Hello from the Gillespies (17 page)

Angela still said nothing. She had heard a lot over the years about the success of Celia and her husband’s spare-parts company.

Celia kept talking. ‘That’s what sticks in my throat with you. Nick has always been the kindest, most considerate person, ever since he was a boy. And now, when he most needs your support, what do you do? Embarrass him with that letter of yours. You should be ashamed of yourself. It was a sad day for this family when he walked into that Sydney pub and met you. If he’d married a local girl, a girl who had farming in her blood, he wouldn’t be in this position.’

Angela found her voice. ‘I’m responsible for the drought? How is that, Celia?’

‘It wasn’t just the drought. Every farmer needs his wife to support him, through bad times and good. You’ve always been distracted by selfish pursuits, like those tourists you have to stay, or that pottery carry-on. He needed good, sensible children to follow in his footsteps. No chance of that with yours. Your daughters are running wild. As for what you’ve done to Ignatius —’

‘What have I done to Ig?’

‘Indulged him. Turned him into a pet. That child needs to toughen up, stop all that daydreaming, not to mention the nonsense about that imaginary friend. He’s what we would have called a Mummy’s boy in the olden days. And don’t think I don’t know where he got the idea to run away from boarding school. I’m sure it was you.’

‘I had nothing to do with it. He’s ten years old, Celia. Too young to be away from home. Not just away from me.’

Celia made a dismissive sound. ‘Me, me, me. There you are. If anyone should be feeling guilty about the mess your family is in, it should be you, not Nick.’

Angela stood up. People nearby were watching, she could sense it. She put on the brightest smile she could. Then she walked away as quickly as she could. Before she gave in to temptation and called Celia an interfering old bat to her face.

By two a.m. there were still a few dozen people left in the woolshed. Ig was in bed. So was Lindy. Victoria and Genevieve were sitting outside on the log by the fire, under the stars, talking. Fred Lawson was with them, sitting close to Victoria.

Nick was nowhere to be seen. Angela asked Joan, who was starting to stack the chairs. She thought she’d seen him head towards the house.

Angela guessed where he would be before she found him. The light from the office spilled into the hallway. She heard their voices. Nick’s first and then Carol’s.

‘That all sounds good,’ Nick said. ‘I fly direct into Dublin. We can go straight across to Mayo and Donegal from there.’

‘Perfect. I’ll pick you up at the airport in the hire car. And I’m sorry again to have to ask about that increase in the daily rate. My boss insisted.’

‘Don’t worry. Your service is worth twice that.’

‘I’ve almost finished the itinerary. We’ll spend the first few days visiting the different Gillespie home places so you can take all the photos you need, then I’ve booked us into the hotel in Cork I think would be great for the reunion, right on the waterfront in Cobh. I stayed there last weekend to try out the facilities. I’m sorry, I had to add that to your bill as well.’

‘No worries. Of course I should pay for that. And then we —’

Angela was tempted to leave without saying anything. But then she felt a sudden dart of anger. Give him time, Joan had urged. She’d been trying to. But what had he been doing with his time? Not thinking about her, she now realised. He’d been too busy planning his trip to Ireland. His solo trip.

Angela interrupted. ‘Nick?’

He turned and looked at her.

‘Shall I say goodnight to our guests from you, or are you coming back?’ she asked.

‘Can you say goodnight from me?’

She was walking away when she heard it. Carol’s voice.

‘Who was that?’

‘Just my wife,’ Nick said.

Just my wife.

The phrase was still in her head three hours later as she tried to get to sleep.

It was four days before Christmas, day five of a forecast two-week heatwave. The temperature hadn’t dropped below thirty-five degrees in the daytime, twenty-five degrees at night and had topped forty-two degrees for three days running.

The homestead was built to be cool, with foot-thick stone walls and a deep verandah providing shade and insulation in normal weather conditions. These weren’t normal weather conditions. There were fans in every room, going all day long; an air conditioner in the living room. Throughout the heatwave, all six Gillespies and Celia had done little but lie prone in various parts of the house, napping, reading and complaining.

Angela was first up. It wasn’t six o’clock yet. In the kitchen, she made a cup of tea and a start on her final Christmas shopping list. Their freezer was huge and already filled with food, but none of it was Christmassy. She couldn’t put off the trip to Port Augusta any longer. She imagined wheeling her trolley up and down the aisles of the supermarket, bumping into other harried mothers with their own long lists, all of them shopping for winter-style food while the sun beat down outside and the last thing any of them felt like doing was cooking.

She put her pen down, rested her head in her hands and shut her eyes tight.

She wasn’t in the kitchen of the homestead, in the middle of one of South Australia’s hottest summers on record, trying to make a shopping list that was threatening to run to more than three pages.

She was in London.

