chapter twenty

 

Guernsey 2011

 

Fiona was sharing a coffee with Louisa in the garden when John rang with his news. She immediately told her friend.

‘That’s amazing! I bet you can’t wait to meet this Teresa,’ Louisa said, smiling.

‘No, I need some good to come out of Nigel’s death. And this poor woman lost so much thanks to the Germans and whoever betrayed Leo. I’m glad she’s around to see their painting again, it might bring her some comfort.’ Fiona drained her mug, staring out to sea and the distant shape of Jersey on the horizon, a mix of emotions swirling around inside. ‘It’s the waiting that gets to me. I have to wait to hear from the police, wait for the coroner, wait to arrange a funeral, wait to hear when we can go to England…’ She stood up, her hands thrust into her pockets as she continued staring into the distance.

Fiona swung round to face Louisa.

‘I hate not being in control of what’s happening to me. As a teenager, whenever I felt at the mercy of my teachers or my parents, I’d slink over to Herm for the day and pretend I was the boss-lady, in my head, anyway. Walking around, hardly meeting a soul, it was easy to believe it was my domain and no-one could tell me what to do.’

Louisa nodded.

‘I can relate to that. Not being able to make your own decisions. And Herm does have a special kind of magic, doesn’t it? Why not go over now? Reclaim yourself, if that’s what you need.’

The answering flutter in her stomach convinced Fiona.

‘Think I will. I just need to do something for me at the moment. You won’t be offended if I stay there for a night or two? Assuming I can get a room at short notice.’

‘Don’t be silly. Ring the hotel now. The phone book’s in the kitchen.’ Louisa punched her arm playfully, and Fiona grinned as she headed inside.

She was in luck. The White House had had a late cancellation and could offer her a room for the Saturday and Sunday nights. Perfect. After telling Louisa, she threw clothes and toiletries into a bag, and her friend offered to run her down to the ferry, the next one due to leave in thirty minutes. Louisa dropped her off at the Weighbridge with time to spare, and she joined the queue for tickets at the Trident kiosk. A bubble of anticipation surfaced, and Fiona knew she’d made the right decision as soon as she stepped aboard the ferry. The cheerful chatter from the day trippers was uplifting after the pain of the past two weeks, and for the next couple of days, she was determined not to dwell on what had happened.

A light sea breeze accompanied them as the boat steered the well-worn route to Herm, basking quietly ahead under the late May sun. The following weekend would be the May bank holiday and half-term, and Fiona knew from experience how busy the island would become. Standing on deck as the boat neared the harbour, she gripped the rail as her eyes swept over the familiar scene. Motorboats and small yachts bobbed at their moorings offshore and small groups of people could be seen making their way along the coastal path. Fiona released a contented sigh. It all looked so normal.

She grabbed her bag and jumped onto the jetty, keen to check in and grab some lunch. Every time she visited Herm her appetite redoubled, probably thanks to permanent sea air on such a small place and all the walking needed to get around.

The White House was a sprawling country house style hotel, determined to encourage guests to relive the joys of being off-grid, without televisions, clocks or telephones and this suited Fiona’s current frame of mind. She’d packed a couple of paperbacks and although she’d brought her mobile, only planned to check for any text messages from John. She was delighted to be offered an upstairs sea-view room in the main hotel, and it wasn’t long before she’d unpacked, admired the view towards Guernsey and returned downstairs to walk to the adjoining Ship Inn for an al fresco lunch. As she sipped her wine, Fiona realised, with some surprise, she hadn’t been over to Herm since moving back to Guernsey to join Nigel. Well, she would make up for it now. Reclaim her old love for the tiny slice of paradise that had soothed her so often in the past.

Later, having changed, Fiona set off past the island shop and pub, taking the path towards the common and then round to the beaches on the far side. Along the way she returned the smiles of those she met, their sun-kissed faces testament to a morning’s sunbathing. She arrived at the top of the stairs leading down to Belvoir Bay and gave herself a moment to take in her favourite beach. As a child, no trip to Herm was complete without spending a few hours here. Smaller and more sheltered than the adjoining Shell Beach, it bore an air of seclusion in spite of the popular café.

Fiona smiled as she noticed only a handful of people stretched out on the sand and trotted eagerly down the steps. She found a spot backed into the cliff and spread out her towel before stripping down to her bikini and walking the few yards to the sea. An icy shiver ran through her as she dipped her feet in the water and she took a deep breath before plunging in full-length for a swim. After a few minutes of sustained swimming, Fiona acclimatised and carried on until her leg muscles ached.

