by Gwyn GB
Katherine doesn’t know what to say now, the ferocity of her friend’s reply takes her by surprise. ‘Do you want to go and get a drink?’ she offers. It’s something she’s heard on TV shows when something shocking has happened.
‘No,’ the dark huddle replies. She’s stopped crying, but her voice is choked with misery.
‘Shall I call a taxi then?’ as Katherine asks she fumbles in her pocket to make sure she’s still got the ten pence her mother gave her earlier for the phone box.
‘Yes,’ is Anne’s weak reply and she stands up, clambering down from the rock shelf onto the sand. Katherine would far rather be walking back in the opposite direction to go and find Darren, resume where they’d left off, but Anne needs her, and so she heads towards the stone steps leading up to the road and the La Pulente pub where she can call for a taxi.
Anne barely speaks or looks her in the face whilst they wait, or even once they’re in the cab. Katherine isn’t sure if she is upset or embarrassed. Either way they sit in virtual silence for the whole of the journey home. Her mind keeps going over and over the events on the beach. She can’t help but enjoy the memories of her time with Darren, but she searches for any signs that she could have heard or seen something was going wrong with Anne and Mark before they heard the slap. She can’t.
Katherine doesn’t want to forget a second of her evening with Darren: his touch, the taste of him, the smell of him. She discreetly dips her head towards her left shoulder - she can still catch the scent of his aftershave on her top from where she’d lain against him.
Then her attention is caught by the reflection of Anne in the side window. She sits staring blankly out into the darkness.
9
March 3rd 2008, Jersey
Katherine’s mind is full of memories, worries and regrets. As they touch down at Jersey airport she is swamped by a tsunami of the past: that evening on the beach, Margaret, their mother, John and the ghost of Anne. She almost expects to see them as she looks out of the plane window, lined up to greet her like a scene from an old “This is Your Life” programme.
Whilst her fellow passengers busy themselves with gathering belongings, checking the netted seat pockets in front of them and pilfering the in-flight magazines, Katherine sits thinking. The dong of the seat belt sign turning off sounds around the cabin and everyone rises from their places - an ovation of passengers. Katherine remains, soaked in her memories, steeling herself for what is to come.
She waits for the rest of the passengers to shuffle forward to the doors, one by one, before standing at the top of the steps, taking in the island air and plunging downwards, dispersing. Katherine is almost reluctant to leave the plane, but she picks herself up and moves through the airport building barely glancing at the images of beautiful beaches or the promises of the wealth management ads on the walls.
Into the arrivals hall she joins around thirty others, a flock of herons pond-side, gathered around the luggage carousel waiting for the siren to sound and the rubber belt to squeak its circular path.
As she waits she flicks through one of the free Jersey Recommended guides; spotting familiar names with more contemporary faces: de Gruchy the department store, Durrell, no longer the Jersey Zoo she’d grown up with; and Mont Orgueil, or Gorey Castle as most people call it, newly re-furbished. A modern facelift for an ancient visage now open to foreign visitors, instead of trying to repel them from Jersey’s shores. Katherine thinks perhaps she might like to visit it, do a bit of sightseeing. Revisit a few of her good childhood memories.
Finally, she has both of her suitcases on a trolley and she points it towards the big sliding doors which lead out into the Arrivals greeting area. The last time she did this it was for her mother’s funeral, and a red eyed Margaret had been waiting for her, looking tired and pale.
This time Katherine quickly spots her sister, hovering at the side behind a metal barrier, conveniently protected from any urge to rush forward and embrace her. She has a healthy glow about her but, even after all this time, Katherine can sense the tension in her sister’s stiff hug and kiss of welcome.
‘Hello Katherine,’ Margaret says. Even her greeting comes across as having required effort.
‘Hello Margaret. How are you all?’ her response is in turn stilted. Twenty-one years of unfamiliarity has had its toll on their relationship.
‘We’re great thanks. I just need to pay for the car park over here, and then we’ll head home.’ Margaret points to a ticket machine just to the side of where they stand and the pair separate, almost relieved by the need for its mundane distraction.