Christmas in London was always special. She, Will and Lexie loved celebrating it. They kept things simple but elegant. The real fir tree in the corner of the living room sent out a glorious foresty scent. Lexie had decorated it, coming down from Bristol early especially. Will and Angela watched her from the sofa, glasses of sherry in hand. They only ever drank sherry at Christmas time. It amused them both. Lexie exclaimed over each decoration. ‘Oh, remember this one! We bought it in Spain when we went hiking together, didn’t we? Look at this little clay angel, isn’t she gorgeous! Was this the first one you ever made, Mum?’

The house was filled with Christmas cards. More than a dozen arrived every day from their many friends around the world. The mantelpiece above the fire was decorated with a row of candles, which sent a soft light out into the room. This year, the mantelpiece held something else too: a selection of Angela’s little ceramic robins. She’d kept her favourites of the three hundred she’d produced for Suzy. They were the most popular items she’d ever made for the shop. Suzy could have sold each of them four times over, apparently.

The birds on the mantelpiece weren’t the only new tradition this Christmas. She, Will and Lexie were doing something else for the first time – going out for Christmas lunch. Will had had another successful year, but it had been tiring too, finding and keeping his many new clients happy. Angela was exhausted from her sudden end-of-year workload. Happy but exhausted. Lexie was full of energy, as usual, and always up for a new experience. It was just one of the many joyous things about her. She’d leapt at the idea. ‘Why not. No washing up either!’

They had booked into Claridge’s. Not just for Christmas lunch but for three nights in a luxurious two-bedroom suite. A proper, festive mini-break in their own city. All the luxury, none of the hassle of travelling too far. ‘We all deserve it,’ Will said.

‘Mum?’

Angela opened her eyes. It took her a moment to bring herself back to the kitchen, to Errigal, to South Australia.

‘Are you okay?’ It was Genevieve, in her pyjamas.

‘I’m fine. I just couldn’t sleep.’

‘No? It sounded like you were sleep-talking, then. Something about Claridge’s and Christmas.’ Genevieve grinned. ‘Ah, I get it. You were away in your fantasy life in London, weren’t you? With Dreamy Will, the man without a surname because you won’t tell us who he was. And your perfect daughter, what’s her name? Flossie? Trixie?’

‘Genevieve, I’m so sorry. You should never have read that. I should never have —’

‘Mum, come on, don’t apologise! If I could choose between noisy old us in outback Australia and a rich architect and perfect though boring-sounding swot of a daughter in London, I’d do it too.’ Genevieve took a seat beside her mother. ‘Did I hear that right about Claridge’s? Is that where you used to go for Christmas when you were a kid?’

‘I’ve never set foot inside Claridge’s,’ Angela said. ‘I was just thinking about our Christmas. All I still have to do —’

‘And you thought, what a nightmare. I wish I could hand it all over to the chefs at Claridge’s and never see a shopping trolley or a sink full of dishes again. Admit it, Mum. You can tell me.’

Angela smiled. ‘You’re right. I wish I never had to see a shopping trolley or a sink full of dishes again.’

‘Shazam: your wish has come true. Leave it to me. To me and that adorable twin of mine. You did the party. We’ll do Christmas. It’s only fair.’

‘Genevieve, you can’t. You’ve just got home —’

‘So what? Even more reason to do it.’

Could Angela actually feel her headache starting to lift, even slightly? ‘Do you mean it?’

‘I mean it. And to prove what a special child I am, I’m now going to make you another cup of tea. With my own bare, hair dye–stained hands.’

Several minutes later, they were sitting outside on the verandah, cups of tea in hand. The birdlife was just getting into full song, the squawks of the galahs tempered by the trilling of the fairy-wrens.

‘Did you miss this?’ Angela said.

‘Not for a minute,’ Genevieve said. ‘I’ve always preferred the sound of burglar alarms and ambulances.’ She smiled and then turned so she was facing her mother. ‘Mum, are you okay?’

‘I’m fine,’ Angela said. ‘Just these headaches, but I’m getting them looked at in January. I’m sure it’s nothing serious.’

‘I’m not just talking about your health. Are you okay? You and Dad? Because I’m worried about you.’

‘You are? Why?’

‘I can’t help noticing that the two of you don’t talk to each other any more. That Dad stays up as late as possible in the office each night and you go to bed as early as possible. That he seems distracted. That you seem sad. I can go on, if you like. How you didn’t talk to each other at the party, either. Compared to the last woolshed party when the two of you danced all night, and we were embarrassed to see our parents carrying on like that. I could also mention your letter, all you said in that, about —’

‘Please don’t, Genevieve.’ Angela hesitated. ‘I appreciate your concern, really I do. And I’m sorry you had to read all of that as well. I know we did our best at the party to make a joke about it, but if I could do anything not to have written it, not to have so many people read it —’

‘But it was all true?’

