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‘When our mother Margorie passed away, she wanted her husband’s coin buried with her,’ Monica explains. ‘But your mother had it and she wouldn’t give it back, certainly didn’t want it buried in the ground. We were all so raw after Alex’s accident …’ Monica trails off.
‘It felt like another thing Annie had taken from us.’ Sue speaks slowly, but her voice has a resonance to it, as though she is used to having an audience.
‘Another thing?’ I ask, feeling myself frown.
Sue’s face creases into a wince.
‘All these years later, it won’t hold up to logic. I was a grieving mother and reason gets sent to the back of the queue behind pain and anger. This extra work he took on, the well-paid job in Morocco; he did it all so he could contribute, so he could help Annie. Would he have rushed off otherwise, so soon after the summer season? I’m not sure.’ Sue shakes her head, and I feel my jaw tense at the implication. ‘Perhaps that was unfair,’ she adds quickly, ‘but I’m just explaining how it was we lost touch. I did write to Annie once, you know, an olive branch of sorts, but she didn’t reply. I’m only glad Monica kept the door open all these years, giving you the chance to eventually walk back through.’
I kneel down at my grandmother’s feet, reaching a hand to my pendant, which now feels like a lead weight around my neck. Everything I thought it represented was wrong. It was the source of more conflict than love, and I don’t want it if it wasn’t meant for me. I unclip the two pieces of metal from the pendant and press them into my grandmother’s hand.
‘I’m sorry if my mother took these from you. You should have them back.’
Sue feels the pieces between her fingers and starts to cry, a silent trickle glistening between the creases of her pale papery cheek.
‘I can’t even see them.’ Her mouth falls open, and she holds her head in her hand as her face crumples. ‘I missed knowing my granddaughter over two pieces of silver; I am a foolish Judas.’
‘Now, now,’ Monica strides over and puts an arm around her sister’s shoulder. ‘She’s here now, no point regretting what’s past.’
‘Yes, I’m here now,’ I say, reaching out to squeeze my grandmother’s hand. ‘I’m only sorry I didn’t ask Mum more questions about you all. I didn’t know any of this.’
Sue presses the coins back into my palm.
‘You must keep them; I have learnt my lesson not to put trinkets over flesh and blood.’
Her words make me think of my mother, the magpie. She chose the coin for me, over my Jersey family. Have I, like her, been too intent on trying to keep hold of a history, a story, by having something tangible to lock it in? Then again, without the coin, I wouldn’t even be here.
Monica brings us all a slice of chocolate log to go with our tea, and the mood shifts to cheerier terrain. Both women want to hear all about my life, about growing up in Bristol, my work, my interests. I end up telling them all about the jewellery Mum and I used to make together, the fairs we’d go to every weekend, hunting out shiny things.
‘Perhaps that is the Blampied in you,’ Sue says fondly, ‘my father’s jeweller streak.’
‘Well, I think I have a long way to go before I’d be considered a proper Jersey bean,’ I say. ‘I’ve been calling myself Le Ques-ne all my life, I only learnt it was pronounced Le Cane this weekend.’
Sue finds this so funny that she chokes on her piece of cake, and it takes a good few minutes for her to regain her composure.
After tea, Monica sits down next to me with a photo album she’s picked out.
‘I’ve spent the last few years writing people’s names on the backs of all these old photos. Once we’ve gone, no one will remember who anyone is otherwise.’
She takes me through pages of photos; there are several of William Blampied, who started it all, dressed in his army uniform before he left for the war. There is a picture of William and Margorie’s wedding day, at a Jersey church in 1936. Pictures of Sue, Monica, and their brother Graham as children on holidays in Greece and France. Finally, we get to pictures of my dad as a child; I’ve only ever seen a handful of photos of him, and I stare in wonder at eyes so similar to my own, looking back at me from a faded photograph.
‘Do shout if this is dull, dear,’ says Monica.
‘It’s not dull at all. I know so little about Dad’s family. Does your brother Graham have children? Did Dad have cousins?’
‘Oh yes, Deidre, Oliver, and James, and they all have children of their own. I’m sure they’ll want to meet you.’
I have cousins. I have family beyond Gran. The thought brings a lump to my throat.
‘Oh, would you mind fetching the box from your car, Monica?’ Sue asks, and Monica waves a finger in the air as though remembering it herself.
‘I kept a box of your father’s things. I suppose I thought you might come for it one day,’ Sue says.
Monica returns from the car with a battered cardboard box in her arms, and I jump up to help her with it.
‘It’s probably not much worth keeping, just things I couldn’t throw away at the time,’ Sue explains.
Monica and I open it together. Inside are a few well-thumbed books, mainly thrillers and murder mysteries. School certificates, a journal of handwritten recipes, and a small tin of baby teeth, which makes Monica and me both grimace and then laugh.