Stretched out on the towel, it was easy to let the sun soothe her into a doze, accompanied by the gentle lapping of the waves on the shore. With her eyes closed, she could imagine herself the only one on the island. Her domain. She found herself smiling as she drifted away.

Two children, a boy and a girl, played at the water’s edge, splashing each other and screaming with delight. Then they moved up the beach to start building rival sandcastles with battered buckets and spades. They had their backs to her, and she couldn’t see their faces, but there was something familiar about them. The boy stood up, saying his was the best and he’d ask their parents to judge. He turned around and walked towards her and Fiona saw it was Nigel, and when the girl looked up, she recognised herself. About ten years old. Her heart skittered in her chest as Nigel drew closer.

‘Mummy, come and tell us which is the best castle. I’m sure you’ll agree it’s mine, but Fiona says it’s hers. Please, before the sea washes them away.’

Fiona didn’t move, too lethargic in the heat. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

‘Come on! You need to move, now!’ The voice was no longer Nigel’s.

She opened her eyes, groggy. A shadow blotted out the sun, and she recognised the tussle-haired young lad she’d passed earlier. Something wet touched her feet and realisation kicked in. The tide! Fully alert, she stumbled to her feet, and he helped her collect her things.

‘Thanks, I must have drifted off and lost track of time.’ She felt the heat in her cheeks, whether from embarrassment or the sun she wasn’t sure, but he just grinned, saying, ‘It’s easily done. You’ll be okay over there,’ he pointed a few feet away, before moving off.

Fiona decided a cup of tea would be welcome and walked the few yards to the café. She sat on a bench under a bright umbrella to sip her tea and make some sense of what had happened. Could the sandcastle incident have been a real memory? It was possible. They’d spent so much time here and had loved their buckets and spades and making castles. And they’d been quite competitive. But it was odd how it had morphed into the stranger, warning her of the encroaching tide. She dragged a hand through her hair as she considered whether or not Nigel had ‘followed’ her to Herm and had been trying to warn her, or whether it was her mind playing tricks. Neither answer provided much comfort.

Later that afternoon, Fiona made her way back to the hotel via the Manor Village, nestled in the middle of the island. Not a proper village, but a collection of self-catering stone cottages huddled around an old chapel and the Manor House, the traditional home of the Tenant of the island. As a family, they had enjoyed holidays spent in one or other of the cottages, and Fiona found herself dawdling, noting any changes over the years. The gardens were full of colour, bursting with spring flowers and she exchanged greetings with holidaymakers sat outside enjoying the view down to the sea. Her favourite cottage from her childhood, Lower Bailiff’s, was on the corner, opposite St Tugual’s Chapel and she smiled as she drew level to it. Fiona was about to walk on when she recalled the chapel had recently been reopened after months of restoration and the discovery of skeletons hundreds of years old. Intrigued, she entered the tiny eleventh-century church.

The chill hit her immediately. The old granite walls shut out the heat of the day, and Fiona picked up the faint musty smell she remembered from previous visits, even though the doors were wide open. Light streamed through the stained glass windows, illuminating dust motes floating through the air. She didn’t see any significant changes, but as ever sensed an air of peace enfold her. The only visitor, Fiona took a seat near the small, plain altar table and closed her eyes, planning to say a quick prayer for her parents and brother. She became aware of an even greater drop in temperature and shivered. In her head, she saw Nigel’s face and heard his voice.

‘Darling Sis, I know you feel alone, but you’re not. I’ll always be by your side and in your heart, as you are in mine. Love you always…’ His face and voice faded away, and when she opened her eyes, her face was damp. She breathed deeply, experiencing a release, a letting go. The heavy lump of sorrow which had settled in her stomach for the past two weeks, lightened. Whispering, ‘Thank you,’ she stood and left the church to return to the hotel.

 

Fiona slept so deeply that night she nearly missed breakfast Sunday morning. Arriving at five minutes to ten in the Conservatory restaurant, she apologised to the young waitress hovering near the door.

‘No problem, no-one’s early on a Sunday,’ she said with a grin, going to fetch a pot of coffee.

After settling at a table in the window, Fiona gazed out over the front lawn edged with bushes and flowering shrubs over to the sea, sparkling under another blue sky. Part of her mind dwelt on the experience in the chapel and on the beach, which she now recognised as connected. Nigel wanted her to know he was there for her, to warn her of danger – or wet feet! – if necessary. By the time her coffee arrived, she was smiling, ready for a chilled-out day by the pool or on a beach.