“I want to find out about my Jersey family too,” I say, ignoring her reservations. “I sent Aunt Monica a postcard, to ask if she’d meet me while I’m here.”
My dad’s “Mad Aunt Monica” is one of the few living relatives I’m aware of. I’m not in touch with anyone else in Dad’s family, but Monica sends an illegible Christmas card every year. If she responds to my card in time, I’m hoping I can meet her. She might remember stories I haven’t heard or have photos she could share.
“I should have come before,” I tell Gran, “but you know how funny Mum always was about Dad’s family.”
“Your great-aunt Monica is mad as a bandicoot, I wouldn’t rely on her to remember anything accurately,” Gran says, clearing her throat.
“What about Bad Granny, do we even know if she’s still alive?” I ask, smiling at the nickname Mum had for her mother-in-law. Apparently, they had some “big falling-out” after Dad’s funeral, and Dad’s mum, Sue, cut off all contact.
“You shouldn’t call her that,” Gran says sternly. “She and your mother might not have seen eye-to-eye, but she buried her son and her mother within a few months of each other. That would take its toll on anyone.” Gran goes quiet on the line. Then in a small, worried voice she says, “I wish you’d told me you were planning on going there, Laura. It was complicated, your mother’s relationship with your father’s family. Grief can make people behave in peculiar ways.”
Gran’s tone takes me by surprise. I thought she’d be excited to hear about my Jersey adventure, that she would be pleased I’m doing something positive.
“I didn’t know I was coming myself until two days ago,” I say defensively. “And I doubt I’ll even get a chance to see Aunt Monica. She might not get my postcard in time, and I’m flying back on Sunday night. You don’t have any contact details, do you, besides her address? I couldn’t find a phone number or an email address.”
“I’m afraid not. Well, you just try to enjoy having a change of scene,” Gran says, her voice back to its normal volume. “Did you take David with you?”
“Oh. No.” I should never have introduced David to Gran; we were only together for a total of four months, it was too soon. “David and I broke up.” I’ve been avoiding telling her this for three weeks.
“Oh, Laura, no! Why? I liked David. He had such lovely clean nails.”
Trust Gran to notice these things.
“Um. Yes, I liked him too.” I glance at the driver, to see if he looks to be listening to my conversation; he doesn’t. “It didn’t feel like what Mum and Dad had. We didn’t have enough in common. I don’t think he was my person, Gran.”
“Laura! This yardstick you’re using . . .” She trails off. “I think your mother painted you a rather rosy picture of life with your father, but it was not perfect by any means. You shouldn’t use her relationship as a benchmark for potential suitors.”
I smile at Gran’s old-fashioned idea of “suitors,” as though there’s a line of men wearing Regency fashion waiting to mark my dance card.
“Maybe she ruined my chance for happiness by setting the bar so high.” I’m teasing her now, but Gran doesn’t laugh.
“Look, I want to talk about all this properly, Laura, but Pam’s just arrived with more wood glue so I’m going to have to call you back.”
Gran and her friend Pam make miniature architectural models out of matchsticks. They spend months on each creation and, despite my concerns about it being a fire hazard, her bungalow is stuffed full of them.
“OK, happy gluing—love to Pam,” I say, hanging up the call.
Gran has always kept herself busy, as though perpetual motion might help her elude feeling sad. We do talk about Mum, but Gran’s of a generation who sees grief as a wound to be licked in private. One weekend when I wouldn’t get out of bed, she accused me of being a “Wallowing Wendy.” I called her a “Forget-About-It Fiona” and a “Move-Along Mandy,” and then we both started laughing and crying at the same time. I got up and that was the end of the conversation. That’s how it goes with Gran sometimes. Her own husband, a grandad I’ve never met, walked out when Mum was five, so I think Gran got used to taking care of herself.
My gaze drifts out of the window. Though it’s getting dark, I can still see some kind of castle or fortress in the sea to my left. I glance back at the cabdriver, whose eyes are still firmly on the road. What a strange job being a cabbie must be, listening to hundreds of one-sided phone conversations, being privy to snapshots of people’s unfiltered lives.