Margaret’s car is an old Mercedes estate that, had Jersey got an MOT system, would almost certainly fail and not be on the roads. In the back is evidence of many family days spent at the beach. A well-used boogie board, sand, wet suit and towels. All are shoved over to one side to make room for Aunty Katherine’s big cases.
‘James uses the car sometimes,’ Margaret explains away the debris in her boot.
‘How are the children?’ Katherine questions, prompted by the evidence in front of her, but as she says it she realises it sounds more like a business woman asking a client, than two sisters talking. Margaret’s children are almost complete strangers to her, she hasn’t witnessed their growing up or shared in their lives.
‘They’re all great thank you. Sara is just finishing her second year at Uni.’
‘My God! I can’t believe she’s been there two years, so that must make her…’
‘Twenty.’ Margaret says it rather too quickly. ‘Last week.’
Katherine who has been trying to sound interested and knowledgeable about Sara is knocked completely into touch. She’s missed her twentieth birthday, some Godmother she turned out to be! She’s silent for a few moments, but refuses to give in.‘What’s James doing?’ They’re pulling out of the airport now, heading past the bowling alley and big luxury car garage, before turning right down the hill towards Beaumont and the coast road.
‘He’s taking his exams and is going to have a year off before applying for University.’
‘That sounds exciting. What’s he going to do?’
‘Get a part time job and spend the summer in Jersey on the beach, is the plan. Most of the time he’s at St Ouen with his mates. After that, he’s applied to a couple of ski companies to become a chalet rep. He’s looking at doing law eventually, so we’ll see. Sophie has started at St Clement school, it’s lovely; a really nice new building, just across the road from the old one.’ Katherine nods her head, digging up forgotten images in her mind of the old school. ‘So, how’s things with you?’ Margaret’s tone is clearly fishing.
Katherine knows she must be wondering why all of a sudden she’s decided to return home, ‘Fine thanks, work’s going well,’ she’s not ready to share her thoughts and plans yet; and if she’s honest, she’s not really sure what they are anyway. Something catches her eye in the side pocket of the door, it’s a smooth round pebble, purple-ish red in colour and speckled with lots of different pastel colours, a small granite egg. Katherine picks it out and turns it over in her hands. It’s quite beautiful in its simplicity.
‘That’s one of Sophie’s finds,’ Margaret qualifies, stealing a quick glance from the road to look at her sister. ‘We’re always having to repatriate shells and rocks back to the beach, otherwise we’d have a house full.’ A young Margaret wandering a beach gathering pebbles and shells appears in Katherine’s mind, a childhood memory freed by the trigger of a new generation.
They’re turning left onto the coast road now, and Katherine glances at her sister as she drives. Her dark hair is beginning to show the odd grey hair at the front, and the years of Jersey’s sun tanning her olive skin has allowed the wrinkles to etch their mark on her face. Katherine can’t help but notice Margaret also seems to have put on more weight, even since the last time she saw her. Not that she’s obese or anything, just a spare tyre or two around her middle and, at a guess, Katherine would say the tops of her thighs
rub each other. She started getting heavier after she stopped her post round, all that cycling had kept her fit. Admittedly Margaret has always been slightly chunkier, but it’s become more obvious as they’ve got older.
It’s a shame, thinks Katherine, it means Margaret won’t be able to borrow her clothes. She knows her sister can’t afford the stuff she buys. Today Margaret’s standard range M & S jeans and top look distinctly utilitarian compared to her own sleek designer trousers and cashmere jumper. She wonders if that rankles with Margaret. Then again, she always was a homebody compared to Katherine.
10
June 1976, Jersey - Margaret
The day after Katherine celebrated the end of her exams at Sands nightclub, it soon becomes obvious to her sister she is phone watching. Margaret had been shopping with their mother, leaving Katherine in bed, and she is still nowhere to be seen even after they’d returned home. That is perfect as far as Margaret is concerned because she’s looking forward to having the whole kitchen to herself while their mother does some overtime at work.
