into the wind and take you in a new direction – there’s a thrill in the snap change of emotion as your sail billows out on the other side of the mast.
‘I don’t know,’ I say with a smile, ‘real life can’t be all bee-themed treasure hunts, can it?’
Ted’s phone rings again and he pulls into a lay-by to take the call. He talks to someone called Sandy, who I assume must be the neighbour. He sounds reassured and when he hangs up his face visibly relaxes.
‘Good news?’ I ask.
‘My neighbour – she says Dad’s OK. He was mainly confused – just a cut on his arm, it looked worse than it was.’ Ted pulls the car into the road again and rubs his shoulder with the opposite hand. ‘The headland is just up here.’
Around the next corner the coastline reappears. Ted parks the car next to a field full of wild gorse with a footpath leading up to the cliff edge. He picks up my photo album from the armrest between our seats and flicks through to the pictures of the holiday resort as it looked in 1991.
‘The resort that was here went derelict,’ Ted explains. ‘They pulled it down a while back and put the headland back to nature.’
A photo of Mum and Dad dancing together in a hall is one of the few photos I have of them together. I don’t even have one of them on their wedding day, because the budget photographer they used overexposed the film. In this shot, Mum’s wearing a blue dress with puffball sleeves, while my dad is rocking sideburns and wears a pale denim shirt and white jeans. The vibe is so eighties, it could be a still from the film Footloose. Though it’s a grainy picture, it captures a look in both their eyes, as though they only see each other, completely unaware of whoever took the photo.
‘This must have been taken here,’ I say, pointing to the picture. ‘This is Mum teaching Dad to dance. They’d use the hall to practise once all the guests had gone to bed, usually to Phil Collins, Dad’s favourite.’ I smile at the memory of Mum telling me the story, then tap the photo and say wistfully, ‘I doubt I’ll ever have a moment as romantic as this.’
I turn to see Ted looking at me with an almost tender expression. I didn’t mean it to sound that way, I don’t want him to pity me. It’s this photo, the look between my parents – it weaves a strange spell on me.
‘It’s hard to imagine a huge holiday resort standing in this wild place. Soon, no one will remember it was even here; all the stories that happened here will be lost to posterity.’ I glance back down at the photo. ‘Where do you think the love goes, when no one’s left to tell the story?’
Ted looks thoughtful for a moment, then he says, ‘Someone once told me that growing up feeling loved allows you to go on to love other people. Maybe love is simply a huge chain letter, passed down through the generations. The details of the stories begin not to matter.’
The sentiment of his words surprises me. I’ve never heard a man talk about love so plainly, with so little coyness. I wonder if all the men I’ve known have actually been boys.
‘That’s a lovely way to look at it,’ I say with a smile, then reach forward to drum a hand on the dashboard. ‘Sorry, Ted, I’m holding you up.’
‘It’s fine. Your cave—’ Ted reaches across to turn the page to the picture of my mother standing in a cave in a red bikini – the place where they got engaged. ‘Follow the footpath around the cliff and you’ll get down to the beach. This cave is at the far end, right around to the left.’ Ted looks at his watch. ‘Don’t hang around there after one forty-five. The sea comes in quickly at Plémont, and you can get cut off fast. There’s a café at the top of the steps, I’ll meet you there at two.’
I’m pleased he wants to come back, but I scribble my mobile number on one of the cards in the glove box, just in case he needs to change the plan.
‘I hope your dad is OK.’
As I get out of the car, I shiver. The sun has gone in and I’m only wearing a strappy sundress. I don’t want to be cold, especially if I’m going to be out here for an hour and a half. In the absence of anything else to wear, I grab the cream fisherman’s jumper from the suitcase in the boot. Putting it on, I inhale the smell of it again, then I catch Ted watching me in the rear-view mirror. Something tells me he doesn’t approve of me borrowing it.
‘What did I say about the cave, Lady Muck?’ he shouts after me as I start walking away up the footpath.
‘Don’t stay there too long, or I’ll get washed up the blowhole, gotcha!’
I turn to wave as he drives away, and he gives a salute, which makes me smile, then I hug my arms around myself as I set off up the dirt footpath.
I try calling Gran back, but she doesn’t answer, so I leave a message saying I’ve bought her some black butter. I’m surprised how downbeat she’d sounded about me being in Jersey, but then Gran has never been one to get sentimental about the past. ‘Fiercely practical’, Mum called her.
The headland feels truly wild with its tangle of ferns and sun-bleached grass overlooking the wind-whipped sea. The only stark reminder of a human footprint is the remnants of an old concrete bunker, left behind from the wartime occupation. I take photos of the headland and a selfie to contrast then and now, then spend some time trying to work out from the pictures where the holiday resort would have stood; my mother’s apartment, where Dad’s kitchen might have been, the hall where they danced. It’s impossible. Nature has taken the headland back so entirely – there isn’t even a trace of the resort’s foundation.
From the footpath that hugs the cliff, a powerful swell is visible, pulsing towards the island, then churning white over craggy brown rocks as it reaches land. To my left, the sharp coast softens to sand and Plémont bay comes into view below me – an enormous sandy cove, guarded on every side by steep rock. There is something hypnotic about watching waves break on sand. They are so reliable in their behaviour; not one breaks rank, refusing to adhere to the ebb and flow.
My phone interrupts me from being mesmerised by the sea. It’s Vanya.
‘Hey, I was just calling to check you were OK after that Insta live?’
‘It was bad,’ I say with a wince.
‘Personally, I loved it, super kitsch, but Suki dropped a few f bombs in the office. How’s the stalking going?’
‘Not well. The airport thinks I’ve stolen this guy’s bag, I’ve managed to accidentally throw one of his shoes off a cliff, oh, and now I am wearing the guy’s clothes because my only dress is covered in mud and chocolate, like I’m a five-year-old in an advert for washing powder. On the plus side, I have found out that his mother’s name is Maude and that her birthday is tomorrow.’
‘Well, that’s a start. Forget the Insta live. Suki loves your coin story, everyone does, it’s exactly the feel-good romantic content the website needs right now. Don’t get thrown off your stride, just get what you need to write the best article you can.’ I’m not used to Vanya giving me serious pep talks like this, maybe she’s been talking to Dee. ‘How far have you got with Tiger Woman?’
