Just Haven't Met You Yet

by Sophie Cousens

  I can see Ted’s eyes are welling up, and he puffs out his cheeks to take a slow exhale. I reach out to squeeze his arm.

  ‘Sorry, you don’t need to hear all this.’ He rubs his eyes with his sleeve and clears his throat. ‘I’m deviating from my cab driver script again, aren’t I?’ he says with a lopsided smile. ‘Plémont headland is on the way. I’ll drop you there, and you can see where the Pontins used to be, where you said your parents worked that summer, and there’s the cave on the beach where your dad proposed. I can come back for you in an hour or so.’ His words are now brisk, as though he’s embarrassed to have shared as much as he did.

  ‘Please don’t worry about coming back for me, just throw me out anywhere,’ I say, still watching Ted’s face. I’ve never seen a man get emotional. Perhaps, growing up without a dad, I am not close enough to any men to be allowed to see. Maybe the ones I have dated have not been particularly emotional men.

  We drive in silence for a minute, and then Ted says, ‘I feel like I’m ruining this romantic comedy you’re in.’

  ‘What?’ I say, blinking at him.

  ‘Your hunt for Mr McGuffin. It feels like a romantic comedy to me: love in a suitcase, shoes falling off cliffs, a bee-themed treasure hunt.’ He grins. ‘Now I’ve muddied the tone by talking of dying parents and depressing house clearances. Your audience will be asking for their money back.’

  I laugh. It’s one of those laughs when you’ve been about to cry, and then someone says something, and their words tack your boat into the wind and take you in a new direction – there’s a thrill in the snap change of emotion as your sail billows out on the other side of the mast.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say with a smile, ‘real life can’t be all bee-themed treasure hunts, can it?’

  Ted’s phone rings again and he pulls into a lay-by to take the call. He talks to someone called Sandy, who I assume must be the neighbour. He sounds reassured and when he hangs up his face visibly relaxes.

  ‘Good news?’ I ask.

  ‘My neighbour – she says Dad’s OK. He was mainly confused – just a cut on his arm, it looked worse than it was.’ Ted pulls the car into the road again and rubs his shoulder with the opposite hand. ‘The headland is just up here.’

  Around the next corner the coastline reappears. Ted parks the car next to a field full of wild gorse with a footpath leading up to the cliff edge. He picks up my photo album from the armrest between our seats and flicks through to the pictures of the holiday resort as it looked in 1991.

  ‘The resort that was here went derelict,’ Ted explains. ‘They pulled it down a while back and put the headland back to nature.’

  A photo of Mum and Dad dancing together in a hall is one of the few photos I have of them together. I don’t even have one of them on their wedding day, because the budget photographer they used overexposed the film. In this shot, Mum’s wearing a blue dress with puffball sleeves, while my dad is rocking sideburns and wears a pale denim shirt and white jeans. The vibe is so eighties, it could be a still from the film Footloose. Though it’s a grainy picture, it captures a look in both their eyes, as though they only see each other, completely unaware of whoever took the photo.

  ‘This must have been taken here,’ I say, pointing to the picture. ‘This is Mum teaching Dad to dance. They’d use the hall to practise once all the guests had gone to bed, usually to Phil Collins, Dad’s favourite.’ I smile at the memory of Mum telling me the story, then tap the photo and say wistfully, ‘I doubt I’ll ever have a moment as romantic as this.’

  I turn to see Ted looking at me with an almost tender expression. I didn’t mean it to sound that way, I don’t want him to pity me. It’s this photo, the look between my parents – it weaves a strange spell on me.

  ‘It’s hard to imagine a huge holiday resort standing in this wild place. Soon, no one will remember it was even here; all the stories that happened here will be lost to posterity.’ I glance back down at the photo. ‘Where do you think the love goes, when no one’s left to tell the story?’

  Ted looks thoughtful for a moment, then he says, ‘Someone once told me that growing up feeling loved allows you to go on to love other people. Maybe love is simply a huge chain letter, passed down through the generations. The details of the stories begin not to matter.’

  The sentiment of his words surprises me. I’ve never heard a man talk about love so plainly, with so little coyness. I wonder if all the men I’ve known have actually been boys.

