‘Yes. We have the history festival earlier in the year, but this is our first crack at general fiction and poetry.’
‘Have you always lived in Alderney?’
‘Absolutely. It’s a wonderful place. I hope you’re going to find time to explore. You can’t miss Gannet Rock, and there are some lovely walks. We have a house at Les Rochers.’
‘We?’
‘My husband, Colin. Plus three children, although two of them are away at boarding school. Actually, you’ll meet Colin tomorrow. He’s agreed to interview you and Mr Hawthorne.’ I already knew this from the programme. ‘I had to twist his arm,’ she went on. ‘He would have preferred to do George Elkin.’
I wasn’t sure how to take this so I smiled and said: ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Of course.’
‘What does “Ban Nab” mean?’ Her face fell and she seemed unwilling to answer. ‘It’s just that I saw it on a couple of signs …’ I tried to make light of it.
She fumbled with her pearl necklace, at the same time giving me a nervous smile. ‘I rather hoped you wouldn’t notice. It’s actually quite upsetting. Alderney is normally such a close community, but I’m afraid this has completely divided us.’
I waited for her to go on. She did so reluctantly.
‘NAB stands for Normandy-Alderney-Britain. A company called Électricité du Nord is planning to build an electric power line to connect France and the UK and they want to route it through Alderney. It will actually benefit the island in lots of different ways. Cheaper electricity, cheaper internet and a payment of £60,000 a year, but naturally there are some people who’ve decided it’s a bad idea and they’ve been demonstrating against it.’
‘Why?’
She sighed. ‘This is rather difficult for me, Anthony,’ she explained. ‘Colin happens to be the head of the NAB committee that’s been deciding on the issue and so he’s very much at the centre of things. He’s a barrister and he’s also a member of the States, which is what we call the island’s parliament, so he was a natural choice. But it has rather put our heads above the parapet.’
‘And he’s for it?’
‘There was a vote and although it wasn’t unanimous, the committee recommended that we go ahead.’
‘So what is it that people don’t like?’
‘Well, there are some issues.’ Judith Matheson glanced around her as if afraid of being overheard. ‘There will be some local disruption and there are questions over which route the line will take. Generally speaking, people in Alderney are hostile to change.’ As she spoke, she had been looking past my shoulder in the direction of the balcony and suddenly she beamed. ‘Oh, look! Mrs Lovell and her husband are sitting in the sunshine. Why don’t you let me introduce you? She’s a remarkable woman.’
It was obvious that Judith had grabbed the moment to change the conversation, but before I knew it, I found myself being ushered outside.
The terrace ran the full length of the hotel with really lovely views. There was a stretch of wild grass, then a sandy beach curving round in a bay and, on the other side, a rocky hillside with another ancient fort holding its own against an enemy that had never actually bothered to arrive. The only invaders were the clouds, a puffy armada floating across an otherwise blue sky.
Elizabeth Lovell and her husband were finishing their lunch at a table about halfway along. Elizabeth had her back to the sea, but then she had no interest in the view: her round black glasses spoke for themselves and in the loudest possible way, making it difficult to focus on any other part of her face, which was perhaps just as well. She did not look healthy, with pale skin, sunken cheeks, grey lips. Her black hair was tightly permed. Despite the warm weather, she was wearing a long-sleeved dress and a shawl. Her husband – in polo shirt and baggy cotton trousers – was small, plump and bald and was drinking a glass of wine. She had ordered soup. He had been eating lobster. The broken shell and claws were all around him.
‘Hello, Elizabeth. Have you had a good lunch?’ Judith had regained her good cheer.
‘Lovely, thank you.’ Elizabeth turned towards us, craning her neck awkwardly. Her words sounded strangled, as if they were trapped in her throat.
‘I’m with Anthony. He’s just arrived with the other writers.’
‘Dark hair, untidy, going grey. Jewish. Late fifties. Didn’t shave this morning. Short-sleeved shirt, linen trousers … crumpled. Doesn’t look too pleased to be here.’ This not entirely flattering portrait of me was rattled out at speed and without emotion by her husband. ‘Hope you don’t mind,’ he went on. ‘Liz likes to know who she’s talking to.’
How could I be offended? ‘It’s nice to meet you,’ I said.
But it wasn’t. I don’t believe in ghosts. I don’t believe in an afterlife. And it’s always been my feeling that anyone who calls themselves a professional medium can only be exploiting the all-too-real sadness of people who have suffered a loss. I once had dinner in an expensive restaurant with an actor whose wife was supposedly psychic. She insisted that my mother, who had been dead for thirty years, was standing next to me and continued to pass across messages from her. My mother was happy. She hoped I was happy too. It quite put me off my fish pie.
I didn’t say any of this to her, of course. Instead, I asked her, ‘When did you arrive?’
‘Yesterday,’ Elizabeth said.
‘Flew from St Helier,’ her husband added. ‘Via Southampton and Guernsey. Took half the day. The ferry’s no better.’
‘Well, we’re delighted you’re here,’ Judith said. ‘Have you got everything you need?’
‘Top-notch.’ Sid picked up a lobster leg, gripped it between his teeth and sucked out the meat. ‘Will you join us, Anthony?’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ I said, ‘but I’ve just got off the plane. I’m sure we’ll see each other later.’
Why did I say that? Why is it that whenever I meet someone who has lost their sight, I’m unfailingly clumsy? Elizabeth didn’t seem to notice. Her husband poked around for another piece of flesh. She ate her soup. I nodded at Judith and left.
Judith came back with me to the reception area. By now all the other writers had taken their keys and mine was the only one remaining.
‘I’ll see you at four thirty,’ she said. ‘And then afterwards at The Divers Inn. Call me if there’s anything you need.’
I took my key and my suitcase and went up to the second floor. The rooms at the hotel had been given various designations – Platinum, Silver, Premium and so on. I noticed from the card that had been given to me with the key that mine was simply a Guest Room. It was small, with two single beds, two chairs, two pictures of Braye and, disappointingly, a view over the car park. But it was comfortable enough and I would only be here for two nights.
I unpacked and took out my laptop but I was too tired to work. It had been a long day and I’d had to get up early to meet Hawthorne at Waterloo. I had a book to read but in the end I dozed off, stretched out on the bed.
I was woken by a loud banging on the door. As I opened my eyes and stumbled to my feet, slightly ashamed to be found asleep in the middle of the afternoon, I realised that it was not actually my door but the one belonging to the neighbouring room. It opened and closed again.
Almost at once, an argument began on the other side of the wall. Some of the words were indistinct, but as the two people raised their voices I was able to hear whole sentences.
‘Why didn’t you tell me he’d be here?’
‘I’m sorry, Marc. I didn’t know.’