Hello from the Gillespies

Monica McInerney is the author of the internationally bestselling novels
A Taste for It
,
Upside Down Inside Out
,
Spin the Bottle
,
The Alphabet Sisters
,
Family Baggage
,
Those Faraday Girls
,
At Home with the Templetons
,
Lola’s Secret
,
The House of Memories
 and a short story collection, 
All Together Now
.
Those Faraday Girls
was the winner of the General Fiction Book of the Year prize at the 2008 Australian Book Industry Awards. In 2006 Monica was the ambassador for the Australian Government initiative Books Alive, with her novella
Odd One Out
. Monica grew up in a family of seven children in the Clare Valley of South Australia and has been living between Australia and Ireland for more than twenty years. She and her Irish husband currently live in Dublin.

For further information go to
monicamcinerney.com
or connect with Monica on Facebook and Twitter.

A Taste for It

Upside Down Inside Out

Spin the Bottle

The Alphabet Sisters

Family Baggage

Those Faraday Girls

All Together Now

At Home with the Templetons

Lola’s Secret

The House of Memories

‘One of those rare books you could recommend to anyone and know that they’ll love it.’

A
USTRALIAN
W
OMEN’S
W
EEKLY

‘A modern masterpiece . . . a wonderful, bittersweet tale that will capture your heart and imagination.’

U
LSTER
T
ATLER
, I
RELAND

‘McInerney’s bewitching multigenerational saga lavishly and lovingly explores the resiliency and fragility of family bonds.’

B
OOKLIST
, USA

‘A beautifully told story with real emotional depth. Another triumph for Monica McInerney and another great story for her readers.’

I
RISH
I
NDEPENDENT

‘Effervescent . . . overflows with good humour and laughter.’

S
YDNEY
M
ORNING
H
ERALD

‘A big book about a big-hearted family . . . an affectionate, funny, teary book about grief, love, lies and revelations.’

S
UNDAY
A
GE

‘If you need more proof what a superior storyteller this South Australian-raised author is, here it is.’

W
EST
A
USTRALIAN

‘McInerney brings humor and insight to issues of sibling rivalry, family secrecy and romantic betrayal.’

B
OSTON
G
LOBE

‘A heartwarming, romantic and funny story about love, family and relationships.’

I
RISH
I
NDEPENDENT

‘McInerney brings Maeve Binchy readily to mind.’

S
YDNEY
M
ORNING
H
ERALD

‘This is comfort reading – warm buttered toast with Irish honey spread right to the crusts.’

T
HE
A
DVERTISER

‘An exquisite novel, which combines well-crafted characters with a captivating story . . . McInerney’s latest offering is guaranteed to enthral her legions of adoring fans.’

U
LSTER
T
ATLER
, I
RELAND

‘Will have you reaching for the tissue box. This will keep Monica’s longtime fans happy, and make her many new ones.’

W
OMAN’S
D
AY

‘You’ll be laughing out loud one minute and crying the next.’

C
OSMOPOLITAN

‘A charming and exciting family drama, full of surprises.’

E
VENING
H
ERALD
, I
RELAND

In memory of a wonderful woman,
Dympna Dolan of Tatestown, County Meath, Ireland

It was December the first. Angela Gillespie did as she’d done on that date for the past thirty-three years. She sat down at her desk before dinner and prepared to write her annual Christmas letter.

After doing so many, she had the process down to a fine art. It was a matter of leafing through her diary to recall the year’s main events, writing an update about each member of the family – herself, her husband and their four children – attaching a photo or two, then sending it off.

She’d written her first Christmas letter the same year she was married. Transformed from single traveller Angela Richardson of Forest Hill, London to newlywed Mrs Nick Gillespie of Errigal, a sheep station in outback South Australia, she couldn’t have been further from her old life, in distance or lifestyle. She’d decided an annual letter was the best way of keeping in contact with her friends and relatives back home. As the years passed, she’d added Nick’s relatives, their neighbours and her new Australian friends to the mailing list. It now went to more than a hundred people worldwide.

Her early letters had been in traditional form, typed on an old typewriter on their big kitchen table, then taken into Hawker, the nearest town (almost an hour’s drive away), photocopied and posted. It was much easier these days, the letters sent instantly via the wonder of email. Even so, she still printed out paper copies and kept them stored in the filing cabinet beside the desk.

She knew the children found the whole idea mortifying – they, and Nick, had stopped reading the letters long ago – but perhaps in years to come they might like to see them. Angela hoped so. She secretly thought of them as historical documents. All the facts of their lives were there, after all, recorded in brief dispatches. She’d read back through them all only recently.

