By the time Jude finished, it was ten and definitely an acceptable time to call his sister. He wouldn’t ring her from the café – Mrs Bisson had made it clear she thought mobile phones the work of the devil – but would meander through the cobbled streets and make his way to the waterfront, where he could ogle the yachts while he chatted to Daisy.
‘Dais, it’s me, Jude.’ He sat down on a bench and inhaled the ozone scent of the seawater.
‘Oh, hi, Jude,’ she said, yawning. ‘Hang on a sec.’ He heard her muttering to someone. A few steps, then she asked, ‘So what’s up?’
‘Mum says you’ve gone off grid,’ he said, irony in his voice. A seagull flew overhead, squawking loudly.
‘Only to her. I’ve got a new lover and she’ll suss me out in no time. She’ll want to know all about it. And, well, let’s just say this one’s different . . .’ She clammed up and Jude didn’t push her. Daisy had a rampant love life but – like Jude – had never been serious about anyone before.
‘How’s work?’ Jude asked.
‘Mind-blowingly manic,’ Daisy said, but he could hear she was smiling. She adored her job as an A&E doctor – she thrived on the drama and adrenaline and it was this drive of Daisy’s that set the siblings apart even more than their looks. (Daisy was as petite and red-headed as Jude was tall and blonde.) She seemed to have enough ambition for the both of them. ‘How about you? How’s work, life . . . everything?’
‘Still crap. I’m feeling lost, Dais. This despondency is starting to affect me physically – I’m getting headaches, feeling really tired . . .’
‘You need to get away,’ Daisy told him. ‘I’m always telling you – Jersey’s too small. You’ll never meet anyone in that teeny-tiny fish pond. Look, come and stay with me. I can introduce you to Sam at the same time. And don’t say yes and then put it off for ever. Promise me you’ll look at flights today,’ she bossed.
‘Okay,’ Jude said, without a huge amount of enthusiasm. He loved Daisy but staying with her was exhausting – a relentless timetable of museums, art galleries and social gatherings among her enormous group of friends in trendy bars and expensive restaurants. Plus, he hated London. That great seething mass of humanity and pollution. The only good thing about it was that he was always extraordinarily happy to return home after a few days in the Big Smoke. For that, it was probably worth it. And he had to admit it would be something different to do. ‘Promise,’ he added. ‘I’ll book it for next weekend.’
‘Perfect,’ said Daisy. ‘My birthday!’
Jude headed back towards his flat. It was now nearly eleven and town was heaving with Saturday shoppers and French exchange students. He tried not to feel impatient as he was held up by people trudging along talking on their phones (why did talking on a phone make everyone so slow?) and, as he dithered about which shop might sell him a birthday present for Daisy, he braced himself for bumping into various people he knew.
The unofficial law of Jersey was that if you were feeling happy and cheery and looking your best, you could walk through town and not come across a single familiar face; but should you be feeling a little glum and introspective or suffering with an unwelcome bout of teenage-style zits, you’d almost certainly bump into at least half a dozen acquaintances.
He turned left into one of the department stores, opting for the cosmetics counter, and stared warily at one of the white-coated women.
‘After some make-up?’ said a husky voice, with a hint of laughter. Jude looked around in relief – his friend Eddie’s girlfriend, Catarina, amusement glinting in her dark eyes. It could be a lot worse.
‘Cat! Just trying to choose a birthday present for Daisy.’
‘That brand’s shite. Clarins would be better. Or, if your budget can stretch, I know just the thing. Follow me.’
Jude did as he was told and followed Cat past various counters where formidable-looking orange-coloured ladies eyed him beadily. Eventually they came upon a counter where a woman looked up from arranging products. Her expression was disdainful.
‘Yes?’ she asked.
‘Madam, I have a potential customer for you, so break a smile,’ Cat told the woman, not pulling any punches. Cat really didn’t care what anyone thought of her and Jude loved that about her.
The woman looked shocked, then tried her best to smile. ‘Are you interested in ze cream or ze serum or ze eye serum or ze lip balm?’ she asked in a French accent. Jude looked at Cat rather desperately.
