I bite my lip to stop myself from snorting with laughter.
The narrow road hugs the bay, along the top of the harbor covering one side of the cove. At the far end is a bright blue kiosk with a red-and-white awning. Some boys jump off the harbor wall, squealing with delight before hitting the glassy water below. On the sand-and-pebble beach, I can see a woman climbing over rocks with two toddlers, collecting shells and other treasures in bright pink buckets. The children’s skirts are tucked into their knickers to stop them getting wet. This is the Jersey I imagined.
“What a beautiful place,” I say, half whispering. “It’s like a postcard.”
“Your photo—it’s taken at low tide over there,” says Ted, nodding toward the rock pools. “And the Hungry Man kiosk up there does the best hot chocolate on the island.”
“Would you like a drink?” I ask. “Call it a thank-you for rescuing me from death by cow.”
“That isn’t necessary.” He shakes his head.
“It would be my pleasure.”
He looks across at me, scratches his beard, and then slowly moves to unbuckle his seatbelt.
At the kiosk, I order a hot chocolate for myself, on his recommendation, and a black coffee for Ted. We take a seat across from each other on one of the wooden bench tables. Ted looks about as comfortable as a cat stuck up a washing line, as though he’s never been out to coffee with anyone in his life. He was right about the hot chocolate—it’s spectacular; piled high with cream and decorated with marshmallows and Maltesers.
“So, what’s the best local cuisine, besides this hot chocolate?” I say, hugging my elbows toward me and clapping my hands together. “What else have I got to try while I’m here?”
Ted’s eyes crease into a smile, he looks amused by my enthusiasm.
“Black butter, I suppose—it’s a sort of apple jam—oysters fresh from the tide, Jersey wonders—my mother used to make them, they’re like doughnuts. You’re only supposed to fry them when the tide is going out.”
“Ooh, I love traditions like that,” I say, leaning toward him.
Ted catches my eye for a moment before quickly turning his attention to picking at a splinter of wood on the table. I start telling him about my job, the article I’m writing about my parents, the coin, and my great-grandfather who started it all. Ted listens attentively, as though he is genuinely interested.
“These photos in the album are of that first summer they spent together, falling in love. By September, they were engaged.” I feel myself beaming as I tell the story that is so familiar, it feels like my own. “When I was fifteen Mum gave the coin to me”—I show Ted the pendant around my neck—“so that I would always have their story close to me. I’ve always believed it must possess talismanic qualities—to have led my mother to the love of her life.”
Ted is watching me now, his face entirely still.
“Your dad took all these photos of her then?” he asks.
“Yes. Dad was a chef, she was a dance teacher. They worked together at the Pontins holiday resort. Mum managed to get a summer job there at the last minute, so she could stay on the island and be with him. On their evenings off, he would cook for her, and she taught him to dance beneath the stars. She tried to teach me when I was young, she’d get me dancing around the washing line as she hung up clothes, but I’m about as graceful as a panda. She always said Dad was a better student than me.” I feel myself grin. I love telling people their story. “You see this picture of her in a cave?” I say, showing Ted a photo in the album. “This is where my dad proposed. It’s at the bottom of a blowhole. Everything you say in the cave travels right up to the cliff path above. Mum said he asked her there, so that the blowhole would broadcast her saying ‘yes’ to the entire island.”
Ted’s eyes drop back to the coffee spoon and I shake my head, aware I’ve gotten carried away as usual. I reach for my phone to occupy my hands.
“Look, your cow photo already has a hundred and forty-six likes,” I say, showing him the Instagram post. He frowns in incomprehension. “So, how about you?” I ask, changing the subject. “How did you meet your wife, was it here in Jersey?”
“No, in London,” he says, glancing up at me. Perhaps he glimpses my disappointment that he hasn’t offered more, because after slowly shaking his head from side to side he adds, “I don’t live here anymore. I grew up here, but I’m only back to help my dad with something.”