Before meeting up with the cab driver, I head out to find somewhere to buy a change of clothes and a few other essentials a luggage-less girl might need. The hotel was able to furnish me with a spare phone charger, toothpaste and a toothbrush, but I can’t bear to spend today in yesterday’s plane clothes. Around the corner from my hotel, I find a department store that opens early, and in it, a pale blue summer dress and some flip-flops in the sale, both perfect for a warm September day. I prudently pick up a few bits of make-up too – when J. Le Maistre calls, I don’t want to be caught looking anything less than my best.
The cab driver, Ted, I remind myself, is waiting for me in the lay-by where he left me last night. The suitcase trundles along the cobbles behind me; I brought it so I can go to meet Hot Suitcase Guy straight away if he calls this morning.
‘Morning!’ I say to Ted as I climb into the back seat. He gives me a single nod in reply. He’s wearing the same ugly plaid flat cap he was wearing yesterday, and his beard looks more Tom Hanksy than ever. ‘So, I’m ready for the grand tour. Where shall we begin?’
‘You want to go to all the places in your album?’ he asks, clearing his throat.
‘Yes, please.’
He holds out a hand. ‘Let me take a look at the photos again. I’ll plan the best route. Oh, and we should agree a flat rate for the day – it will cost you a fortune on the meter.’
‘Whatever you think is fair,’ I say gratefully.
Once he starts driving, I don’t ask where we’re headed, but jump straight on my phone and start leaving messages for Le Maistres. The hotel receptionist kindly made me a copy of the Le Maistre page in the phone book. As keen as I am to track down my mystery man, I’m also now increasingly anxious to get my own bag back. It makes me wince to think about some of the things I’ve confessed to my journal, words not meant to see the light of day. There is simply too much in my bag I cannot contemplate losing: my research notes; my favourite jeans; my vintage silk blouse – one of the last presents Mum gave me; the L-shaped earrings she and I made together; all things I would not have checked into the hold if I’d had more than thirty seconds to think about it.
Gazing out of the window as I dial another number, I watch the suburban sprawl of houses, schools, and shops morph into more rural scenery. I notice how considerate all the drivers are to one another. Ted waits to let cars out from junctions, as though we have all the time in the world. It is a far cry from the aggressive London driving I am used to. The Le Maistre number I’ve called rings and rings, so I hang up.
The roads narrow into single-track, tree-lined lanes, and we pass dog walkers ambling along next to freshly ploughed fields. Then, as the houses disappear entirely and we’re surrounded by green, I see the distinctive face of a Jersey cow, peering over a fence.
‘Oh, a Jersey cow! Can we stop?’ I ask. ‘Oh, will you look at them? They’re so beautiful!’
‘You want to stop to look at the cows?’ Ted asks, as though I’ve just asked him to stop so that I can inspect the exciting tarmac on the road.
‘If there’s somewhere to pull in, do you mind? I’d love to get a photo.’
He makes a nondescript grunt, but pulls the car into a grassy lay-by.
I get out of the car and walk around to tap on the driver’s window, which he slowly winds down. Ted looks up at me and I see his full face for the first time in daylight. He has these dark, penetrating eyes with heavy lids that track my gaze – they’re a little intense, unnervingly so. I glance away, then ask, ‘Would you like to come?’ assuming he might want to stretch his legs.
‘I’m good, thanks. I’ve seen cows before,’ he says, pulling a newspaper from the passenger seat and unfolding it in his lap. I suspect Beardy McCastaway lacks the rapport necessary to be a real tour guide.
Approaching the cow field fence, I take a long, deep breath. The early morning air is yet to be warmed by the sun, but the sky is a vast, vibrant blue, like a freshly unboxed day. Alongside the narrow road, ivy-covered oak trees sit behind a bosky bank of hawthorn bushes and wild grasses. It’s so peaceful, I can hear the birds chirping in the trees, the low hum of a tractor several fields beyond, and the faint buzzing of flies as they flit around swishing cow tails. I step cautiously up the bank, fearful of spooking the herd, but the few cows standing near the fence simply eye me with idle curiosity.