‘The classic cream. It’s called Crème de la Mer,’ Cat told Jude, pushing back her thick, dark hair. ‘Every woman’s heard of it and not many of us are lucky enough to have tried the stuff. Meant to be the dog’s bollocks. How much is it?’ she asked the saleswoman, who was having trouble not blanching at Cat’s crudity.
‘It is one ’undred and forty pounds, sir,’ she said, clearly deciding to deal directly with Jude.
‘Crap’s sake,’ said Cat. ‘Forget it!’ she laughed, but Jude had his card out, ready to pay. ‘You’re not getting it, are you?’ she asked incredulously.
‘I usually spend about that on Daisy, so it’s okay. If the cream’s good . . .’ Jude handed over his card and the saleswoman fussed about, decorating the box with a bow and finding a smart-looking carrier bag.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Cat. ‘I wish you were my brother. Lucky if I get a shitty box of chocolates from Cristiano. Right, well, I’d better get on. Glad I could help, anyway.’
Jude smiled at her. ‘You did. Thanks, Cat. See you soon!’
She waved and disappeared, a tall figure striding across the shop floor. Jude took his card and the bag containing the expensive pot of magic cream.
‘Au revoir! ’ the saleswoman called out.
Jude emerged thankfully into the fresh air, though his nostrils still felt contaminated by the sickly scent of perfumes, then walked briskly through town to his flat. He immediately found his laptop and booked his flight.
Arrive 11.30 on your birthday, leave on Sunday, he texted Daisy. Can’t wait to see you!
Enthusiasm. Not Jude’s strongest point. But he realised that, actually, he felt a little brighter. A day or two off the Rock. Perhaps that was just the medicine he needed.
Chapter Six
ENGLAND, SATURDAY
SUMMER
Summer pulled out her suitcase and tried to decide what to pack. It was just over a week until she was due to leave but she was trying to be organised about her departure rather than leaving the packing until the last minute as she would usually. She cast a desultory glance into her wardrobe but, uninspired, turned to the bookshelf by the bed instead, with a view to deciding which paperbacks to take with her.
She noticed she’d stuffed several photo albums on the shelf, so she pulled them out and blew off the dust. The first was filled with baby photos of the twins and she browsed through them, kneeling on the floor, although she quickly flicked over the pictures from when the boys had just been born. Despite rushing through the early pages, she caught sight of her face in one photo and realised that she’d looked like a ghost – haunted. She regretted so much that she hadn’t ‘glowed’ like so many other new mothers.
She sighed and quickly moved on to the period when she’d begun to feel better, experiencing a strong maternal pang as she recognised, not for the first time, that one of the most precious times in her life was over. Had been over for years, in fact. As she looked through the pictures of the boys in matching outfits, achieving their milestones, she glossed over the memories of the sleepless nights, the panic when they were unwell and the never-ending dirty nappies. Instead, she popped on her rose-tinted spectacles and spent several moments recalling the blissful smell of her babies – a scent that surpassed all others – and how she’d cradled them to her chest, sometimes both at the same time. The feeding she remembered tenderly, too, forgetting about the cracked nipples and tender breasts and reliving the moments when she would gently snooze as she fed, feeling the oxytocin flood through her body as the boys gorged th
emselves happily. She recalled Seth always bringing her a glass of water and kissing her on the lips, creeping away with a look of utter pride on his face.
Enough. Too much nostalgia. But then, lodged behind the slightly newer albums, she spotted an ancient one. She began to flick through it. Goodness, it really was old – pre-Seth. There were a few pictures of her as a girl, always standing between her mum and dad as their only child – the centre of their universe. Or her mum’s, at least – Frank had been a lovely father, but his greatest passion had always been drugs. Vita, though, had consistently treated Summer as the most precious gift and, while Summer’s childhood had been unconventional, it had also been confidence-inspiring in so many ways. Her upbringing intrigued Tilly, who’d led a conventional life since the day she was born.
‘So were they new-age travellers then?’ she’d asked Summer once.
‘No, proper travellers. Nomads.’