She runs her fingers along the row of white tin storage jars on the dresser, full of flours and sugars, rice and raisins, choosing what she needs. All her ingredients are placed on the oak worktop which has probably been there almost as long as the house. Butter comes from the fridge, which shakes and rattles with a shiver each time its motor kicks into action, or turns off. Its white door is rusted and chipped around the edges from years of use. The chrome handle fell off ages ago, and to open it Margaret has to dig her nails into the rubber seal of the door and tug. Consequently, the seal has started to come away from the door where they’ve missed the right spot and the grey rubber is cracking with age; but it’s like an old member of the family now. She can’t imagine it not being there.
The kitchen is Margaret’s favourite room, soaked in the aroma of generations of cooking. In the winter she’ll come and sit in the wooden armchair by the Rayburn to snuggle and read a book. Now, in the height of summer, she stands on the kitchen floor with bare feet - letting the stone flags draw the heat from them. She’s been known to lie on it after a particularly hot walk home from school; staring up at the wooden ceiling or at the wall, where there is an old sepia photograph of their grandparents standing in the yard in traditional Jersey dress. Her grandfather is proudly holding a Jersey cow with a rosette on her collar. She’s a beautiful animal with the big soft eyes and long lashes of her breed. A chain adorns her small forward facing horns. Her grandmother wears the customary white cloth bonnet and apron, both of which are still folded away carefully in a trunk in the attic. She’s holding a wood and metal bucket which Margaret always imagines to be full of milk. At her grandmother’s feet is a small girl with a white pinafore and little stick legs protruding from the bottom of a black skirt – their mother. She’s clinging to her mother’s leg, peeking out from behind her skirt, nervous like a shy kitten.
Sometimes Margaret will take down the silver framed photograph which sits centre stage on the sideboard – it’s their father. She loves this image of him. He is laughing, just slightly turned away from the camera, cheeks flushed and his blond hair ruffled slightly as though he’d just run his hands through it. When Margaret concentrates on that photograph she can still hear his laugh, his voice, but only just. Their echo is disappearing with time and she’s often scared she might lose them altogether; wake up one morning and not be able to see him when she closes her eyes, or hear his voice. She worries she’ll forget the way he teased her when she was little, pretending to steal her nose, putting his thumb between his fingers to show her he has it. She would cry in protest feigning upset and tears, calling for mum or Katherine to help until, eventually, laughing he would pop her nose back on, giving it a kiss for good measure. They don’t often talk about their father, but they all still miss him.
Their mother said she’ll cook a cottage pie on her return so Margaret takes off her pinafore and heads out the back door to her little veg patch where she’s been dedicatedly tending to her rows of runner beans, peas, carrots and potatoes. Desperately trying to protect them from the relentless thirsty sun.
As soon as she opens the door the change in temperature hits her face. The yard is heavy in the heat of the day, so hot in fact, even the birds are quieter than usual. Before she’s crossed it she’s begun to miss the cool of the big granite farmhouse behind her, its walls built of solid stone which even today’s relentless sun can’t penetrate. She loves the granite of their home. It isn’t a soulless dull grey; it almost seems to have a life of its own. Shimmering shards of quartz captured within it, each block an individual with its own shape and contour. One with flashes of rust and pink, another almost black. All around her the house and barn rise up solidly from the ground. Reassuring. Permanent.
By the time she’s returned to the cool of the kitchen, strands of her dark hair stick to her cheeks and forehead. She searches in one of the drawers for a hair band, pulling her long hair off her face and releasing the heat trapped against her neck.
She is just about to start baking when the phone rings. Even before Margaret can put down her measuring spoon, she’s already heard her sister’s feet pound down the stairs. There is a murmur of voices, the phone goes down and Katherine appears through the door.
‘You got a pen?’
‘There’s one over there,’ Margaret points to where their mother makes up her shopping lists. ‘You’re keen to get to the phone, who was it?’
‘Oh just somebody for mum that’s all.’ After a quick scribble Katherine is gone again, back up to her bedroom and her music.