She’d written about her first years of marriage:
Nick and I couldn’t be happier! I am loving my new life on the land too. I can now name five species of native birds by their calls alone, four varieties of gum trees by their bark, and last week I drove a tractor for the first time. There’s hope for this London-born city girl yet!
She wrote about the arrival of the twins less than a year after their wedding day:
We already knew it would be twins, but it was still an incredible surprise to see two of them. One is so dark, the other so fair, and both so beautiful. We’re naming them after my grandmothers, Victoria and Genevieve
. Three years later, she wrote about Lindy’s arrival:
A third girl! Another beautiful brunette. The twins can’t wait to get their hands on their new little playmate. I get to name her too. (Nick and I struck a deal on our wedding night – I name any girls, he names any boys.) I’ve chosen my favourite name from Shakespeare – Rosalind. The twins are already calling her Lindy!
The next two decades of updates were about outback station life, family holidays, academic results, hobbies, pets and funny incidents involving the girls, each report chatty and cheery.

Eleven years ago, she’d included a piece of news that she suspected had shocked her readers as much as it had her. At the age of forty-four, she was pregnant again. She’d thought she was menopausal. Instead she’d discovered she was almost five months pregnant when a routine visit to the doctor led to an unexpected pregnancy test and an even more unexpected result. Two days after the birth, breaking with tradition, she’d sent out a special mid-year email to everyone on her mailing list.
It’s a boy!!! Our first son!!! Nick gets to name one at last!!!!

She’d used far too many exclamation marks, she noticed afterwards. Post-birth endorphins at work, she presumed. Either that or delayed shock at the names Nick had chosen for their son. At her hospital bedside, he’d confessed he promised his long-deceased and sentimental grandfather that he would name any future son after the first Gillespies – two male cousins – to come from Ireland to Australia in the 1880s. Which was why their fourth (and definitely final) child was baptised Ignatius Sean Aloysius Joseph Gillespie. One of Nick’s friends had been very amused. ‘He’ll either be the first Australian pope or end up running a New York speakeasy.’

At first Angela tried to insist everyone call him Ignatius, but it was a losing battle. She’d long realised that the shortening of names was a national pastime in Australia. He was Iggy within a day of his baptism. A week later, even that was shortened. He’d been called Ig ever since.

She could hear his voice now, floating down the hall from the kitchen. The homestead was big, with six bedrooms, two living rooms and a high-ceilinged dining room, all linked by the long hall, but sound still carried well. Ig and Lindy were playing – attempting to play – a game of Scrabble before dinner. Angela could also hear the faint strains of Irish music coming from the dining room. She knew Nick was in there working on his family research. Over the past six months, the large polished dining table had slowly become covered in stacks of hardback books on aspects of Australian and Irish history. Not just books, but also shipping records, hand-drawn family trees and photographs. They weren’t just in the dining room, either. The office too. In fact, every surface in the house had started to accumulate history journals or family-tree paraphernalia of one form or another. The previous week Angela had searched for her car keys for nearly an hour before finding them beneath a pile of ancestry magazines.

Beside her, the six o’clock news jingle sounded from the radio. Angela blinked. She’d better get a move on if she was to send her letter tonight. She clicked on her template document, with its border of Christmas trees already in place, along with her traditional opening line in Christmassy red and green letters (‘Hello from the Gillespies!’) and equally festive farewell (‘A Very Merry Christmas from Angela and all the gang!’). All she had to do now was fill in the blank middle section with her family news.

One minute passed, then another. The words just wouldn’t come. Perhaps she should break with tradition and choose the photos first. She opened the folder of digital shots she’d collected over the past twelve months. She usually sent a group one, but the family hadn’t been together in front of a camera for more than two years. Could she just send separate and recent photos of each of them instead?

She clicked through the possibilities, starting with the twins. No, Victoria wouldn’t be happy for any of those to go into wide circulation. Wide being the operative word, unfortunately. Not that Angela would ever say it to her, but Victoria had put on a
lot
of weight since she’d moved to Sydney nearly two years earlier. Comfort eating, Angela suspected, after the stressful time she’d had in her job as a radio producer. She still looked lovely though, Angela thought. Like a pretty, rosy-cheeked milkmaid, with her blonde hair curling to her shoulders and her blue eyes. But she might not appreciate Angela sending out photos just at the moment.

As for Genevieve, the most recent photo she’d emailed from New York wasn’t really suitable for public viewing either. For a hairdresser, and especially a hairdresser working in the glamorous American film and TV world, Genevieve took a very devil-may-care approach to her own hair. In this latest shot she looked like she was on the way to a fancy-dress party, her newly acquired bright-blue dreadlocks tied in a loose knot on top of her head, her dark eyes heavy with eyeliner, as usual, and alight with mischief, also as usual. She’d explained it all in her email. A hairdresser friend had needed to practise dreadlock extensions for a film she was working on and Genevieve had volunteered.
It’s only temporary, promise!
she’d written.
Thank God for that!
Angela had emailed straight back.
Ig said to tell you that you look like a feral Smurf.
Genevieve had been very amused by that. Genevieve was very amused by most things.

There were several recent photos of Lindy, but unfortunately she looked like a prisoner on the run in most of them, wild-eyed and panicky. The camera really didn’t lie, Angela thought. Poor Lindy had been a bag of nerves since she’d returned home to live.Her general air of disarray wasn’t helped by the fact she’d taken to wearing her long brown hair in two messy bunches, like a little girl. It had been the in-thing in Melbourne circles, she’d told Angela. Which circles? Angela had wondered. Kindergarten? She hadn’t said it aloud. She’d learned the hard way that there was no teasing Lindy about her appearance. Or about anything, really.

