We all take a communal gulp of the Bushmills after that, apart from Geraldine herself, who simply looks at it wistfully.
“I have to assume he was right,” I say, breaking the mournful silence as the emotion washes over us all. “Because you’re still here and obviously thriving.”
She smiles, and happiness shines from her eyes.
“Yes, I am. He was right. The treatment was brutal, and I couldn’t have done it without him. Not just the practical stuff—looking after Jamie, keeping this place on track, ferrying me backward and forward from the hospital, looking after me when I was sick. It was the mental side of it as well—he kept me going. Kept me strong. Held my hair back when I was puking, put me to bed, never let me feel alone. Not for a single second. As much as the doctors, I think he saved my life.
“I look back at it now, and wonder how I coped—how I got through it all. It really was a terrible year. But the answer is that Joe stuck with me. He was my best friend, and a surrogate dad to Jamie, a maid, and a nurse, all rolled into one. He was . . . extraordinary.”
I see Michael looking awed, and meet Belinda’s eyes. She nods, and I smile. Yes. Joe was always extraordinary.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” says Belinda, leaning forward, “was there anything . . . more, between you and Joe?”
Geraldine’s gaze flickers to mine, and I quickly add: “It’s OK if there was. I don’t expect him to have lived like a saint, and it would be perfectly understandable.”
I say that, and I mainly mean it, but there is also a small and undeniable growl of anguish lurking inside me. By the time all of this was happening, I was on my own rocky road to recovery, with Joe’s memory smothered beneath a blanket of denial that I’d been convinced was for my own good—we were both treading treacherous paths, and I don’t like or admire the tiny part of me that is jealous, no matter what generous words I utter.
“No, there wasn’t,” she replies, then sighs and rubs her tummy. “But I’d be lying if I said the thought never crossed my mind. Joe was . . . well, he was my hero. And he was attractive, anyone could see that. He was younger than me, but it never felt that way—he’s one of those people with an old soul, isn’t he? Younger in years but not in life experience.”
She takes a deep breath, and continues: “If I’m totally honest with you, and myself, I was more than a little bit in love with him. I suppose I did imagine a world where he stayed, and we raised Jamie together, and lived happily ever after. But that was never what he wanted. There was one night . . . one night when I’d been told the tests were clear, at least for the time being. We celebrated, had a few drinks, stayed up late after Jamie was in bed. That night, I did . . . well, I kissed him. It was awful.”
She looks up at us, and laughs at our expressions.
“Not the kiss! The aftermath. He was so gentle, and so kind—but he basically told me that he couldn’t love me that way. That his heart was still with you, and that he was sorry but it probably always would be.”
I stare off into the starlit sky, and bite my lip, and lay my hands on the arms of the chair to settle myself. I feel like I have to hold on tight, or I will float loose, slip my earthly moorings, disappear into the moon-drenched night air like a lost helium balloon.
It is sorrowful and tragic that he was holding on to my memory—but it spikes me with a natural high, a sense of elation and renewed belief in the rightness of my current quest. I am looking for Joe, and I will not stop.
“He did have a fling or two, I think,” she says, sounding amused. “He was very popular with the surfer girls. Nothing serious, ever, but maybe a bit of flirtation every now and then? He was the kind of man women wanted to flirt with, and he was so good at it—no matter how old they were or what their situation was, he could somehow make them feel good. I remember him chatting to an old lady on one of those mobility scooters in town one afternoon, and she zoomed on her way with a blush and a giggle that made her seem like a teenager!”
I can picture the scene, and I can imagine the salty-skinned suntanned surfer girls looking at him longingly. And I genuinely don’t begrudge him that.
“So what happened?” asks Michael eagerly. “Why did he leave?”
“A combination of things, really. After that night—after the kiss—he was a bit more wary around me. For the first time ever, things felt awkward. I wanted to take it back, but obviously I couldn’t—it was like I’d muddied the waters somehow. Tried to take things in a direction he didn’t feel comfortable with. Whatever the reason, there was always an undercurrent of tension after that. He was more . . . careful.”