I read about Jersey cows in the in-flight magazine – they’re famous for producing amazing milk. They’re basically the Kate Mosses of the cow world: elegant, angular frames, soft fawn, teddy-bear-coloured bodies, and wide doe eyes. One with a dark brown face and long lashes blinks at me, flicking flies away with a twitch of her head.
There is a photo of my mother next to a cow just like this one, so I turn my phone around to try and take a similar shot.
‘OK buddy, don’t move,’ I say quietly, shuffling myself into position. It’s hard to get the angle right. Maybe if I just step up onto the fence rail, I’ll be able to fit both of us in the frame. In fact, I could climb over into the field, just for a second, and the positioning would be so much better.
As I’m stepping down onto the grass, I feel a sharp jolt of pain and my leg suddenly buckles beneath me. I lose my footing and fall flat on my face, my phone flying from my hand. What the hell was that? I scramble to my feet. Turning around, I see a thin wire running alongside the wooden rail – an electric fence. Ten points to me for being a complete urban cliché and not noticing that. Brushing down my dress, I see a muddy mark near the hem. What an excellent start to the day; electrocuted and muddied before it’s even 10.a.m. Just as I’m thinking it can’t get much worse, I feel a nudge from behind. One of the cows is pushing into me.
‘Hey, back off.’
When I look up, more cows are heading in my direction.
‘Go away!’ I plead. ‘Just shoo, will you?’ I point a stern finger at the nudgy one.
‘What are you doing?’
My head snaps back around to see Ted standing by the fence, watching me with a bemused expression. Nudgy is now looming over me, and I reach out my hand to push her away. ‘They’re not pets, you can’t get in and stroke them,’ says Ted, looking at me like I’m completely clueless.
‘I know that! I wasn’t trying to pet them. I didn’t know the fence was electric and – hey, go away!’ The running cows are getting closer, and I feel a rising panic in my chest. People die from being trampled by cows, don’t they? It always seemed a rather comical way to go, but now I’m staring death in the doe-eyed face, it doesn’t seem funny at all. ‘Ahhhh!’
Ted jumps over the fence in one swift movement – he’s surprisingly nimble. He walks purposefully towards the cows with an arm outstretched and says in a deep, stern voice, ‘Back you go now.’
The cows obediently scatter.
My heart still pounding, I look at Ted, impressed. He’s like a cow whisperer.
‘They’re only young heifers, they won’t hurt you.’
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean to get in here, I’m not a complete idiot.’
His lips twitch, like he’s about to smile, and now I feel embarrassed that I freaked out about the admittedly rather small cows.
‘Did you get the photo you wanted?’
‘No, I dropped my phone when I fell,’ I say feebly.
Ted shakes his head, takes off his cap and runs a hand through his hair before replacing it. Unlike his beard, his hair isn’t flecked with grey; it’s thick and brown. In fact, he’s got surprisingly good hair beneath the ridiculous cap.
The ringtone of my phone punctures the air. Ted and I search the long grass by the fence for the source of the sound. Ted gets to it first, but by the time he’s handed it to me the ringing has stopped. Unknown caller. Damn, it might have been J. Le Maistre.
‘I’m sure they’ll call back. Do you want me to take a photo for you?’ Ted asks, distracting me from my disappointment.
‘Well, they’ve all gone now,’ I say, waving a forlorn hand towards the retreating g
ang of cattle. ‘And I think I might have gone off cows.’
He laughs, a proper chesty laugh, and I can’t help feeling like I want him to take his cap off again, so I can see what his eyes look like when he laughs like that.
‘Come on, Lady Muck.’
He reaches out to take my phone, holding it up to take a photo with the cows in the background. I feel self-conscious beneath his gaze. Then he hands it back and wordlessly holds out his arm to help me climb back over the fence. It’s a gentlemanly thing to do, and his forearm feels firm and steady beneath my hand. At the car, he opens the rear door and points to the seat.
‘Just sit there a minute,’ he instructs me.
