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Ted turns down an avenue lined with trees and pink and purple hydrangea bushes. As we emerge from the tunnel of foliage, the sea comes into view again, and I have the sensation of being at the top of a rollercoaster. This must be the west coast; there’s a huge sweep of golden sand, miles long, almost the length of the island.
‘Is this St Ouen’s?’ I ask.
‘Yes, it’s pronounced St Ones, Jersey has some strange spelling,’ Ted says. ‘My dad’s place is just around the corner. I’ll grab some clothes and then we’ll head to the next place in your album. You won’t be able to go back to the cave until low tide now.’
As we drive down towards the sea, the road fenced in by steep fields and a few old granite houses, I think about what Ted has told me, about his runaway wife. I can’t imagine what that would feel like, to have found your person and then have them abandon you. I think of Mum losing Dad when I was only three, how hard that must have been for her. Then I think about the strange version of events Monica told me and wonder again how she could have it so wrong. What would I do if someone left me the way Ted’s wife did? I don’t think I would be able to move on until I knew where they had gone.
Ted pulls the car into a driveway signposted ‘Sans Ennui’ in the middle of a line of houses all facing the sea. It’s a detached granite house with a forked roof. It has a modern-looking porch at the side, but otherwise looks as if it’s been here for hundreds of years. There’s a sloped garden running down to a tiny white cottage, not much bigger than a garden shed, then a ploughed field, before the beach and the wild expanse of sea beyond. To our left, the rocky escarpment of L’Étacq headland rises up, as though standing sentry over the long bay. There’s something timeless about the scene – neither the view nor the houses here can have changed much in centuries.
‘What a place to live,’ I sigh.
‘Do you want to come in?’ Ted says. ‘Have you eaten?’
His whole demeanour has changed. He pulls his back straight, perhaps aware he’s been hunching over the wheel, and gives me a bright-eyed grin. It’s as though he’s turned the page on our conversation about his wife and wants to get back to more cheerful ground.
‘You don’t need to feed me as well as everything else you’re doing.’
I follow him past the yellow skip in the driveway, in through the porch. The place is a mess of boxes and belongings; I see marks on the floor where furniture must have stood, a bureau and a chest of drawers in the middle of the room and labelled plastic boxes stacked high against the walls. I ask Ted if I can charge my phone, and as I’m plugging it in, a small, wiry white dog darts in and jumps up at my dress.
‘Oh, hello little guy!’ I say, bending down to pet him.
‘Scamp, down. Sorry,’ says Ted. ‘He’s a bit feral.’
‘Hi, Scamp.’
Scamp is a terrier cross of some kind, with one ear in the air and the other flopping over his friendly little face. I notice he’s left dirty little paw prints on my dress. Someone calls Ted’s name from the garden, and we walk through the narrow, box-cluttered kitchen out of some French windows onto a gravel terrace overlooking the steep garden and the sea beyond. A woman in her early forties with a cheerful, round face and short peroxide hair is sitting at a table with a whippet-thin, elderly man who is nursing a bandaged arm.
‘Ah, sorry, you got Scamped before I could tie him up,’ says the woman, jumping up and trying to catch the dog. Then she notices Ted is topless. ‘Why are you half-naked, man?’
‘Long story. I’m going to get changed. Dad, Sandy, this is Laura, Laura – Sandy and my dad, Gerry. Do you like crab, Laura?’
I hold up a hand in greeting to Gerry and Sandy.
‘I adore crab,’ I say, grinning at Ted as he retreats inside. I turn to catch Sandy’s eyes shifting between us. Her gaze settles back on me, and she enthusiastically offers me a chair.
‘Sit, sit! Oh no, look, Scamp ruined your lovely dress!’ Sandy covers her mouth in horror.
‘Oh, don’t worry, it was already ruined.’
The sun is beating down on the patio, and I’m now too hot in Hot Suitcase Man’s jumper, so I take it off and hang it on the back of my chair. ‘Look,’ I say, pointing to the chocolate stain with a smile, ‘testament to a disastrous day.’ I turn to Ted’s dad. ‘I’m sorry to intrude like this, Gerry. Ted went in the sea looking for me, so it’s my fault he got soaked.’
‘You’re this Laura then,’ says Gerry. His voice is quiet, lacking resonance. I can see a shadow of Ted about his features, but Gerry’s face is softer, less expressive. Both his hands shake with an obvious tremor. ‘I’m pleased you persuaded him to take you around the island and have a break from all these boxes.’
Looking at the state of the house, and Gerry’s fragile frame, I feel guilty for persuading Ted to drive me around today.
‘He’s been an excellent tour guide. I only hope I haven’t deprived you of his help.’
‘Good for him to get out. Terrible job, having to babysit your old dad and do his packing for him,’ Gerry says with a warm smile. ‘Though one benefit of my vision going is that I can’t see what he’s throwing away. “Make sure you keep the good china”, “Yes, Dad, sure, Dad, that breaking sound? Oh no, that was the stuff you didn’t like.”’ He chuckles.
We chat away; Gerry and Sandy ask me lots of questions about my visit. They are both so friendly, I feel myself relax, basking in the warmth of their easy company. When Ted reappears in a clean blue linen shirt and dark jeans, holding two plates of crab salad, Sandy says, ‘Ted, why don’t we let Laura stay in the cottage for a few nights? I’ve no bookings in this week, and it will be nicer than staying in town.’
‘Oh, I’m sure I’m fine where I am,’ I say, embarrassed to have Ted put on the spot. ‘This crab looks wonderful, you really didn’t have to feed me.’
‘Always looking after everyone but himself,’ says Sandy. Then she points to the tiny white cottage, just before the garden wall. ‘Laura, wouldn’t you rather wake up to this view? Best spot on the island – it might be small, but it sure is cosy. I’ve taken over the running of the place for Gerry. You can stay for free in exchange for a five-star review,’ she says with a wink.
I imagine that the stark beauty of this wild bay, with rocks jutting out from the sea and the long sweep of sand stretching for miles down the coast, is exactly the kind of scene Love Life subscribers would like to see.
‘It is a stunning view, you’re so lucky to live here, Gerry.’ I realise too late what I’ve said and feel the skin on my neck prickle with embarrassment. ‘I mean, to have lived here. Sorry.’
