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‘Oh, thank you, Nettie.’
She smiles. ‘No worries. I’ll see you when I return.’
‘Return?’
‘From Ireland. I’m leaving after the service.’
And then the impatient clatter of Grandma’s cane announces it’s time to go.
*
Starry Cove’s church of St Piran is high above the sea, on an old grassy knoll, like in some old period drama, with windswept mourners struggling to walk upright – both for the weight of their losses and the wind against them. As I weave my way through the mourners, I adjust my scarf and raise my collar against the onslaught of the Cornish winter. It’s a closed-casket affair, so I can’t see him in person. Not that I want any memory of him in death. But he must have been very loved, judging by the turnout and the fact that all the shops are closed.
All those I met on my first trip are here, including Penny and also Rosie, who’s standing next to an astonishingly good-looking man. He could easily be related to Jago Moon, as they have the same kind of look. Only this man is sober, settled and serene, whereas Jago is like fury itself.
Not wanting to be noticed, I sit at the back, between two sobbing women. All around me is sadness, as is apt for a funeral. But there’s also a pride, and even the vicar jokes about my grandfather’s wicked sense of humour and love for the sea and boatbuilding. He tells of Nano’s strong sense of community and wisdom, and how the villagers would always turn to him for advice. He was, the vicar continues, a man’s man, but also a woman’s man. (Snickering ensues.)
And then I spot him. Jago Moon, all solemn-faced, his head bowed. He certainly looks sad. I don’t know why I’m even watching him. I’m not a stalker by any stretch of the imagination. But watching him without him seeing me gives me a sense of insight into his character. If anything, we have one thing in common: our parents hadn’t been the best source of love and security.
Although mine had stuck around, I’m assuming that Jago’s hadn’t, abandoning him to his destiny. I know how he feels. The pain of knowing you’re not good enough, not even for your parents. It makes you want to rise to every occasion and be the best person you can, almost as if to prove to yourself that it wasn’t your fault you were abandoned. But our similarities end way before that, because Jago doesn’t seem interested in that kind of challenge. To me, he seems… like he’s completely given up on life.
After the eulogy, the casket is lowered into the ground as my grandmother stands with her head held high, almost as if challenging death to come and get her, too.
And that’s when Jago materialises before me, his hands in his coat pockets, looking out to sea. Not that I’d lost sight of him, mind. I wasn’t actually looking for him in the crowd, but he just sticks out, at least a head taller than the rest. Hard not to notice him. Or ignore him.
Considering he’s the local slosher, he’s scrubbed up nicely. He’s wearing a dark blue suit and tie. His shoes are impeccable despite the blustery day and his coat looks expensive. He looks up and, never taking his eyes off me, weaves his way to where I’ve just stood up as the mourners begin to disperse.
‘Now I get it.You’rethe nuisance of a granddaughter. I couldn’t figure out why someone like you would want to be in a place like this. But believe me, if you’re looking for any fuzzy, feel-good family warmth, you’ve wasted a trip.’
I huff under my breath, making sure no one can hear. ‘I was told to stay away from you,’ I lie. ‘Now I know why.’
‘Oh, you don’t know the half of it, sweetheart. The lady doesn’t do sentiment. Pity she’s a whore.’
I can feel my eyes popping. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘’Tis Pity She’s a Whore,’ he repeats. ‘John Ford.’
‘Yes, I got the reference, thank you. Do you always make it a point to be so unpleasant to those you meet?’
He shrugs. ‘I already told you – there’s no one left here to impress. I already know everybody and we pretty much have formed our opinions on one another.’
‘And now you’ve formed an opinion on me.’
He looks away from the horizon and back at me before he speaks. ‘Pretty much.’
‘And…? What would that be?’
He studies me, probably debating whether to give me the softer version or whether I can take the truth.
‘If you’re looking to be loved, you won’t find it here. Your grandmother’s got a heart of stone.’
‘And so have you,’ I reply before I can stop myself.
His eyes roam over my face. ‘I certainly do now.’
‘You!’ comes my grandmother’s voice, cracking sharp like a whip. ‘How dare you show your face here! Go away before I have you carted off, you wastrel.’
And before I can take my next breath, it’s pandemonium, poet S. T. Coleridge style, as she continues to scream a string of insults at him amid the mourners who are all craning their necks and migrating to the front rows for a better look.
