‘If my mother was much younger, then possibly, but her memory’s not so good these days. And no one else will have known Nellie’s face like I did.’
‘Do you still think about her?’
He gave me a rueful flick of his eyebrows. ‘Read the letters.’
We joined the disorderly queue loading up with food. Pot sausage, it turned out, was hot-dog sausages smothered in fried onions and peppers and a smoky home-made ketchup, topped with a layer of crispy sliced potatoes and melted cheese. I helped myself to a generous spoonful and added some salad and a piece of fish, which Gabe insisted I sample due to it having been freshly caught that morning by his neighbour.
‘Come and sit with Mammaw.’ Pip was waiting at the end of the buffet to lead me to a round table positioned in the shade of the house. Richard was there, along with a couple who introduced themselves as Iris’s fiancé, Hugh’s parents, and the ninety-one-year-old grandmother.
‘Mammaw, this is Emmie, who makes the pasties,’ Pip said. ‘Remember I told you she’s here on holiday?’
‘I certainly do remember,’ she replied, her accent so strong, I had to concentrate to decipher the words. Despite her age, she appeared at least as tall as her granddaughters, with straight shoulders beneath a woollen cardigan and a determined tilt to her pointy chin. ‘But did I forget you describing what a looker she is?’
Pip winced. ‘No, I didn’t happen to mention that.’
‘You seem familiar.’ She craned forwards to where I’d gingerly sat down beside Pip. ‘Have you been to the island before?’
‘I haven’t, no.’ I glanced over to where Gabe had found a seat with his wife.
Mammaw narrowed her hooded eyelids as she stabbed at a tiny piece of fish. She didn’t look convinced.
‘Maybe you’ve seen me at Sherwood Airport, where I run my pasty kiosk? All the island flights land there.’
‘Only time I’ve left Siskin is on a boat. And that would have been long before you were born. Is she replacing that other one, then, Philip? I thought I saw her still sniffing around.’
‘Mammaw…’ If Pip slumped any lower in his chair, he’d disappear under the table. ‘Celine is only a friend. You know that.’
‘Are you sure she knows?’ Richard said in a rough voice, his eyes on the plate in front of him.
‘Emmie is here on holiday. I’ve not brought her home to meet the family.’
‘What do you call this, then?’ Mammaw tipped her chin even higher.
Pip closed his eyes briefly, then hunched over his plate, picked up his burger with both hands and took a large bite.
‘Did he warn you about this?’ Hugh’s mum, sitting on my left side, said with a humorous twinkle. ‘Don’t mind a word Aster says; she’s a born troublemaker.’
Aster carried on eating her fish, a satisfied smirk on her face.
The table chatted about this and that, whether it would rain any time soon, Lander’s cows escaping yet again, the market price of crab. It was hard not to keep searching out Gabe. My stomach was still knotted up from discovering who G was. At one point, Celine drifted over, but when no one offered her a seat, she left again. As the sun began to sink below the house, someone started strumming a guitar, and within moments, people playing a violin and bodhran had joined them. Rosemary handed Richard an accordion, and as he played, he sang a slowsea shanty, his voice blending with others to create a haunting sound that carried us away from a lovely garden bathed in late-evening sunshine to misty coves, murky depths and foam spraying against a fishing boat’s prow as it braved the wild, blue yonder.
When they upped the tempo, a few people got up and began a whirling sort of jig including plenty of kicks reminiscent of Irish dancing.
‘Aren’t you going to invite your guest to dance?’ Aster asked, her knuckles tapping out the rhythm on the tabletop.
Pip looked at me with a shy smile, his eyebrows raised in question.
‘I wouldn’t know what to do,’ I said. Even the younger children were seamlessly spinning amongst the adults, flicking their shins up in near perfect time.
‘I can lead you.’ Pip held out his hand.
The only time I ever danced in public was when Blessing dragged me onto the dance floor at the airport Christmas party. I usually lasted for about three excruciating pop classics before pretending I needed a wee.
But that was the old Emmie, who stuck to the recipes and always arrived at work on time. Who allowed a stifling combination of fear and duty to control her every move.
I wondered if the evening’s bombshells could have blown old Emmie to smithereens.
Could I do it? Could I dance? Risk making a fool of myself in front of Pip, his family and the woman determined to win his hand?
