Chapter Sixty-Eight
Sixty-Eight
Lifejacket
The next morning, I can’t stop yawning. I’ve slept for eight hours, and I don’t feel as if I’ve slept more than thirty minutes. I make myself a strong instant coffee and try to psyche myself up for the day.
I’m getting nowhere with my jewellery making. I have no creative energy to express, no motivation, and no desire to do anything except go back to bed. However, given I have about two hundred items on my ‘Reptile To-Do List’, I go outside for some fresh air and hope it’ll wake me up.
Caleb’s out there, writing something in a notebook.
‘Nice outfit,’ he says, looking at my favourite nightshirt, which features a spotty kitten holding a slice of pizza in one hand and a taco in the other. Like he’s in any position to critique my sartorial choices.
‘Right back at you,’ I say, because his shirt, the one he has specifically chosen to wear today, proclaims him to be the number one fan of the WISCONSIN BADGERS, which I assume is some kind of American sports team and which I strongly suspect that he has never supported. Just as I suspect he has never been to Wisconsin. And he most likely hates badgers.
‘Another shirt that your globe-trotting ex bought for you?’ I ask.
‘She wasn’t globe-trotting. She just travelled a lot for work.’
‘And bought you clothes she thought you’d like?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘She bought you clothes that she thought you wouldn’t like?’
‘It was more like that, yes.’
‘She sounds hilarious,’ I say. ‘I’m sad it didn’t work out between you.’
He looks at me sharply, wondering if I’m being sarcastic.
I try to picture this woman who loved Caleb. Whoever she was, she obviously had a sense of humour. Which she would have needed.
My head suddenly feels fuzzy.
‘I need some exercise,’ I say. ‘I might just head down to the beach with Ted. Have a paddle. Clear my head. Do you want to come with me?’
‘No, I have stuff to do,’ he says, enigmatically, before adding, ‘Don’t forget to look for the Lego. A lot of people have been finding it lately in the rockpools and shingle patches.’
I look at him blankly.
‘You must have heard of it,’ he says. ‘The Great Lego Spill. A cargo ship lost a container of Lego after it was hit by a rogue wave thirty years ago, and it’s still washing up on the Cornish coast and all over Loor. It’s highly sought-after. People have devoted decades of their lives to looking for it. It’s a massive deal when you find a piece. It’s essential that you post it all over social media, so people envy you.’
‘Maybe people are just finding Lego that kids have left on the beach earlier that day.’
‘Nope,’ he says. ‘This particular Lego is nautical-themed and there’s an index of all the lost pieces.’
‘What prize do I get if I find some?’ I ask, starting to get interested.
‘My gratitude,’ he says. ‘Because I’ll be stealing it from you.’
‘You can try,’ I say, already resolving to give it to him, if I do find any. ‘What are you writing?’
He looks down at his notebook.
‘Shopping list.’
This is quite obviously a lie, as he looks so uncomfortable when he says it, that his lip actually starts to twitch. I wonder if he could actually be writing a diary, or a letter. Maybe love notes.
‘Fine. Don’t tell me.’
The wind is up, blowing offshore, and spindrift is flying off the waves in rainbow sprays. If I were on Loor with a boyfriend, we’d go for a walk on the beach now, holding hands and stopping to kiss.
But instead, I’m here with Caleb. Not a silver fox, more of a silver Grinch.
‘Does this island ever feel too remote for you?’ I say, suddenly.
‘No. It’s been determined that I’m built for isolation.’
This seems like a very specific declaration.
‘And you know that how exactly?’
‘Human connection is too… messy.’
I understand this. If he doesn’t connect, he doesn’t have to be vulnerable, he doesn’t have to risk rejection. There’s method in that madness.
‘You said it like it was a fact.’
‘I was tested.’
‘You were tested to see if you could live in the wilderness?’ I say. ‘Are you mates with Bear Grylls?’
‘I’d like to be.’
‘I’m going to need some more information, Caleb.’
‘At school. We all did an aptitude test at the start of our A levels. And it gave me a result that I wasn’t expecting. A vocation.’
‘Which was…?’
‘I can’t tell you, it’s too embarrassing.’
‘You have to tell me now.’
‘Lighthouse keeper.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘I’m not; it’s true. The woman taking the test said they’d never had anybody who’d been given that answer before. She thought it must have been bad computer programming, someone mistakenly inputting shit from a seventies aptitude test.’
‘What did you do? I mean, there are no lighthouse keeper jobs now, right – it’s all automated?’
‘She made me take the test again. I changed one answer and it spat out a completely different occupation.’
‘Which was?’
‘Computer coder. I guess it was an in-joke of the person who did the programming.’
‘Are you good with computers?’ I ask.
‘Terrible.’
‘So maybe your first result should stand.’
‘I’m coming around to that idea,’ he says. ‘Living alone on an island seems to be cheering me up.’
‘Then I’ll leave you to it,’ I say. ‘Enjoy your solitude.’
*
It’s peaceful on the beach. The tide is full out, and even with all the holidaymakers dotted around the soft, dry sand, here at the water’s edge, there’s nobody except me. Ted is running into the baby waves and then running back out again before the water reaches his belly. He’s so joyful every time I bring him here that it makes me feel guilty to see him sitting in the house.
As the next wave comes in, I see something yellow swirling in the backwash. I bend down to get it and break into a grin. Just what Caleb told me I had to find.
A tiny piece of nautical-themed Lego… and not just any piece. This feels somehow significant. Here in the waves of Loor, I’ve found a lifejacket.