Margaret is left to her kitchen once more.
11
March 3rd 2008, Jersey - Margaret
No one could miss the tension in the air and Margaret, driving home with her sister sitting next to her, feels like she’s just picked up a stranger. It seems to her Katherine is behaving like some kind of visiting dignitary which is getting on her nerves. She can almost see her sister look down her sophisticated London nose at her.
‘Once I’ve dropped you at home,’ says Margaret, ‘I’ll have to pop out again to pick up Sophie, and I’ve promised James I’ll get him from the surf shop. He’s taken his board to be repaired.’ That will show you who’s important in my life, she thinks. She can almost feel Katherine bristle next to her, no doubt put out by the fact her sister isn’t going to be running around after her.
‘No problem,’ replies Katherine in her clipped tone which no longer carries any indication of the Jersey accent she once had.
‘Have you eaten? I’ve made you some lunch,’ Margaret continues, ‘I’ll be back by about four anyway. It’ll give you the chance to unpack and chill out before the children arrive home.’ Margaret isn’t going to let her accuse her of not being a good host.
‘Thanks.’ Katherine replies. She’s staring out the car window as they drive by tall office blocks which dominate the St Helier skyline. ‘There’s a lot more building been going on since I was here last.’ The road they're on has been reclaimed from the sea. Off to their right is The Waterfront, a totally reclaimed part of the island which now sports apartment complexes, a multi-screen cinema and swimming pool.
‘What’s going on with the Weighbridge?’ Katherine’s voice rises with surprise, the first hint of any emotion Margaret has seen since she arrived. They’re just a little further on and about to leave St Helier behind and head through the tunnel to the East of the island. To their left is an open area of tarmac which appears to be being excavated. Last time Katherine was here the bus station stood in front of the Royal Yacht Hotel. Now the hotel has been completely revamped and the area in front is full of yellow diggers, men in hard hats and various States of Jersey vans.
‘They’re turning it into a kind of park,’ replies Margaret ‘There’s a new bus station on the Esplanade. So… how long are you here for?’ Her tone struggles to belie the true extent of her interest. She’s been dying to ask, but purposefully stares straight ahead at the road a
nd avoids Katherine’s gaze.
‘I’m not sure to be honest,’ she pauses, thinking, ‘I got a letter from Anne’s mum.’
‘Really?’ Margaret glances quickly at her, shocked. ‘What about?’ Her hands grip the steering wheel tighter and she hopes Katherine doesn’t notice her jaw harden and the colour drain from her face.
‘She’s dying. Wants to see me, talk to me about something, about the year Anne died.’
Margaret struggles to find the words to respond.
‘I think I owe her that,’ adds Katherine.
‘You don’t owe her anything,’ replies Margaret, trying hard to keep the venom inside of herself.
‘Now you sound like mum.’ Katherine hits back.
‘Well maybe mum was right about a few things…’ The sentence has more than one target and Katherine knows it.
‘Look,’ says Katherine interrupting, ‘I’m not here to start an argument. I’ve come over to see you all, I know it’s been a long time, but I’m going to see Anne’s mum at some point too. I need to.’
Margaret doesn’t answer, then a thought crosses her mind. ‘There’s nothing wrong is there?’ she asks.
‘There’s nothing wrong.’ Katherine smiles, the first sign the pair of them might be more than just acquaintances sharing a car journey.
‘Does John know? He hasn’t told me if he does.’
‘I emailed him.’ There is silence in the car for a while as the two women contemplate what Katherine has just said.
Margaret is fuming again, “emailed”, her sister can’t even be bothered to speak to her own husband - one of the nicest men she knows. The way she’s treated him! As for Anne’s mother, well that is one hell of a bucket of worms. She certainly doesn’t deserve anyone’s respect, dying or not. Katherine should have gotten over Anne’s death years ago. Why dredge it all up now? What does she want with her sister? What if Anne’s mother tells Katherine the truth? There are some secrets which should stay buried.
