Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The following day, Felicity drove slowly round the island in her hire car – with a maximum 30mph limit everywhere, even 20mph in some places, slow was really the only option. It was restful, mostly, unless you encountered a local coming the other way on one of the tiny roads. They really did not like tourists. Not one bit. And when they spotted her telltale number plate most of them seemed to speed up towards her instead of slowing down. Several of them had already attempted to barge their way through a 10cm gap between her tiny hire car and the low drystone walls they seemed to love so much. She’d already lost two wing mirrors and a headlight.
Still, in between all the low-speed crashes and minor road rage incidents, trundling along at that slower pace had allowed her to get her bearings and marvel at the strange Franco-English beauty of the place. Her memories of the island were so hazy but this was properly like stepping back in time. You could almost imagine horses and carriages trip-trapping along amongst the houses, except for the fact that, despite the low speed limit and narrow wobbly stone-lined lanes, every other car seemed to be a Ferrari or some other kind of sports car. Rich people are peculiar .
She had already made a mental note to visit the neighbouring island of Sark, where cars are banned completely and only horses and carriages, and tractors and bikes, are permitted. Or Herm, a tiny island with the most incredible sandy beaches, according to the sexy Irish barman, where there are barely any vehicles at all. Do they still hate tourists?
Felicity bought herself a crab sandwich and a portion of chips and drove to Jerbourg point, the most southerly and easterly point of the whole island. On a clear day you could see both Herm and Sark from here, but she mostly just looked at the sea. Two hours, just staring out at the Channel. Watching the birds wheel overhead and listening to the sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs below. It was a kind of healing and a grasping, trying to get hold of something, memories perhaps, that were just out of reach. Somehow in the middle of all the staring, she was crying again. Who even knew where the tears were coming from at this point? But the whole place had made her so nostalgic for a sense of home or family, in a way she just hadn’t expected. Deep down inside her, her heart ached.
And it wasn’t over yet. There was one part of the island she had avoided, even though she knew it was also the one place she really needed to be. She had told herself that Saturday was the day.
When it was time for bed that night, Felicity felt as though she’d run an actual marathon, she was so emotionally drained.
And that was supposed to be me easing into this gently.
Supremely grateful to be back in the safe, warm cocoon of her hotel room at last, she had caved and texted James.
Hey, Mr Penguin Man, play a song for me x
Silence.
Hmmm. Should she risk it and call him? Felicity had a mortal fear of speaking to people on the phone but, like a tax return or jury service, she knew it was something that occasionally had to be done. What if he didn’t answer though? That would be mortifying . Had she messed it up completely with him this time? She was still confused and reeling from the brush-off he’d given her at the weekend. She’d spent the remainder of the journey here trying to work it out, making her brain ache from the effort. It had been a long time since she’d dated anyone but surely things hadn’t changed that much. He had liked her, surely? He still liked her. She was (almost) sure of it.
So, if it wasn’t that, then what? What could have possibly happened in less than twenty-four hours to change things so utterly? She knew it was a risk, going away like this, right at this moment, but if he really liked her then maybe whatever was going on at his end would have sorted itself out by then too. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Doesn’t it?
And then there was Adam of course. The cheating bastard. Three years of guilt and shame, for nothing. She felt robbed. Like he’d taken her prime years away from her.
The thought of Adam and the daylight robbery of her best years made her feel so wretched she got up off the bed and paced around the room. Her window overlooked the hotel’s courtyard and, although it had been dark for hours already, they had strung fairy lights from every tree, so it looked like a miniature Tivoli Gardens. Or so she imagined anyway. In her adult life Felicity had never been further than Nottingham (before now of course) but she did a lot of travelling in her head. A lot of googling and a whole lot of reading the Lonely Planet guides. Copenhagen was definitely on her list.
Just then, her phone made a kind of mechanical squeaking noise. James was replying. There they were – oh joy – the three dots! He was typing a reply. He was taking his time about it though.
Felicity eventually got fed up with staring at the screen, and wandered through to the bathroom to run a bath, flicking on the kettle on the way through. Her eyes felt bruised and swollen from all the crying she’d been doing. Very attractive. She splashed cold water on her face without looking in the mirror and went back through to the main room in time to pop a tea bag in the mug and pour the water in just after it boiled, a small but satisfying moment. Finally, her phone buzzed again.