  ‘That’s a lovely way to look at it,’ I say with a smile, then reach forward to drum a hand on the dashboard. ‘Sorry, Ted, I’m holding you up.’

  ‘It’s fine. Your cave—’ Ted reaches across to turn the page to the picture of my mother standing in a cave in a red bikini – the place where they got engaged. ‘Follow the footpath around the cliff and you’ll get down to the beach. This cave is at the far end, right around to the left.’ Ted looks at his watch. ‘Don’t hang around there after one forty-five. The sea comes in quickly at Plémont, and you can get cut off fast. There’s a café at the top of the steps, I’ll meet you there at two.’

  I’m pleased he wants to come back, but I scribble my mobile number on one of the cards in the glove box, just in case he needs to change the plan.

  ‘I hope your dad is OK.’

  As I get out of the car, I shiver. The sun has gone in and I’m only wearing a strappy sundress. I don’t want to be cold, especially if I’m going to be out here for an hour and a half. In the absence of anything else to wear, I grab the cream fisherman’s jumper from the suitcase in the boot. Putting it on, I inhale the smell of it again, then I catch Ted watching me in the rear-view mirror. Something tells me he doesn’t approve of me borrowing it.

  ‘What did I say about the cave, Lady Muck?’ he shouts after me as I start walking away up the footpath.

  ‘Don’t stay there too long, or I’ll get washed up the blowhole, gotcha!’

  I turn to wave as he drives away, and he gives a salute, which makes me smile, then I hug my arms around myself as I set off up the dirt footpath.

  I try calling Gran back, but she doesn’t answer, so I leave a message saying I’ve bought her some black butter. I’m surprised how downbeat she’d sounded about me being in Jersey, but then Gran has never been one to get sentimental about the past. ‘Fiercely practical’, Mum called her.

  The headland feels truly wild with its tangle of ferns and sun-bleached grass overlooking the wind-whipped sea. The only stark reminder of a human footprint is the remnants of an old concrete bunker, left behind from the wartime occupation. I take photos of the headland and a selfie to contrast then and now, then spend some time trying to work out from the pictures where the holiday resort would have stood; my mother’s apartment, where Dad’s kitchen might have been, the hall where they danced. It’s impossible. Nature has taken the headland back so entirely – there isn’t even a trace of the resort’s foundation.

  From the footpath that hugs the cliff, a powerful swell is visible, pulsing towards the island, then churning white over craggy brown rocks as it reaches land. To my left, the sharp coast softens to sand and Plémont bay comes into view below me – an enormous sandy cove, guarded on every side by steep rock. There is something hypnotic about watching waves break on sand. They are so reliable in their behaviour; not one breaks rank, refusing to adhere to the ebb and flow.

  My phone interrupts me from being mesmerised by the sea. It’s Vanya.

  ‘Hey, I was just calling to check you were OK after that Insta live?’

  ‘It was bad,’ I say with a wince.

  ‘Personally, I loved it, super kitsch, but Suki dropped a few f bombs in the office. How’s the stalking going?’

  ‘Not well. The airport thinks I’ve stolen this guy’s bag, I’ve managed to accidentally throw one of his shoes off a cliff, oh, and now I am wearing the guy’s clothes because my only dress is covered in mud and chocolate, like I’m a five-year-old in an advert for washing powder. On the plu
s side, I have found out that his mother’s name is Maude and that her birthday is tomorrow.’

  ‘Well, that’s a start. Forget the Insta live. Suki loves your coin story, everyone does, it’s exactly the feel-good romantic content the website needs right now. Don’t get thrown off your stride, just get what you need to write the best article you can.’ I’m not used to Vanya giving me serious pep talks like this, maybe she’s been talking to Dee. ‘How far have you got with Tiger Woman?’

  ‘I’ve started it,’ I say evasively.

  The truth is these kinds of books scare me. They make me feel inadequate for not being the self-possessed, fiercely independent woman I know I should be, or at least should aspire to be.

  ‘Laura, it’s going to change your whole outlook,’ Vanya says. ‘It talks about this idea of being roar, like raw – R.A.W. – but spelt the tiger way; it’s about following your instincts rather than the narrow path society has presented us with.’

