Page 100 of One Summer

Goodithea recalls a childhood of parasols and Edwardian dresses, but apart from the fashion, she says it wasn’t much different. The haves and the have-nots were still divided on the island. She tells us how she worked as a dressmaker and made the most exquisite gowns and suits, and she wore a hat wherever she went. She’s still never without a hat now, although these days, they’re beanies in bright colours knitted by her sister, who knows just how she likes them.

Goodithea’s voice is high and surprisingly loud as she talks, but when she’s finished, she falls into her customary deep silence. All the memories she has from over a century of living seem to lie heavy within her. She is still herself at all her younger ages, like Russian dolls within – Goodithea at age ten, pigtails and freckles. At age twenty, with a printed blouse and a stare that could strip wallpaper. At thirty, like Greta Garbo, in all her glamour and glory. At forty, her hair greying at the temples but without a wrinkle on her face. She’s each one of those women and girls, and all the ones who came after. All of them still live within her.

Radigon talks about how when received her centenary letter from the queen, her late husband drew curling mustachios on it, to make her laugh, as they were both republicans who supported the abolition of the monarchy. She was initially annoyed about this graffiti but framed it anyway, and now it makes her smile every time she sees it, and makes her miss him all the more.

A huge clap of thunder erupts right over the island.

‘Fucking HELL,’ Betty says, looking scared.

‘Well, you know what they say,’ Goodithea says, sitting up, an unmistakeable twinkle in her eye. ‘A fuck in hell is better than a wank in heaven.’

Radigon considers this. ‘It depends,’ she says, meditatively, ‘on the quality of the fuck.’

‘Aunties,’ Caleb gasps, in horror. ‘You can’t say stuff like that.’

‘Whyever not?’ Radigon sounds genuinely curious.

‘Because you’ll shock Lindy.’

‘All the more reason,’ Goodithea says, proudly. ‘The girl needs a good shocking, by the looks of her.’

‘Where did you even hear that phrase?’ I ask, laughing.

Maud clears her throat guiltily. ‘That might have been my bad.’

*

The wind doesn’t drop all night, and we settle down on cushions on the floor, all of us huddled together as if we’re at a very weird sleepover.

Caleb and some of the other men discuss taking inventory of the damage to the island, as soon as the wind drops a little, and making sure nobody’s in trouble.

Maud explains that the tourists will sensibly stay indoors because of the weather warning, but the hardcore Loor Loons – who don’t do anything that ‘Big Government’ advises – will do whatever they take it into their heads to do. Adeliza explains to us how in the middle of the coronavirus pandemic, when the whole country was limited to one walk a day, Loor residents averaged two, because it seemed safe enough with a winter population of 138 people spread out over an entire island.

‘You rebels,’ I say, smiling.

Eighty-One

Strings

When I wake a few hours later and am tiptoeing to the loo so as not to disturb any light sleepers, I see Goodithea resting in her chair, her eyes slightly open, as usual. Except this time, she’s not actually asleep.

‘He’s for you,’ Goodithea says, in her clear, high voice.

‘Pardon?’ I say, wondering if she could be sleep talking.

‘And you are for him. I knew. As soon as I saw you together, I knew, you see, because of the strings.’

I stare at her. She’s not sleep talking, she’s wide awake. Her blue eyes are fully open now, bright in a sea of wrinkles.

‘The strings tie you together,’ she says. ‘I see them. So does Radigon.’

I can’t take another step. I can’t talk. All I can do is hold her gaze, until she closes her eyes, lays her head on the wing of her chair and rests.

*

When we wake in the morning, the worst of the storm is over.

I look over at Caleb, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

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