‘But where did you live?’
‘All over the world, in communes, tents, vans, even a cave once.’ She laughed at Tilly’s shocked face. ‘But in houses, too, sometimes.’
‘But what about school?’
‘My mum taught me,’ Summer said, and Tilly shook her head.
‘I just can’t imagine it. Was it awful?’
‘Nope. I loved it!’
And it was true. Though she recognised there had been some gaps (a lack of stability that had later attracted her to sensible Seth, for example), Summer had adored her childhood. But no one ever believed her – she only ever seemed to receive looks of pity when she talked about it nowadays.
Towards the end of the album there were pictures of Summer as a teenager. In every one, she wore a huge smile and some kind of 60s or 70s outfit. Her hair and make-up were retro, too, and Summer remembered how influenced she’d been by her parents, even in terms of her own wardrobe – Frank and Vita had been completely stuck in their heyday. Summer jumped up and shoved the photo album into her suitcase, together with the one of the twins as babies, then returned to her wardrobe, found a chair and balanced precariously on it to retrieve a cardboard box that had been living on top of the cupboard since they’d moved in. She hauled it on to the bed.
‘Here we are!’ Summer said to herself as she opened it up. Inside was a pile of clothes – all things she’d worn when she was about seventeen, before she’d met Seth and had the twins. There were floppy hats, enormous sunglasses, bell-bottom jeans, shift dresses, smock dresses, bell-sleeved tops and A-line skirts. Even some platform shoes, clogs and a pair of Chelsea boots. She tried to remember where she’d have bought these from in the 90s, when everyone else was wearing boot-cut jeans and tight-fitting V-neck tops. Then she realised – of course, they’d been passed down to her by her mother, who’d always been a hoarder, not easy when you’re also a nomad. They were genuine clothes from the 60s and 70s. Summer held up a couple of items.
‘I wonder . . .’ she said, and she quickly stripped off her M&S T-shirt and her black skinny jeans and pulled on a pair of pale-blue bell-bottoms and a blue-and-white tie-dye top. Amazingly, they fitted, and Summer was finally grateful for the tedious hours she spent in the gym with Tilly, who was a complete gym-bunny. Summer pulled back her hair so it was half up and backcombed it at the crown slightly, then found her eyeliner and tried a 60s flick.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ asked Seth, surprising Summer, who jumped back like a scalded cat.
‘Packing,’ Summer told him, putting a hand up to her hair self-consciously.
‘You look just like you did when we first met,’ Seth said quietly, taking stock. Summer gazed back at him and for a moment she wondered if he might be having second thoughts about the break. But then he ruined it. ‘Thank goodness fashions change. Hideous jeans!’ he half-laughed. ‘I was just looking for my charger. Ah, there it is.’ He grabbed it and she heard him return to the kitchen and plug in his phone. Feeling stung, Summer found a wipe and took off the eyeliner, simultaneously letting down her hair. She took the outfit off, too, but she didn’t put it back in the box.
Instead, she shoved the clothes, together with the rest of the contents of the box, into her suitcase and zipped it up. She wouldn’t take any of her boring headmaster’s wife clothes with her. This lot would need a wash once she got there, but they were fine. They fitted her. More than that, seeing her old clothes, trying them on – it had felt like coming home.
Chapter Seven
JERSEY, MONDAY
JUDE
Admittedly, Mondays were always a bad thing. But this one was particularly bad. He’d woken up with a stinking headache and it wasn’t even a hangover. He contemplated calling in sick, but his work ethic was slightly too strong to permit him guilt-free duvet days and if he was going to feel guilty, he might just as well take some aspirin and get to the office.
Having logged in, he put on his headset and began dealing with calls. Soon, however, his head felt like it was going to explode. A migraine, perhaps? He’d never had one before, though he’d had quite a few headaches lately. By eleven it was clear he couldn’t stay at work.
‘I’ve got a terrible headache,’ he told his manager after knocking on her office door. ‘Going to have to head home.’
Peggy looked up sceptically from her desk but then, seeing his face, her expression changed to one of concern. ‘You don’t look right,’ she said. ‘Will you be okay getting home?’