  ‘Do you think it’s possible to be a romantic and also a feminist?’ I ask, my eyes drawn back towards the foaming waves.

  ‘Of course it is.’

  ‘Because sometimes I feel conflicted; like I want to stand up to the patriarchy and everything, but I’d also quite like to be in love and have a boyfriend.’

  ‘Look,’ Vanya says with a sigh, ‘Michelle Obama is queen of modern feminism, but she’s still a wife and mother and she still has great hair. It’s about having the right to choose – you can choose to put on a pinny and be a fifties housewife if you want, you can choose to travel to Peru and join a commune or enlist in the space programme and be the first woman on Mars. You can live how you like; but the point is we should have the chance to choose, not get railroaded into a role society dictates for us.’

  She is right. Vanya surprises me sometimes. She is this dichotomy of Tinder and hangovers and looking for love in all the wrong places, but she is also self-possessed and self-aware and radiates this inner strength I sometimes fear I have lost. I feel surer of myself when I am around her, and that is a valuable attribute for a friend to have.

  ‘Like, this search for Suitcase Guy,’ I say. ‘Do you think even believing in fate or destiny feels dated now somehow? Like it’s a little nineties Meg Ryan, rather than twenty-first century “take control of your own destiny”.’ I screw up my face, unsure what my point is, my mind fizzing with unformulated philosophies.

  ‘If you want to be nineties Meg Ryan, I am so here for that,’ says Vanya firmly. ‘People have believed in fate for longer than they’ve believed the world is round – it will never go out of fashion.’

  The conversation with Vanya reassures me; I’m not crazy, I’m just a romantic. Once we’ve said goodbye, I look up Maude Le Maistre on my phone while muttering under my breath, ‘If I want to be Meg Ryan, I can be Meg sodding Ryan.’ I find an address and a phone number. YES! Screw you and your ‘data protection’, Keith, I found her anyway, ha!

  I try her number and it clicks straight to an answerphone. She has one of those messages older people use, where they just give their phone number rather than their name. I leave my details, explaining about her son’s bag. The trail finally feels as though it’s getting warmer.

  It’s her birthday tomorrow, he has a gift for her in his suitcase – surely he has to notice he has the wrong bag before then? What if he lost his phone, or he’s been in an accident? What if he’s in the hospital now, with my suitcase, and he’s lost all power of speech, but he’s desperately trying to communicate with the doctors about needing to get the case back to its rightful owner? Maybe I should call the hospital, just in case.

  As my mind darts down unlikely alleys, I open Google Maps to see where Maude lives in relation to where I am. Then I see a street name I recognise from yearly Christmas cards: Rue du Val Bach. Only a few minutes’ walk from where I’m standing – Mad Aunt Monica’s house.

  4 October 1994

  Annie,

  I am sorry it has come to this, but with all that’s happened, I think it best we cease communicating. Losing my son and my mother this year has been upsetting enough, without the added distress you have contributed to our lives. Clearly, you and I are never going to see eye to eye on what is right, and what belongs to whom. I don’t want to be reminded of it every time you get in touch, so it would be better if you are not.

  You will not receive another penny from our family. Anything else pertaining to Alexander’s estate, please contact my lawyer, details enclosed.

  Love and best wishes to your daughter,

  Sue Le Quesne

  Chapter 11

  If I’m going to get a first-hand account of Mum and Dad’s story from anyone, it will be from Great-Aunt Monica. There are only a few houses on the road, so her place is easy to find. As soon as I see the front garden, I know it must be hers. Ceramic ornaments litter the lawn and patio. They are all hedgehog figurines carrying out various hobbies – a ballerina hedgehog, a hedgehog in waders with a fishing rod, two ceramic hedgehogs on a miniature tandem bicycle. Now I come to think about it, most of the Christmas cards I’ve received were hedgehog-themed: hedgehogs in Christmas hats or poking out of stockings, hedgehogs on ice skates or encased in snow to make spiky snowballs.

  I ring the bell tentatively, not sure what or whom I might be about to meet. I have a vision of the door being opened by a life-size Mrs Tiggy-winkle.

  ‘Hello?’ says a grey-haired woman as she opens the door, thankfully no spikes in sight. She looks like a normal seventy-something-year-old woman, with a bob of straight hair, spectacles on a chain around her neck, a green floral blouse and – oh, bright purple galoshes on her feet.