Perching on the edge of the seat, I watch as he walks around to the boot. He returns with a bottle of water and some wet wipes. ‘My dad always keeps these in the car just in case.’
Bending one knee to the ground, he takes my hem in one hand and starts cleaning the mud from my dress. It’s a strangely intimate gesture, and I fiddle with my hands in my lap, not sure where to put them.
‘I see – I really am Lady Muck.’
I should say ‘I’ll do it,’ and take the wipes from him, but I don’t. There is something calming in watching him; he’s gentle, yet his hands have a surgical precision.
‘Not perfect, I’m afraid,’ he says, standing up to return the water and wipes to the boot. He has done his best, but there is still a residual pale brown stain. Why did I buy such an impractical dress?
‘Well, that was beyond the call of duty. Thank you.’ I turn to watch Ted close the boot, dusting his hands off on his jacket. ‘Would you mind if I sat up in front, so I can see out more? I was starting to feel a bit carsick in the back with all these windy roads.’
‘Of course.’
He hurries over to open the passenger door and doffs his cap. He’s mocking me, but in a sweet way, so I don’t mind.
‘Thank you, kind sir,’ I say, with playful formality.
As he gets into the driver’s seat, he throws his cap onto the back seat, then runs both hands through his hair, almost self-consciously.
‘Your wish is my command, Lady Muck.’
Tiger Woman on Domestication
Tigers hunt when they are hungry, sleep when they are tired, and growl when they are angry. We have been domesticated into cats – told when to eat, told when to sleep, told never to growl, only to purr, told to play quietly in the corner with a ball of string, then roll over and have our tummies rubbed. Remember: You are not a cat. You are NOT a cat. You are a wild animal.
Chapter 7
As Ted is driving, I check the photo he took of me. It’s perfect, there’s a cow in the background looking right at the camera, and I look happy, not like someone who stared death in the face just moments before. I post it on the Love Life Instagram feed alongside a snap of my mother’s photo. ‘Jersey Cow: Then and Now. My island adventure begins.’
Ted drives to the village harbour on the north-east coast called Rozel. He parks the car next to some white railings by the beach, and I instantly recognise the cove from the album. My phone pings with a text from Vanya:
Have you found him yet?
She has attached a succession of photos with half-naked men all holding suitcases – I can only imagine the result of a Google image search for ‘sexy suitcase man’.
I bite my lip to stop myself from snorting with laughter.
The narrow road hugs the bay, along the top of the harbour covering one side of the cove. At the far end is a bright blue kiosk with a red-and-white awning. Some boys jump off the harbour wall, squealing with delight before hitting the glassy water below. On the sand and pebble beach, I can see a woman climbing over rocks with two toddlers, collecting shells and other treasures in bright pink buckets. The children’s skirts are tucked into their knickers to stop them getting wet. This is the Jersey I imagined.
‘What a beautiful place,’ I say, half whispering. ‘It’s like a postcard.’
‘Your photo – it’s taken at low tide over there,’ says Ted, nodding towards the rock pools. ‘And the Hungry Man Kiosk up there does the best hot chocolate on the island.’
‘Would you like a drink?’ I ask. ‘Call it a thank you for rescuing me from death by cow.’
‘That isn’t necessary.’ He shakes his head.
‘It would be my pleasure.’
He looks across at me, scratches his beard, and then slowly moves to unbuckle his seatbelt.
At the kiosk, I order a hot chocolate for myself, on Ted’s recommendation, and a black coffee for him. We take a seat across from each other on one of the wooden bench tables. Ted looks about as comfortable as a cat stuck up a washing line, as though he’s never been out for a coffee with anyone in his life. He was right about the hot chocolate – it’s spectacular; piled high with cream and decorated with marshmallows and Maltesers.
‘So, what’s the best local cuisine, besides this hot chocolate?’ I ask, hugging my elbows towards me and clapping my hands together. ‘What else have I got to try while I’m here?’
Ted’s eyes crease into a smile; he looks amused by my enthusiasm.