‘Yes, should be,’ he answered, though now it was becoming tricky to get his words out. He staggered out of the office and made his way to a nearby chemist.
‘Have you got anything for a migraine?’ he asked, clutching the counter. The chemist looked at him, then immediately called a doctor from the next-door surgery. Jude was accompanied through to the doctor’s office, feeling like a fool. Was he making a great fuss unnecessarily? Despite the agony he was in, that was his main concern. He sat down heavily on a plastic chair.
‘Have you been tired? Getting a lot of headaches recently?’ the doctor asked. She was round and cosy-looking, not remotely medical in her appearance, but clearly very capable.
‘I have been quite tired. I thought I might be depressed. A few headaches. But this . . . I’ve never had anything like it.’ The doctor stood up and dimmed the lights. A relief.
‘Look, this could just be a migraine, but if it’s the worst headache you’ve ever had, I’d rather we got it checked out straight away. I’m going to call the hospital.’
She went out of the room, returning a short while later with another lady. ‘This is Davina, our practice nurse,’ she explained. ‘She’s going to drive you to the hospital. I know it’s not far, but I’m worried about you trying to walk there. I’ve spoken to Mr Vibert, the consultant on call, who’ll review you in A&E and then most likely give you a CT scan of your brain.’
Jude thought this was all a bit extreme but he went along with it. He didn’t have the strength to argue.
The next few hours were a blur. He was reviewed by the consultant and given a scan. He was helped into a hospital bed at some point. Given some medication. Eventually, he slept. He woke in darkness, still aware of a searing pain in his skull, then slept again. By the following morning his head felt better. Still bad, but better. A nurse entered the room.
‘I’m so sorry about all this,’ Jude said. ‘I’m feeling a lot better now. I’ll be off in a minute.’
‘You’re not going anywhere,’ she told him ominously. ‘Let me just page Mr Vibert.’ But she didn’t need to. He was there, in the room, a moment later.
‘I’m so sorry,’ the consultant told Jude – looking incredibly serious. Jude felt panic wash over him as Mr Vibert got straight to the point. ‘This is hard to tell you . . . Jude, it’s clear from the CT scan that you have a brain tumour. I’m afraid it looks malignant,’ he explained. ‘We’ll keep you in for a couple more days, make sure we get your symptoms under control. And we’ll need to carry out another scan – an MRI this time – to determine what grade the tumour is and its exa
ct position. It’s hard to tell from the CT scan whether we’ll be able to operate or not. If we can operate, I’m afraid the procedure will have to be carried out by a surgeon in Southampton as we simply don’t have the expertise here.’
Jude’s mind was spinning. ‘What do you mean, if you can operate? Can’t the tumour just be cut out?’
‘It’s in a difficult location. I won’t know for sure until I get the results of the MRI but it may be too dangerous to remove.’
‘And if you can’t get rid of it?’
Mr Vibert looked directly at Jude. He had nice eyes, a greenish hazel, soft and sympathetic, the skin around them etched with laughter lines. ‘Then I’m afraid your situation would be terminal,’ he said.
Jude tried to take in the consultant’s words. Could this really be happening to him? This was far too dramatic an event for someone whose life was ordinarily so desperately boring. He almost laughed, feeling a rising sense of hysteria within him. He felt like he was watching one of those weekly medical dramas he hated, but which Daisy made him watch whenever he stayed with her. Daisy. The thought of his sister was like a slap round the face and his desire to laugh immediately extinguished itself.
He made an on-the-spot decision not to tell his family. Not just yet. He needed to digest the news himself first. But he needed to tell someone, not least because he needed stuff from home – his toothbrush, pyjamas, iPad, those sorts of things. He decided on Eddie, who wasn’t one to make a fuss about anything.
Jude rang and explained everything. Eddie was unusually quiet, then, ‘I’m gutted for you, mate,’ he kept repeating. Poor Eddie, he clearly didn’t know how to handle it – which made two of them. ‘Can I do anything?’ he asked eventually.
Christmas by the Lighthouse Page 4