  ‘I’m so sorry to knock on your door like this but—’

  She puts her glasses on and peers at me, then cuts me off, ‘Laura?’

  ‘Yes,’ I feel myself beam. Either she recognises me, or she received my postcard.

  ‘I got your card this morning,’ she grins, ‘and now here you are! My my, don’t you look like your father.’

  No one’s ever said that to me before, and I eagerly tuck away her words as though she’s given me back a piece of him. Monica beckons me in, pointing to a brush mat in the shape of a hedgehog where I can wipe my feet.

  ‘Sorry to turn up unannounced like this, I was nearby and—’

  ‘I should have been most offended if you had not turned up,’ she says staunchly, marching back into the house and throwing both hands into the air. Her voice is posh and clipped, like a drill sergeant Julie Andrews. ‘Kitty would have been particularly upset, wouldn’t you, Kitty?’

  As I follow her I look around for a cat or some other pet who might answer to the name.

  We walk through to an open-plan kitchen-living area, a haven of chintzy furniture and net curtains. There are two mustard-coloured armchairs in the living area and an orange rug covered in geometric patterns. The kitchen Aga is lined with tea towels. One has the words, ‘I may be prickly, but I don’t bite’, next to a cartoon hedgehog with a maniacal smile.

  ‘Kitty Kettle,’ says Monica, holding a kettle aloft like an Olympic flame, ‘she loves to make a brew for two!’

  I laugh nervously, unsure whether this is a joke or not.

  ‘Tea would be lovely, thank you.’

  ‘Don’t thank me,’ Monica says, leaning towards me with two unblinking eyes. ‘Kitty does all the hard work.’

  Well, it seems Mum was right; Monica is mad as a handbag full of hedgehogs.

  ‘As I mentioned in my card, I was hoping I could ask you a few questions about my parents’ story, Aunt Monica. I write for a website and I’m putting together an article about the coin, and how it brought my parents together.’ I reach a hand instinctively to the pendant.

  ‘Such a shame, Al and Annie, such a shame, the whole business,’ Monica says, making a tutting noise as she leans in to get a better look at the coin around my neck. ‘Well, I’m glad you still have my mother’s coin safe.’ Then with a sigh she says, ‘Good match for each other your pa
rents were, if only Alex hadn’t been such a terrible bounder.’

  I’m not sure what she means by the word ‘bounder’. Dad was killed in a motorcycle accident in Morocco – perhaps she means he was adventurous, he didn’t like to sit still. I nod in any case.

  ‘All I really know about him is what Mum told me.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t believe all of it. He wasn’t all bad,’ Monica says as she pours out tea and hands me a cup. ‘I assume milk and no sugar unless someone says otherwise.’

  ‘That’s perfect.’

  ‘Thank you, Kitty,’ she says, patting the kettle. Then she looks at me expectantly, so I follow suit, offering a mumble of thanks to an inanimate kitchen appliance.

  Monica leads me into the living room area, which is full of dark mahogany furniture. Every surface is covered in little ceramic hedgehogs, and framed cross-stitches line the walls, mainly of hedgehogs, but there are various maps of the Channel Islands, too.

  ‘You like hedgehogs, then?’ I say.

  Monica takes a seat in one of the mustard-coloured armchairs and waves me to the one opposite.

  ‘Who doesn’t like hedgehogs?’ she asks, as though I’ve commented on the fact that she likes air and breathing. ‘Harmless, adorable little things. Show me a person who doesn’t like hedgehogs, and I will show you a psychopath. Lock them all up, I would.’

  I’m not convinced this is the universal test for assessing psychopaths, or whether people should be put in jail, but I nod politely and take a sip of my tea, which is in fact ninety-eight per cent milk.

  ‘I volunteer for Hedgehog Rescue,’ Aunt Monica explains. ‘Always scooping them out of drains and ditches we are. I like to be prepared, hence—’ She points down to her feet.

  ‘The galoshes,’ I say.

  ‘Now, Laura, I must tell you how sorry I was to hear about your mother passing. To lose both your parents too soon, well, that’s a raw straw as they say.’