At least there were dozens of photos of Ig to choose from. He loved being in front of a camera. But none of them was suitable either. His dark-red curls badly needed a cut and Angela hadn’t got around to it yet, deciding to wait until Genevieve and her scissors were home again. In the meantime, he looked more like her fourth daughter than her only son. If she attached one of those photos to her Christmas letter, she’d definitely receive a disapproving email from Nick’s Aunt Celia. Celia had very strict ideas about suitable haircuts for boys. Celia had very strict ideas about everything.

As for recent photos of herself and Nick together . . . It felt like they’d hardly been in the same room together for months, let alone in front of the same camera. She turned and gazed at the back wall of the office. Thirty-two photos of her and Nick looked back at her. They were another tradition she had started the year they were married. An annual photo of the two of them in the same position, standing in front of the homestead gate, the big stone house behind, that huge sky above, all space and light. Each year she’d sent one print back home to her parents in London and framed another for this wall. As the years had gone by, the children had appeared in the photos too. Angela stood now and looked at each picture in turn. Not at her own image, but at Nick standing to her left in every photo, six foot one to her five foot five.

He hadn’t changed much over the years, as tall, lean and tanned in the most recent photo as he was in the earlier ones. She reached for the first picture, studying it closely, clearly remembering this early moment of their married lives. It had taken them eight tries to get the self-timing camera to work properly. They’d been about to give up when it clicked. She was looking straight at the camera, wearing a cornflower-blue cotton dress the same colour as her eyes, her hair a mass of black curls, her smile wide if somewhat frozen after so many attempts to get the shot. Beside her, Nick was dressed in dark jeans and a white shirt, his sleeves rolled up. He wasn’t only smiling but laughing, completely relaxed, indulging her, gazing down at her with such amusement. Such pride. Such love.

She felt that jolt inside her again. Like a sudden pain, a pang. She still couldn’t put an exact name on it. Was it sadness? Fear? Confusion? All of those and something else. It was the closest she’d felt to homesickness since she was a child. A longing for someone. The feeling of missing them, wanting them so badly that it physically hurt. It was how she had felt about Nick for months now. She couldn’t understand it, no matter how much she tried. How could it be that her husband could be so physically close to her every day, beside her in bed every night, yet so far away, so distant, so —

‘Ha!
I win again!’

The cheer from the kitchen interrupted her anxious thoughts. They would get her nowhere, she knew that already. She also needed to concentrate on her letter. She decided to forget about sending individual photos. She’d do what she’d done with her previous letter and attach a family group shot from a few years ago. She hoped no one would notice she, Nick and the girls all looked younger and that Ig appeared to be shrinking rather than growing.

Back at the computer, a chime alerted her to an incoming email. She opened it, secretly glad of another distraction.
Thank you, Angela, our Outback Angel!!!!
the subject line read. It was from an elderly couple in Chicago, just home from their once-in-a-lifetime trip to Australia, including a week staying on Errigal.

Angela had joined the outback station-stay program thirteen years earlier, after the three girls had left home, and before Ig arrived. It had initially been a financial decision. The drought had hit them hard, the wool industry had collapsed. Like all their neighbours, they had needed some extra income. While Angela had often helped with the practical side of station life, Nick had never discussed the station’s finances with her in detail, despite her frequent requests to be involved. Angela had known, though, that every extra dollar would be useful. To her own surprise, she’d discovered she had not just a flair for hosting visitors and tour guiding, but for promotion too. She’d joined forces with local tourism associations, advertising Errigal’s isolation and beauty wherever she could. She’d done the occasional interview on radio, in newspapers, even once on TV. ‘The English rose of the Australian outback’, the interviewer had called her.

She’d started small, doing up the old governess’s quarters that adjoined the homestead, welcoming couples and families, one or two a month, from March until November. The numbers had grown as each year passed, expanding to include school groups who were happy to sleep rough in the shearers’ quarters when they weren’t in use by Errigal’s contract shearers. At last count, nearly five hundred people had stayed on Errigal, not just from all over Australia but from overseas too – Europe, Asia, America – all seeking a taste of life on an isolated outback station with Angela as their guide.

While Nick had been busy elsewhere on the station, moving stock, maintaining their property, she’d taken her guests on long drives through the dramatic landscape, pointing out not just Wilpena Pound, St Mary’s Peak and Rawnsley Bluff, landmarks of the Flinders Ranges, but the smaller, less well-known peaks and valleys too. Everything had a name and a story attached. Over the years she’d heard them all from Nick, from their Aboriginal stockmen, from their neighbours. She loved sharing not only the stories, but all the statistics too. Their property was 70 000 hectares, 700 square kilometres. At its peak, before the drought, it had been home to ten thousand sheep. Huge numbers, but the property still took up only a tiny part of this enormous country.