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‘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.
