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“I’ll have to check.”
“What? Don’t you know how many vacant rooms you got in your house? We can guarantee you eight weeks full occupancy.”
Just then another man just coming out of the bakery, pauses and Sweeny calls him over too. “Joe Hart. Just the man. You rent out rooms too, don’t you? How many can you give us for a long-term booking? We’ve got workers coming.”
The woman picks up her shopping “I’m afraid, I don’t take men stayin’ on their own. Not in my house. Only family bookings.” And she walks away.
“Your loss,” Sweeny says loud enough for everyone to hear him. “This island is full of hotels and the tourist season hasn’t even started yet.” Then he turns to Joe Hart. “So, what say you?”
“I’m sorry I don’t think I have the vacancies.”
“Hart, what are you on about? Your guest house has plenty of rooms, all of them empty.”
“All full. Sorry.”
Morris points an arm up the square towards Mill Lane. “I can see the sign in your window from here, says Vacancies, right there.”
The man shrugs. “Well, I don’t know what to tell you.” And he too walks away.
Chapter Sixty
Hal
My mother is delighted. “I’m just glad you’re coming home.”
I haven’t told her about the Secret House; it’s not a conversation to have on the phone. When I’m back in Milton Keynes, we can all three of us get together and I can explain to both her and Hanie. In any case, we won’t know what it will mean for the Hemingway name until the fact-finding mission has completed its work. For the last six weeks, it’s been nothing but researchers traipsing all over the hill. I’ve been interviewed by at least half a dozen historians of various nationalities, English, French, German, and Russian. Some in person, most on Zoom.
“What time will you get here?” My mother’s voice on the phone is excited.
“Not sure. I’ll get to Guernsey first, and then change for the Poole ferry.”
“Well, ring when you land in Poole so I can call the trainline for you.”
Mum has never trusted online train bookings; she’s convinced they’re not as real as speaking to a live person on the phone.
“Okay Mum.”
“Do you have a lot of luggage?”
I glance down at the two suitcases. My personal belongings have quadrupled since first coming here last February. What a transformation five months have made. I can still remember walking into our old house and finding it empty, smelling of dust, mould, and failure. Now the four chalets are full of elegant furnishings and first-class holidaymakers. Last week, I made the second repayment on my business loan. The Hemingway Holiday Hideaway will run perfectly without me; I’ve got a very good property-management agency to look after all ten chalets and cabins. There is no need for me to stay.
“Attention. Attention.” The loudspeaker crackles into life. “Passengers for Guernsey can now board. Please remember to take all your belongings with you.”
A dozen or so passengers, mostly tourists, get up and hurry to the barrier. I lean down and grasp the handles of both suitcases, ready to move. It feels very strange to be actually leaving La Canette.
The other passengers all crowd around the barrier; maybe it’s better to let them go through first. So, I wait.
I could do with a quiet moment to absorb that I’m actually leaving. Because I know I won’t be back.
My goodbyes were all said yesterday. I went into the village and thanked everyone who helped me, shook hands with so many people, I lost count. Even Myles de la Cour, wished me Bon Voyage and hoped I’ll come back soon. Eileen gave me some blue brie for Mum. The Malon brothers assured me they would take care of any repairs or maintenance that might be needed from time to time.
All my goodbyes. Except for the one I couldn’t face, I have not said a word to her for months, not since… I scrunch my eyes closed and think about something else, anything else: the fifteen new bookings for next month, the second-hand books I was able to buy and put in each of the chalets, the loan repayment I made last week and the one due next month… on and on until my brain obeys me and stays away from forbidden subjects. It leaves the usual ache but hopefully that too will fade once I’m home, hundreds of miles away from her.
The loudspeaker crackles with another call to board. All the other passengers have gone through to the ferry. I pull the suitcases by the handle, ready to leave, when someone new sits on the bench beside me.
“Hal, isn’t it?”
I glance at the man. Young, slight, wearing a shirt too big for him. He looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t place him. “Hello.”
