Page 123 of Take Me Away

‘Kit’s, well … I don’t know.’ I sigh deeply. One of those sighs that aches in the marrow of your bones.

Then, just like that, she gives me a simple nod and gets down to business, because this is Cornwall, Sea Salt Bay, and what we do best is to keep calm and carry the fuck on.

And I love it.

‘What can I do for you?’

‘Blackcurrants,’ I say. ‘Fresh if you have them. Frozen if you don’t. And sugar. Lots of sugar.’

Dot’s eyebrows rise slightly. ‘Maggie’s jam?’

‘I’m going to try, at least.’

She directs me to the freezer at the back. ‘Best I can do this time of year. The fresh season’s short.’

I gather what I need – sugar, fruit, a new jar of pectin, some fresh lemons. It doesn’t feel like much, this small act of making jam for Nina, but it’s something. Something real I can do with my hands that isn’t about me, that isn’t about Marcus or the industry or any of it.

When I place my items on the counter, Dot adds a small wire basket with the finest mesh I’ve ever seen.

‘For straining the fruit,’ she explains when I look confused. ‘Maggie always said cheesecloth let too much pulp through.’

‘Did you see Nina yet today?’ I ask as she rings me up.

Dot’s mouth turns down. ‘No, love. I think Tom was heading in there, and her mum has come from Truro.’

‘I thought she moved here with her parents when they retired.’

‘Aye, she did. But then it was too quiet for them, so they went into Truro, got one of those retirement apartments. Nina stayed.’

My chest aches.

‘I don’t know what to say to her.’

She shrugs. ‘No one ever does when something like this happens. You just be there.’

I nod.

Back at Salt Cottage, Maisie and I turn the kitchen into a laboratory of sticky experiments. I’d knocked for her after leaving the shop. It’s been a long time since I made jam.

It’s messier than I remember. Hotter. More physical somehow. I stir until my arm aches, adjust the heat, test for setting point. The first batch is too runny, slipping off the spoon in watery red rivulets, which make Maisie giggle. The second catches at the bottom of the pan, the burnt overtaking the sweet and making us pull faces as we try to wash away the flavour with glasses of lemon squash.

The third, though – the third feels right. Thick but not stiff, deep purple-red, tasting of sunshine and tartness and memory.

I ladle it carefully into the jars I sterilised in the oven (after a frantic internet search on proper techniques), seal them while they’re hot, watch the lids pop as they cool. Eight jars, not perfect, but made with my hands. My offering.

On a small card, I write:

This isn’t enough. Nothing would be. But every day, a jar of sweetness until the pain eases a little. You’re not alone, Nina. – Isla

I leave the basket on Nina’s doorstep that evening, six jars nestled in a tea towel, the note tucked between them. I don’t knock. Don’t wait to be seen.

Some gifts are best given quietly, without expectation.

The lane back to Salt Cottage is washed in golden evening light, the kind that turns everything it touches into honey. Sea Salt Bay spreads out below me, the sea beyond, the lighthouse standing sentinel. From here, I can make out the harbour with its fishing boats, the café with its striped awning, the pub.

I breathe in deep until my lungs are close to bursting. It’s salt. Brine.

It’s my home.