I’m only moderately sleepy and it’s not like there’s any place I’m going to… fa la la… x
We missed you at work today. Holly and Gennie are missing you too. Andrea is… well, Andrea x
Hurray! A reply. But how did that take him so long to type? And also, he was at the centre? He wasn’t meant to be. Felicity felt a twinge of anguish at missing a day spent with him, then remembered she was meant to still be mad at him for standing her up. She was all too aware that he had yet to explain.
Felicity (play it cool, she told herself):
Aw, love them so much. How’s Sophie getting on?
She’s no Felicity. A bit chaotic. But she’s getting on okay. How are you doing?
Just taking some time away, be back soon xx
Two kisses this time. Not that cool then.
Andrea said you were. I think that’s great. You so deserve it. Where are you staying? xx
Felicity (after a pause to consider):
It’s a secret! By which I mean, I’m having an adventure! I’ll tell you all about it when I’m back xx
How mysterious. Okay, I’m counting on it. I need to explain a few things. Sleep tight x
She smiled at the sign-off, but still couldn’t help worrying that something had changed between them. Having started the conversation, she somehow wished she hadn’t as now she just wanted to see his kind face and be in the room with him and tell him what this ‘adventure’ of hers was really all about. No amount of messaging could really cover it. If her tear-swollen eyes didn’t look like two tiny pinholes poked in a marshmallow, she’d be resorting to FaceTime right about now.
Her phone buzzed again.
Adam: Hey. I went to your work, but they said you’d gone away. Hope all okay. Please call me when you can, A xx
Ugh , thought Felicity. Bloody cheating bastard .
And then she felt guilty. Again. Before he was a bloody cheating bastard, Adam had been the person who got her through some of her darkest days.
She pulled the plug on the bath without using it and climbed straight into bed, her mind awash with so many conflicting emotions. Despite the exhaustion she could feel in her bones, despite the sea air and the long walks, despite the squishy, squashy pillows, and the cosy downy duvet, sleep was a long time coming that night.
Saturday arrived before she was quite ready.
Still, she told herself over the enormous indulgent breakfast, she had come all this way. Might as well see this thing through.
Le Manoir was, as the name suggests, an imposing Georgian manor at the end of a long, curving driveway. It was situated in the St Peter’s (proper Guernsey name, Saint Pierre du Bois) parish on the west coast of the island, just a few hundred metres back from the coast road.
Even from her viewpoint through the property’s high iron gates, Felicity could see it had fallen into disrepair. The striking white walls were no longer pristine. There were broken panes of glass in the lower windows and crumbling plaster just below the roof, which was missing some tiles. In the expansive garden there were huge ancient trees that looked to be surviving, except for one solitary oak just to the right of the building that had clearly been hit by lightning and was cracked and shattered right through its middle.
‘Hello, my dear,’ said a friendly voice with a French lilt.
Felicity started and turned to find an elderly lady in a roll-neck jumper and walking boots standing beside her.
‘Good morning,’ she said, trying to look as if she hadn’t just been contemplating the crime of trespass.
‘Such a shame, no?’ said the stranger, nodding her head towards the house. ‘It so desperately needs someone to love it.’ (She pronounced it ‘eeet’, of course, very elegantly.)
Felicity nodded, her heart thumping.
‘Do you know who owns it?’ she said, cautiously.
The lady made a Gallic gesture of dismissal.
‘It is still owned by the bank, I think,’ she said, with a dramatic shrug of the shoulders. ‘The family left, oh, perhaps twenty years ago. Maybe more.’
Felicity flushed. ‘Do you know why?’ she said, feeling her voice catch in her throat. She held her breath.
‘ Non , I am sorry,’ said the woman. ‘I only came to the island a few years ago. But my husband might, he was born here. Would you like me to ask him?’
‘Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly trouble you, but thank you,’ replied Felicity.
The woman regarded her for a moment.
‘That’s fine, my dear, of course. Well, don’t tell anyone I said this, but you can probably go in if you like. No one will stop you.’ She waved her arms again in the direction of the gates and turned to go.
‘Thank you!’ said Felicity, feeling an irrational desire to beg her to stay.
Don’t leave me alone with The House.
But the older lady had already waved her hand in farewell and was trotting along the road away from Le Manoir at a surprising lick.