Angela didn’t reply.

‘Mum, I know it’s none of my business, and Joan’s already told me that all couples go through ups and downs, but is there anything we can do to help? I know it’s been tough financially and I’m sorry we’ve all landed back on top of you as well, and we’ll try to get work as soon as we can, I promise, but if we can do anything, will you please just ask?’

‘Thanks, darling.’

‘And you and Dad will be okay, won’t you? Joan’s right? It is just a rough patch?’

Angela started to speak, then stopped. She was trying hard not to cry. She reached over, took her daughter’s hand and squeezed it, hoping to sound relaxed. ‘Of course. We’re fine, I promise. Really.’

Genevieve smiled. ‘Good answer. I’ll let you off the hook for now. And in the meantime, you leave Christmas to me. Me and my loyal army.’

‘She was definitely lying.’

It was two hours later. Genevieve and Victoria were in the woolshed, doing the final post-party clearing-up. They were also having a private discussion about their parents.

‘They’re not fine,’ Genevieve said. ‘And I’m not imagining it, Victoria. You’ve seen it, all that tension, the silences. You read her letter too.’

‘I’m still trying to forget that letter. But there are two sides to every story, remember. It’s been a rough year on the station. A rough few years. Dad won’t talk about it with me, but it had to have been a terrible decision to sell off the last of his stock and accept the mining lease. No wonder he’s been distracted. And then to have their problems aired publicly. He’s so private, he must have hated that. No wonder they’re tense with each other.’

‘Are you taking sides?’

‘Of course not. But it’s their business, not ours, Genevieve. We have to give them the time and space to work it out themselves.’

‘What time and space? We’re all back here, filling every available space, and we’re running out of time. Dad’s about to head off to Ireland and I think we need to get them fixed up before he goes or we might never see him again.’

‘Now you’re getting carried away. It’s a research trip.’

‘You’re just not as worldly or suspicious as I am. I definitely think we should do something before he leaves. Try to remind them both of how good things used to be between them. You know what they used to be like, how close they were, how we used to tease them about it. They talked all the time, for starters. Laughed a lot together. And you know how he looked at her, as if she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. And the way they’d hold hands when we were all watching TV, and they thought none of us was looking.’

‘Until you’d pretend to vomit about it?’

‘I was a teenager; it was embarrassing. But not just that. What about all those little traditions they have, like the annual photo they take, and the thing they do with the birthday card? And the way they go over to the chapel together for private talks? And Dad’s so proud of her with the station-stay business. He told me, but maybe he didn’t tell her. Maybe he should have. Maybe if we could somehow remind them of all the good times, that would help.’

‘I think you’ve been working in TV for too long. What are you suggesting? We go through the photo albums, put together a flashback montage of the highlights of their marriage? With a soundtrack of weepy music? We were kids for most of it, or away at boarding school. We’d have to make up half the stories.’

‘No, we wouldn’t.’ Genevieve was now smiling. ‘We have the perfect source, right here.’

‘Who? Joan, you mean?’

‘Better than Joan. Have you forgotten something, my dear Victoria? The little matter of thirty-three letters in a file in the office?’

‘Mum’s Christmas letters?’

‘Exactly. I knew they’d be good for something one day.’

‘What were you thinking? Getting them all bound into a book? Have we got time?’

‘No, I’ve had an even better idea, thanks to Horrible Jane. If the Lawsons can do it, then why can’t we?’

‘Act them all out? Thirty-three years’ worth? That would take days.’

‘I don’t mean acting out every word. And we might skip this year’s letter, don’t you think? I thought we could read through them and pick out the mentions of Mum and Dad. Some edited highlights of their lives together. Ig and Lindy can help too. We could turn it into a kind of a play, stage it as our Boxing Day entertainment.’

Victoria was laughing. ‘You’re mad. With costumes and everything?’

Genevieve grinned. ‘Why not? I’ll do hair and make-up. You can be in charge of the musical soundtrack. If a trip down memory lane staged by their four beloved children doesn’t get the two of them smooching again, I don’t know what will.’

‘Have we got time?’

‘We’ll make time. What else have we got to do out here? Hunt kangaroos?’

‘What are you two laughing about?’ It was Lindy, at the woolshed door. ‘I could hear you from the verandah. We need to get going. I’ve just seen the shopping list. It’s going to take us
hours
.’

Genevieve put her finger to her mouth. ‘Hush, dear Rosalind. We’re hatching top-secret plans.’

‘You are? About what? Getting Victoria and Fred Lawson back together?’

Victoria went red.

Genevieve didn’t miss a beat. ‘No, that’s New Year’s secret plan. This is our Christmas plan. Codename: Save Mum and Dad’s Marriage.’

Lindy’s eyes widened. ‘Really? What are you going to do?’

‘Go and get Ig and we’ll tell you all about it.’