“It’s because it would have meant too much,” I say, for some reason certain that I’m right. “A casual fling with a passing tourist wouldn’t have meant anything. But you? That would have been different. I know it sounds odd, but I’m sure that’s the case—he wasn’t ready for anything meaningful, and you would definitely have been meaningful. In a way he pulled back because he was already in too deep, if that makes sense?”
She nods, and a look of perfect understanding passes between us.
“I think that’s true. He was all in as a friend—but he couldn’t handle more than that, not at that stage in his life. He was still in so much pain of his own, wasn’t he? And once he had an inkling that I wanted more than friendship, he retreated. Well, that or he just didn’t fancy an old lady like me!”
“I’m sure that’s not what it was,” I reply, holding her gaze. “You’re a beautiful woman now, and I’m sure you were then.”
“Thank you, but I wasn’t at my best . . . anyway. That’s a strange thing to be talking about to you of all people, Jess. So, we rubbed along for a while longer, the restaurant was getting there, and then I met Dan. Dan was one of the building inspectors from the council, who used to come around and check up on us. He started calling in for a cuppa, and a chat, and his inspections became a bit more friendly, and . . . well. We’ve been married since 2011, and this little surprise I’m baking is his first child.”
She has that way of talking about her Dan—an easygoing sense of affection—that tells me she’s happy with him. That she’s happy with the life they’ve built together.
“It wasn’t sudden, or dramatic, or anything like that,” she adds. “He just became a friend to start with. Joe really liked him, and I think he knew that if he wasn’t around, things might develop into something more. It was weird, actually . . . and a bit sad. It was as though he saw he could trust Dan with me, and decided to move on. I wasn’t happy at first. There were some harsh words—I think I may have told him I wasn’t a parcel, to be passed from man to man . . . That wasn’t fair, of course, but I was hurt, and scared, and worried about life without him.”
She clearly doesn’t like this memory of herself, and I reply: “That’s understandable. Maybe . . . maybe you were hoping he’d stay still? And maybe you were upset that he seemed to want to hand you on, even though you probably knew it was for the best?”
“Maybe you’re right. I always knew, deep down, that he wouldn’t stay forever—I knew he was still restless and he still had unfinished business. And maybe I also felt guilty that I’d kept him for so long. He was too decent a man to abandon me when I needed him most. Adrian was a complete shit, but I’ve been lucky since, having men like Joe and Dan in my life.”
From the corner of my eye, I can see Dan hovering in the next room, cleaning tables and occasionally looking over at us. He’s as tall as a tree and has neat blond hair. He gives me a little wave that makes me smile.
“Did you keep in touch, after he left?” I ask, hoping to add even a scrap more information to our dwindling stockpile. The next stop, according to our cards and letters, is London, and it will obviously be even more of a challenge to find him in a city of that size. People go missing there all the time, swallowed into the belly of the beastly metropolis.
London is where it could all go horribly wrong, and I don’t want to face up to that possibility just yet. I’d rather sit here, in this calm and gentle place in a soul-stirring land, talking to a woman who clearly once loved Joe very much.
“For a little while,” she says, nodding. “He didn’t just do a runner—he wasn’t made like that. He would call every now and then, check on my health, ask about Jamie, see where I was up to with the restaurant and with Dan . . . He was in London, I know that much. But the number I had for him went dead sometime in 2008. It was after a conversation where I told him I was seeing Dan, properly, and for ages afterward I wondered . . .”
“If that was why he stopped contacting you?”
“Yes. Which I realize now sounds arrogant. And anyway, I’m sure it’s not true—he sounded delighted for me, genuinely. Maybe even relieved. I did do a bit of digging, trying to track him down, so I could invite him to the wedding, but I didn’t get very far. I’m happy to root out what I have for you, if that would help?”
I tell her that yes, it would, and there is an awkward moment where we are all silent. The only thing tying us together is Joe, and we know more than she does about 2008. That was when Belinda saw me and my mother in town, and told Joe about it.