‘Black butter, I suppose – it’s a sort of apple jam; oysters, fresh from the tide; Jersey wonders – my mother used to make them, they’re like doughnuts. You’re only supposed to fry them when the tide is going out.’
‘Ooh, I love traditions like that,’ I say, leaning towards him.
Ted catches my eye for a moment before quickly turning his attention to picking at a splinter of wood on the table. I start telling him about my job, the article I’m writing about my parents, the coin, and my great-grandfather who started it all. Ted listens attentively, as though he is genuinely interested.
‘These photos in the album are of that first summer they spent together, falling in love. By September, they were engaged.’ I feel myself beaming as I tell the story that is so familiar, it feels like my own. ‘When I was fifteen Mum gave the coin to me,’ I show Ted the pendant around my neck, ‘so that I would always have their story close to me. I’ve always believed it must possess talismanic qualities – to have led my mother to the love of her life.’
Ted is watching me now, his face entirely still.
‘Your dad took all these photos of her then?’ he asks.
‘Yes. Dad was a chef, she was a dance teacher. They worked together at the Pontins holiday resort. Mum managed to get a summer job there at the last minute, so she could stay on the island and be with him. On their evenings off, he would cook for her, and she taught him to dance beneath the stars. She tried to teach me when I was young, she’d get me dancing around the washing line as she hung up clothes, but I’m about as graceful as a panda. She always said Dad was a better student than me.’ I feel myself grin. I love telling people their story. ‘You see this picture of her in a cave?’ I say, showing Ted a photo in the album. ‘This is where my dad proposed. It’s at the bottom of a blowhole. Everything you say in the cave travels right up to the cliff path above. Mum said he asked her there, so that the blowhole would broadcast her saying “Yes” to the entire island.’
Ted’s eyes drop back to the coffee spoon and I shake my head, aware I’ve got carried away as usual. I reach for my phone to occupy my hands.
‘Look, your cow photo already has a hundred and forty-six likes,’ I say, showing him the Instagram post. He frowns in incomprehension. ‘So, how about you?’ I ask, changing the subject. ‘How did you meet your wife, was it here in Jersey?’
‘No, in London,’ he says, glancing up at me. Perhaps he glimpses my disappointment that he hasn’t offered more, because after slowly shaking his head from side to side he adds, ‘I don’t live here any more. I grew up here, but I’m only back to help my dad with something.’
‘What a place to spend your childhood,’ I say, nodding towards the boys still jumping from the harbour wall. ‘Do you have a favourite memory, of growing up here?’
It’s a trite question, perhaps too personal, but Ted
looks to be considering it seriously. He gazes out across the cove, tapping a finger against his mug.
‘When I was younger, I used to drive around with Dad in his cab when my mum was working. Passengers didn’t seem to mind. I loved hearing him talk to people; he always knew the right thing to say. He could tell when someone wanted to talk, when they didn’t. He wouldn’t have said “cheer up, might never happen” to you. People always left his cab happier than when they got in. Even those having a bad day, it was as though he drove them away from whatever had upset them. All these years later, if ever I’m stressed, all I want to do is drive …’
He trails off.
‘It’s a happy association for you,’ I offer, and he nods.
Taking a swig of coffee, he stands up, turns to lean both hands on the white railing, and looks down into the sea below.
I walk over to stand next to him, keen to keep the conversation going.
‘I think objects can be powerful conduits for memories,’ I hold out my arm to show him my wristwatch. ‘This was my dad’s. He died when I was three. I’ve worn it ever since my wrist was thick enough to hold it; I had to have an extra hole put into the strap so it would fit. I know it’s big and ugly, but it’s all I have left of him.’ I stroke my finger across the face of the watch. ‘I often think how the leather is ingrained with his sweat. I like to imagine how many times he must have glanced at the face, just as I do. Maybe something of him is still in there.’
When I look up, Ted is watching me almost reverently. Then his eyes quickly fall to his wedding ring, and he turns it around and around between his finger and thumb.
Just Haven't Met You Yet Page 6