Felicity turned back towards the entrance. Did she dare go in? Was it really allowed? She peered around her as if the police might be lurking nearby. If they even need police on Guernsey. Now that she thought about it, she hadn’t seen any beyond the one solitary individual at the airport. Maybe he was the only one for the whole island, which would make the odds of her getting caught, well, pretty low.
Felicity walked up and put her hand on the cold iron gate. It opened easily under her hand, but she wasn’t sure if that was good news or bad. With a deep breath, she slipped between them and began a slow walk along the driveway.
Up close, it was a mess. What had appeared as gleaming white walls from the pathway were really cracked and crumbling in more than a few places, and lumps of broken plaster and tiles littered the gravel sweep in front of the door.
Her chest felt squeezed with pain even though she had so few memories of how it had once looked on the outside. She’d never really seen any photographs and it was hard to believe this was the place she spent her early childhood. The place she lived when all had been well with the world. Virtually impossible, really, to believe it had ever belonged to her family.
The large Georgian front door was covered in badly faded and peeling pink paint, and as she ran her hand over it gently a memory stirred. A red front door had been her mother’s dream. A cherry red front door, in fact, bright and glossy. Suddenly she could see them as if they were right in front of her, like a still from a home movie, frozen in time. Dad, paintbrush in hand, kneeling on the cold stone doorstep. Mum, standing over him, hands on hips, face angry. It wasn’t a happy scene, as such, but Felicity smiled with joy.
We looked just like a normal family. Who knew?
She could remember it all now. Her mum had been blathering on at her dad about the front door, over and over again, until he had finally relented and painted it for her one weekend, getting more on the surrounding stonework than he did on the door. Then her mother had been beside herself with fury that he hadn’t bothered to pay for a professional. And her father, in turn, was so cross at the suggestion that he was incompetent that even more paint went in all the wrong places.
Felicity ran a hand thoughtfully down the door frame, where a hint of red still remained. She pushed on the door, wondering if it would swing open like something out of a spooky gothic horror novel but no, no give at all, and no joy when she turned the grubby brass handle. Instead, she walked a circuit of the house on the outside, peering into the windows as she went. Perhaps it was just her imagination, but there was an air of foreboding lingering around the place somehow, as if Mrs Danvers might appear around the next bend at any moment, scowling.
From what she could make out through the grubby glass, it was in an equally sorry state inside. There were leaves all over the wooden flooring and bits of broken furniture could be seen in every room, where there was furniture at all. Nothing, really, that would indicate it had ever been loved. And yet she supposed her mother and father must have loved it, once. Surely, her father must have been pleased to inherit such an incredible place. She could almost imagine them crossing the threshold for the first time with such excitement, such hope for the future. Back when they were happy. Back when they could tolerate each other.
She walked past what must have been the dining room, and on impulse pressed her face to the glass and tried to remember what their dinners had been like, when they were all together. But all she could remember was that Christmas. That dinner. That awful, awful black day. She shook her head hard as if to shake the memory out. It had no place here. It belonged to a different time.
The house today was so peaceful. Felicity gave a deep sigh, closed her eyes and turned her face to the weak January sun. And as she waited, feeling a hint of warmth on her face, something else stirred. She only had a collection of impressions, nothing concrete, but she could sense a more definite image, lurking nearby, just out of her reach, like a dream that fades on waking. Felicity knew better than to try to grab it. Knew that would make it vanish altogether. Instead, she took a breath and tried to relax, to let more of the memory come. A tiny thread of it was just taking shape when a forceful voice cut through her thoughts and she was jolted back to the present.
‘Ah, there you are, my dear.’
The old woman was marching towards her up the drive with unnerving speed, waving her arms. Felicity gave a weak smile. At least now there would be two of them to get caught by the police.
‘My dear, my dear – phew,’ said the woman, stopping to catch her breath and clutching at Felicity’s sleeve. ‘My dear, I asked my husband, and he found something for you.’
‘Oh honestly, you didn’t have to do that,’ said Felicity, although she was intrigued immediately, of course.
The woman waved away her protestations.
‘I knew he’d know more about this place,’ she said, pointing at the house with an elegant finger. Felicity’s face flushed with heat. ‘But, well, when he gave me this, I honestly couldn’t believe it! Look who it is!’
‘Who?’ said Felicity, the possibilities whirling around her head.
‘ C’est vous !’ said the woman, thrusting a newspaper clipping into Felicity’s hands. ‘It’s you!’