Back in the car, Ted is biting his lip, trying not to laugh.
“What?” I snap. I am nowhere close to laughing about this yet. Interviewing people is the one thing I thought I was good at. I don’t understand how that went so badly wrong. “Sorry,” I say. Ted is the last person I should be angry with.
“We just don’t see a lot of ‘fuckity fuck fuck pants’ at the community parish fetes.”
“Gah! And we were so close. He was about to offer up Maude on a plate before I cocked it up.”
I close my eyes, wondering why the universe is intent on making this so difficult. If I am destined to meet J. Le Maistre this weekend, it could just have been a very simple suitcase exchange.
“Look, don’t worry. We have a name. She’ll be easy to find now,” says Ted.
He reaches out to put a consoling hand on my shoulder. Now we’re looking at each other face-to-face, I can better see Ted’s eyes again, his facial features beyond the beard. His honey-brown irises contain flecks of gold and maybe it’s because the rest of his face is hidden, but his eyes radiate real warmth. When his hand drops from my shoulder, I feel a strange coldness, like taking off a cozy coat in a cold foyer.
“For the record, I thought your broadcast was excellent.”
A phone starts to ring. I’m so used to it being mine, I start to root in my bag, but it’s Ted’s phone that’s ringing. His eyes flash with concern as he sees the caller ID.
“Dad, what’s happened?” he asks, answering the phone with one hand, the other gripping the steering wheel. I watch him as he listens, then says, “OK, stay there, I’m on my way.”
TIGER WOMAN ON FAILURE
Tigers are expert hunters, yet only roughly one in twenty hunts ends in a kill. After an unsuccessful hunt, do tigers go home and lament how bad they are at hunting? Do they call their friends and wonder how they’ll ever eat again, because they are clearly such failures? They do not. They get back out there and try again.
Chapter 10
“Is everything OK?” I ask Ted.
“My dad had a fall.” His face has clouded over, all levity from the fete gone. He pulls the car into gear with two sharp thrusts of his elbow.
“I’m so sorry. Drop me anywhere, I don’t want to be in the way if you need to go to him.”
“The neighbor is with him, but I should go.” Ted clears his throat, then says quietly, “Dad has Parkinson’s.”
We’re driving fast now, out of the village, onto another tree-lined country road.
“Have you been looking after him?” I ask, tentatively picking up the apple peel.
“I came back to Jersey to help him move into assisted living,” Ted says, his eyes on the road. “He can’t manage on his own anymore. I’m packing up his house.”
“I’m sorry, that must be hard.” I pause before adding, “I had to pack up my mother’s house after she died and— Well, I know how difficult it can be.”
“My father isn’t dead,” Ted says sharply, then glancing across at me he shakes his head, as though shaking off his reaction. “I’m sorry. You were close to your mother.”
It sounds like a statement rather than a question, but I reply with a single nod.
“She was my best friend.” I am surprised at myself, that I have willingly brought Mum into this conversation. I would usually be too wary of the torrent of emotion, which I know flows so close beneath the surface.
“How long ago was that?” Ted asks.
“Two years,” I manage to say.
“We lost my mother to breast cancer four years ago. Dad’s managed alone since then, but now he needs more support,” says Ted.
“I’m sorry.” I can’t think of any different words to say. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. How many times have those words been said to me? Maybe we don’t have enough words to express sympathy. We have fifty ways to describe a cup of coffee, but I can only think of one way to say, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“I don’t think he minds going,” Ted says with a rueful smile. “He already has a girlfriend lined up at the place he’s chosen.”
I look across at Ted and see the muddle of emotion dancing behind his eyes as he tries to make light of something dark.
“He knows it’s time. Packing up the house is the part I’m finding difficult. My dad was born in that house, and Mum didn’t like to throw anything away. She was a hoarder, I suppose. Is it bad that I just want to bonfire the lot of it?”