Hello from the Gillespies (20 page)

‘I have had a small idea about some work,’ Genevieve said, as they picked their way through the scrubby saltbushes to the path. ‘It might get me into trouble but I figure I’m in trouble already. You know that gossip I passed on about the actress, the stuff that got me sacked?’

‘I remember something about it, yes.’

‘Do you know how many hits that piece got on the internet? Two million. For a sliver of news about an actress. I’m sitting on a goldmine. I think I should start a gossip website. I heard so many stories that would make your hair curl if it wasn’t already curly. It suits you like that, by the way. Don’t start straightening it again, will you?’

‘Did you really just combine a hint of salacious gossip with unwanted hair advice?’

‘That’s an even better idea. I’ll combine the two, play to my strengths. Isn’t that the thing to do in times of crisis?’

‘I thought your response to times of crisis was to get drunk and sleep with a security guard.’

‘He wasn’t a security guard. He was the director’s brother and also a location scout.’

‘You still haven’t heard from him?’

‘No.’

‘Are you okay about that?’

‘The truth? No, I’m not. I liked him, Victoria. Really liked him. And I hoped I’d hear from him. Not only hoped. I really thought I would.’

‘Maybe he’s been trying your mobile. He wouldn’t know there’s no signal out here, remember.’

‘But there is one in Hawker. I’ve driven in a few times to see if there have been any messages from him. Nothing. Sad, aren’t I?’

‘I’m really sorry.’

‘So am I. That’s why I need a project. Even if I have to make up half the gossip now I’m stuck out here, a website would keep me out of trouble, wouldn’t it?’

‘Or get you into even more trouble.’

Genevieve waited while Victoria opened one of the paddock gates. There were no sheep left to get out but they’d been trained since childhood never to leave a gate open behind them.

‘No word from Mr Radio? Or any of your Sydney media pals?’ Genevieve asked as they walked on.

‘Not a single one. Oh, I lie. I heard from one, asking if he could be the go-between if I sold my story to one of the women’s magazines. He only wanted a thirty per cent cut.’

‘Classy.’

They were almost at the homestead now. In the big tree near the toolshed, a flock of galahs was squawking and fluttering. Victoria stopped as they reached the final gate.

‘Genevieve, there’s something else I need to tell you.’

Genevieve waited. ‘That sounds serious. Not another old boyfriend declaring undying love?’

Victoria didn’t smile. She shook her head. ‘You know how I told you about having sex with Mr Radio one more time before I left Sydney?’

Genevieve nodded.

Victoria paused. ‘I’m overdue.’

‘I thought you were on the pill.’

‘I had been. I stopped when all that stuff happened at work. When I got sacked. I didn’t think I’d need it any more.’

Genevieve blinked. ‘How overdue?’

‘Six days.’

‘That’s just stress, don’t worry. Look what you’ve been through lately.’

‘Do you think?’

‘Of course.’

‘You’re right. Thanks.’

They had just opened the gate when Genevieve spoke again.

‘Victoria, you know how I talked about having sex with the security guard who was actually a location scout? In New York? About three weeks ago?’

Victoria looked at her twin.

Genevieve nodded.

‘Seriously?’ Victoria said.

‘Seriously.’

‘But you always use condoms.’

‘We did the first three times. Just not the fourth time.’

‘Four times? In one night?’

Genevieve nodded.

‘How overdue?’

‘Five days.’

‘It’s just the stress. The long flight. Jet lag. You couldn’t be either.’

‘No. Of course not.’

‘We’ll give it a couple more days, will we?’ Victoria said. ‘Before we really start to worry?’

‘Good idea. But then what? Ask Mum if she has any old pregnancy tests lying around?’

Neither of them laughed.

Angela was on her way out to the pottery studio. She hadn’t been there since she’d read the email from the gallery owner. She’d missed it. The peace. The cool, dark shed. The feel of the clay in her hands. She needed to get back to it, even if no one ever saw her finished work.

Inside the homestead, she knew that Nick was making his final plans for Ireland. They were still managing only the politest of exchanges. She could only follow Joan’s advice. Give him time.

The kids were being especially noisy today. Lindy had heard from her friend Richard, who wanted to come and visit her. She was in a state. Victoria had taken over the kitchen phone, ringing around to set up her radio interviews. Genevieve was still trying to convince Ig he needed a haircut. She wasn’t getting very far.

The old wooden door of the shed stuck as Angela tried to open it. It took three tugs. The blue paint had started to flake in the heat. Beside it, the rose bush was looking heat-exhausted. She filled a can with bore water and soaked it. Thirty-three years on, she couldn’t let it die now. It didn’t take much to draw parallels with her marriage.