I don’t know if he’d been holding out hope for all that time—half expecting me to come back into his life once I was well again—but once he heard that, things seemed to change. The number that Belinda and Geraldine had for him, the one that had been written on his letters to me and that of course I had already tried, half terrified in case he answered, was disconnected. Joe himself, it seemed, was disconnected.
“I think he’d be so thrilled for you right now, Geraldine,” I say, as she shuffles her bulk around on the sofa. “I think he’d be so happy to see you like this. And to see Jamie all grown up and doing so well. He’d be proud.”
“I’d like to think you’re right about that. So . . . what are you going to do? And why didn’t you try and find him sooner, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“It’s a long, sad story,” I reply, shaking my head, “all about people who thought they knew best, and really didn’t. But hopefully we will find him, and I’ll tell him all about you.”
“That would be lovely. I’d so like to see him again one day . . . thank him properly for everything he did. Anyway. That’s one for the future. In the meantime, though, where are you all staying?”
We tell her the name of our lodging house, and she pulls a face that confirms our suspicions that we managed to find the worst possible B & B in the whole of southern England.
“That’s . . . unfortunate. Would you like to stay here? We still have the trailer. It’s hidden away in the private part of the garden. Jamie used it when he was going through his rebellious period, and . . . well. I just didn’t want to part with it somehow. It was like a remnant of the best of times and the worst of times.”
Belinda and Michael look to me to take the lead, and I let the thought filter through my mind for a few moments before I make my decision.
Once they drive away, promising to come and fetch me bright and early the next day, Geraldine lends me some essentials, and escorts me with a flashlight through a deliberately wild patch of meadow flowers and dense oak and hazel. There, tucked away in their private paradise of woodland, is a battered old trailer. Jamie has painted this as well, in bright shades of yellow and blue and green that I can’t see clearly in the light.
“It’s the ocean,” she explains as she opens the door and follows me inside. “He’s forever finding new ways to paint it. I thought he was going to join the navy at one point . . .”
I glance around, taking in the shabby but clean upholstery, the fold-up table, the obviously long-unused kitchen. She gives me as much of a hug as she can manage in her enlarged state, and says: “That was his room, over there. It’s so wonderful to meet you at last, Jess—it’s like I’ve finally found Joe’s missing half. I just wish I could have known Gracie as well.”
I wave her off, and sit, quiet and still, in the beam of the flashlight. This place is silent apart from the nighttime noises of forest animals and the distant sound of the waves, and try as I might I can’t picture Joe here.
I look at the picture—the one from the pub—and imagine his life in Cornwall. I imagine mine, back home. We were both so very alone, in our own ways.
I remember the notes, the ones I am carrying in my bag. Emergency medicine from Dr. Joe.
I find the pale pink envelope of “Read Me When You’re Lonely,” and open it, turning the flashlight so it holds us in a golden spotlight.
Remember that time that I was ill, a month after we’d started seeing each other? Some flu thing. I was sleeping in my car, and you arrived with a flask of tea, and honey and lemon, and baby wipes you’d kept in the fridge to make them cool. I remember it. It was the first time in my life I didn’t feel lonely. The first time I felt loved. It was a miracle, and it came from nowhere, when I least expected it. If you’re lonely right now, remember two things: first, that I will always love you and Gracie, and we were lucky to have had each other, and her, no matter how briefly—some people go their whole lives without that kind of magic. And also—it is the kind of miracle that can come from nowhere when you least expect it. Don’t be lonely. Be hopeful.
I fold the card back into its pink nest, and remember that time. The way he didn’t want me to be there in case I caught his illness. The way I didn’t care. The way he looked at me, with those sad brown eyes, as I stroked his hair and helped him sip tea. Like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing, the kindness he was receiving.
I wander through into the room that was his, still holding the note in my fingers.
I look down at the small, neatly made bed he used to sleep in. I know the sheets will have been washed dozens of times since he left. I know this bed has probably held Jamie, or his friends, or visitors. I know that Joe is long gone from this place.
But somehow, as I slide beneath cool cotton covers, his note beside me on the pillow, the window blinds open to a silver paint spill of moonlight, I can imagine he’s here with me after all. I hold on to the ghost, and hope that one day it will be made real—that I will find another miracle.