She laughs. “I forgot. Nothing is ever out of season in London.” A small, wistful look comes into her face.
“How well do you know London?”
“I used to live in Camberwell until four years ago. Gosh, it feels like ages, I’m already so used to how things work here. The Seigneur is determined to keep La Canette carbon-neutral so very little is imported. If it’s not in season, we don’t have it.”
“Isn’t the Seigneur your husband?”
“Yes, but this bylaw has been in place since his father’s reign.”
I look at her with fresh eyes. She’s basically the wife of the island’s governor, one day he’ll be a lord. Yet she’s dressed like an ordinary housewife in a loose, wool dress over knitted leggings and Wellies.
My mind flashes back to Clive’s wife. Viv wouldn’t be found dead in leggings or wellingtons. Come to think of it, until three months ago, I’d never be found dead in leggings and wellingtons.
“You can find kitchenware at Quinn’s, but he’s always closed on Wednesday.”
“Why Wednesdays? Is it an island thing?”
“No. He just doesn’t open on Wednesday. Different shops pick a day they want to close. You get to know after a while.”
“I imagine walking three miles only to find the shop closed is a good incentive to learn.”
A few minutes ago, this would have been more reason to hate the island, but somehow, seen through Millie’s eyes, it seems reasonable and a little endearing.
She’s cut my shopping trip by ninety percent, there’s only the berries question. I pull out the envelope from my pocket. “I was hoping to talk to the vegetable shop about these.” I empty a few into my palm.
“Hawthorn.” She touches one red ball with her fingertip.
“Do you know much about wild berries?”
“A bit. I’m actually a horticulturalist by training.”
Well, that’s a lot better than the greengrocer. I hand her the envelope. And we set off on another lane out of the village.
Millie, who is much more sure-footed on the cobbles than me, walks while checking inside the envelope. She examines the berries with so much fascination, they might be gemstones. “Guelder rose.” She picks up a few of the little red ones. “Where did you find these?”
“At the back of the garden. There is an impenetrable jungle of them.”
“They are incredible. I knew there must be more guelder roses on the island, but I couldn’t find any except on the headland.” Suddenly, she stops walking and looks at me. “You haven’t eaten any, have you?”
“No, Brandon stopped me in case they were poisonous.”
“They are, especially when raw. They won’t kill you but will not be…” She pauses. “They’ll cause you to miscarry.”
Instinctively, my hand goes to my stomach, and I feel a rush of protective anxiety. We continue walking out of the village and among the fields now. Farms surrounded by rich gold and russet coloured beach trees.
“When are you due?” Millie asks.
“Third week of May, if the doctor at the mother and baby clinic is right.”
“Oh, Adam, yes, you’ll be in good hands with him.”
To hide my guilt, because she’s being lovely and caring while I’m being economical with the truth, I ask, “What about you?”
“Late January.”
“That soon?”
“Not soon enough. My ankles are swollen, none of my shoes fit, and don’t even ask me about sleeping. I have to pile cushions around me, against my back, under my belly, between my knees.”
