Philly
At first, I sleep deeply after the day out in the dinghy. Must have been all that sea air – Dan and Kendra are right! But I think, too, accepting that my search for Ben is over may have something to do with it.
I surface from the depths of my sleep in the wee small hours, though, to the sound of Finn jumping on the trampoline.
I get out of bed and open the shutters. There he is, that beautiful boy in his pyjamas in the moonlight, leaping and bouncing.
Freer than he ever can be in the unforgiving light of day.
A ragged wisp of cloud half covers the face of the moon for a few moments, then dissolves, leaving the earth bathed in the soft, clear light, the moonbeams embracing the boy in a way that his loved ones cannot as he jumps and jumps.
And in watching him, I feel a sort of weightlessness too, a shared sense of freedom, of fleeting liberation from the burden of getting through each day.
The moon is beginning to wane, relinquishing its fullness one sliver at a time in the inexorable cycle of light and dark.
In its next iteration, it will be what is traditionally called a Hunter’s moon.
We’re all said to be affected by that full moon.
It’s not just werewolves that feel some primeval instinct stir deep within, there’s a wakefulness in every one of us – humans and animals alike – a restlessness making us long to prowl the earth on the nights when forests and hills are bathed in its soft glow.
But now my hunting days are over. I wonder whether I’ll sleep any better, or will that instinct to carry on seeking still keep flickering in some corner of my brain, whispering to me that I’ve been wrong to give up?
Letting go of my search has been a painful wrench, but perhaps a necessary one.
If I can only come to terms with that, then maybe I can move on in my grief.
That day in the cottage at Tangmere when they told me Ben was missing, something deep inside me became frozen.
It’s stayed that way ever since, I’ve carried it everywhere with me, that cold hard lump of loss.
I always thought searching for him would be the answer to shifting it, but now I see that in fact it was the opposite.
My obsessive searching kept the loss enshrined, cocooned it away, not allowing the light and warmth and love my family and friends have given me down the years to melt it.
Until now. Giving up, letting go, accepting I will never find him and bring him home.
It’s taken a leap of faith – a trip in a little boat, with a child who sees the world through different eyes – to help me see that.
Finn’s frankness, his raw honesty, his clarity of thought (once you understand the logic behind it) have been liberating.
We so-called normal adults dissemble, creating elaborate constructs – manners and rules and evasions – as a means of protecting ourselves and others.
Sometimes those constructs work, but sometimes they become like clouds covering the moon, obscuring the pure light of truth.
And even though the truth can be tough to face, it can also set us free.
As the first rays of daylight begin to filter into the garden, overpowering the more subtle moonlight, Finn’s jumping slows to a stop.
Then he climbs off the trampoline and marches back inside, squaring his shoulders, ready to face yet another day in this strange world in which he lives, a world so filled with anxiety and perplexity, where truth is the only certainty he has.
Dan is delighted that Finn has agreed to cycle over to Saint-Martin to watch the others sail off on their expedition to Fort Boyard. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to join us on the boat?’ he says.
‘No thank you,’ Finn replies firmly, brooking no further discussion of the matter.
‘OK. Well, maybe next year you’ll feel more like it. The sailing camp’s been such a success that the others want to come back again.’
Finn makes no reply, he just carries on methodically eating the crustless triangle of toast his father’s made for him.
‘That’s great news, Dan,’ I say, filling the silence. ‘Fantastic. Kendra will be delighted to know that when she gets back tomorrow.’
He nods, then gets to his feet, gathering up car keys and a water bottle. ‘Well, time I got off and rounded up the troops. There’s a whole long list of checks we need to do this morning before we head out. I’ll see you at the harbour.’
‘See you there,’ I echo, draining my coffee cup. ‘Come on, Finn, we’d better get moving.’
It’s a perfect day for their final sail.
We cycle along the dusty tracks, skirting around the main road to avoid the traffic, passing vineyards and orchards and fields filled with wildflowers.
As we cross through the centre of the island, I inhale the dry, spiced scent of the wild fennel growing in the verges.
Little sulphur-coloured butterflies flutter about us, disturbed by the whirling of our wheels, and the light has that mellow, golden quality you get towards the end of summer, when the days begin to shorten almost imperceptibly, a softening around the edges that comes to all of us with age.
And then the smell of the sea returns as we near the northern coastline.
Before long, we are approaching the town, crossing the bridge over the dry moat where the summer-bleached grass has been cropped close by the grazing donkeys.
Everywhere I look, I feel the sense of something ending – that feeling familiar to every schoolchild of a conclusion of the holidays and the beginning of a new term.
Only for me, I hope this new beginning will herald a final few years (or however long might be left to me) of peace.
The harbour is busy, bustling with tourists as we wheel our bikes over the cobbles to the quayside. Finn stops for a moment to remove his cycle helmet and put on his ear defenders.
‘All right?’ I ask him as I take the helmet from him and put it in the basket on the handlebars of my trike, alongside my collapsible walking stick.
He nods determinedly, although his expression is pinched, his face twitching with the onslaught of sights and sounds and smells that his brain finds it impossible to filter.
The other children are already on board the yacht, sitting in their spots marked with tape, the engine ticking over. Dan catches sight of us and waves, then calls over, ‘Do you want to cast us off?’
I point to the mooring lines for Finn’s benefit, so he’ll understand, and he unloops them from the bollards and throws the ropes to his dad.
As Iain manoeuvres the boat gingerly out of the marina, we walk to the end of the pier to give them a final wave as they slip past the lighthouse and out into the open sea.
‘Right-o, what shall we do now?’ I ask Finn. ‘Do you want to go and get an ice cream before we cycle home?’
‘I would like an ice cream,’ he says, ‘but first I’d like to cycle a bit further, to the beach past the citadel.’
I’m surprised. He’s not usually very keen on spending time on beaches, unless it’s after dark.
But I’m certainly not going to object. It’s a pleasant day and good for him to be enjoying being outdoors in the sunshine, so we mount our bikes again and cycle onwards, past the vast stone bulk of the fortress, the heavy prison gates firmly locked, to the other side of the fortifications and the stretch of sand beyond. We have the place to ourselves.
I sit on a bench above the beach, looking out across the curve of the bay to the rough, blocky rocks and the sea beyond.
Shading my eyes against the sun, I think I can just pick out the sailing camp yacht, far off in the dazzle of the water.
I tilt my head back to watch a pair of black-backed gulls as they swoop and scold against the blue of the sky, their shadows wheeling across the sand beneath them like ghostly fighter planes.
Finn wanders off to potter alongside the walls, paper and pencil in hand as he looks for more carved names to add to his collection of rubbings.
His ear defenders are still in the basket on the trike’s handlebars, but he seems OK.
‘Don’t go too far, Finn,’ I call. He waves, then turns his attention back to the stones.
I feel bone-tired suddenly – the cumulation of the unaccustomed exercise and emotion I’ve experienced over the past days, I suppose – so I lean back and close my eyes, just for a few minutes ...
I must have fallen asleep. Because the next thing I know, I’m being shaken awake rather brusquely.
‘ Madame! Madame! ’ a French voice is saying. I open my eyes to see a gendarme standing there. ‘Madame, are you responsible for that child?’ he asks. His tone is gruff with disapproval.
I look across to where he is pointing. Finn stands in front of the citadel gates, with another two policemen guarding him. Even from that distance, I can see he looks terrified. One of them reaches out to hold him by the arm and I shout, ‘Don’t touch him! Ne le touchez pas! ’
And then all hell breaks loose.