Inside her studio, she hoped there hadn’t been a visit from a new spider. She looked across at the shelves, crammed with her attempts at sculptures – none of them successful. She decided to forget about trying to make a piece of art for now. She’d make something practical instead. A cup, or a small vase. She cut some clay from the large block, took a seat at the wheel and set it spinning. The wet clay felt soft and soothing in her hands. She rolled it into a ball, inserted her thumbs, felt the shape of a cup begin to form, the surface smoothing, the layers getting thinner. Then she pressed too hard and it collapsed in on itself. She stopped the wheel from turning, picked up the clay and slowly, methodically, began to roll it back into a ball again.

As she went through the familiar movements, feeling the clay in her hands, the silence around her, the cool dim light, her mind began to drift. So quickly, so easily. With such relief.

She imagined herself in her garden studio in London, Radio 4 playing classical music, frost outside the window, the room snug and warm from the heat of the kiln, the shelves around her laden with the latest of her beautiful, sought-after ceramic birds. She imagined herself and Will going for a long walk beside the canal near their Islington house, getting inspiration from —

Out of the blue, her imaginary life disappeared. She stopped working the clay as she found herself recalling a real memory. An outing with Will that had actually happened, when she was nineteen and he was twenty-one.

It was one of their first dates. They’d met in groups before that, going to the cinema together, or to bars to see bands or comedians. He’d always stood out, confident, knowledgeable. She had been thrilled when he singled her out one day. She’d thought he was more interested in another of the girls in their group. He’d come over and sat beside her, asked her questions about what she was studying, where she had grown up. She told him she came from Forest Hill, that she’d grown up across the road from the famous Horniman Museum, home to an eccentric natural history collection. It was her favourite place in London. She’d spent hours there, even volunteered as a guide one summer. He’d laughed at the name Horniman. People usually did. Then he told her he’d never heard of the place.

They met there the next day, just the two of them. She’d brought a picnic lunch. It was a beautiful spring day. He’d been impressed by the building, with its distinctive clock tower, sweeping stairs, the frieze on the front portico. The grounds were ablaze with flowers, the trees covered in fresh leaves after the long winter, the garden was busy with birds. She’d proudly shown Will around. He was always the one who seemed to have done so much and been everywhere. She felt like a tour guide as she led him inside to a big room containing dozens of glass cabinets, all filled with stuffed birds and animals, and over to the centrepiece of the museum, the famous stuffed walr—

‘Mum?’

Angela blinked.

‘Mum?’

‘Sorry, Lindy, I was miles away.’

‘You’re always miles away these days. Does this dress look all right?’ It was a vintage-style blue tea-dress. ‘I’m trying to decide what to wear when Richard visits, and I don’t want to ask Genevieve or Victoria.’

‘You look lovely.’

‘Really?’ Lindy beamed. ‘Thanks. But I can show you the other possibilities too, if you like?’

‘No need to,’ Angela said. ‘That one is perfect.’

‘I thought so too. What are you making?’

‘Nothing, really.’

‘Yes, you are. I can see a sort of shape. What is it?’

Angela looked down. On the stationary pottery wheel was the beginning of a bird shape. She swiftly moulded the clay back into a ball. ‘Just practising.’

Lindy pulled up a stool beside the wheel. ‘Mum, can I please talk to you about Dad?’

‘Lindy, I’d rather not —’

‘Not about your fight with him. Genevieve and Victoria told me to leave you alone about that. I meant something else. How did you know Dad was the one when you met him?’

‘Sorry?’

‘When you met Dad that night in Sydney, how did you know he was the one for you?’

‘The one for me?’

‘You know, the man you were going to marry, the man who was going to father your children.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Mum, come on. You turned your whole life upside down for him, swapped countries, left friends and family behind to move to an outback station and you don’t know why?’

‘Why are you asking?’

‘I told you, Richard’s coming to visit and I’m trying to work out how I feel about him. I’ve never felt like this with my other boyfriends. I feel all kind of, I don’t know, nervous when I’m with him. Excited but kind of anxious too. And I can’t work out if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.’

‘Have you actually had a proper date with Richard yet?’

‘Not exactly. I mean, we’ve talked, just the two of us. And we kissed. Once. It was so incredible, he —’

‘Lindy, that’s fine, you don’t have to tell me everything.’

‘I just know I feel different with him than I’ve felt with any other guy I’ve gone out with. But how do I know for sure that it’s love? That it’s not just infatuation or lust?’

‘Darling, I’m sorry, I don’t know. It’s different for every person.’

‘Mum, please, help me. You must have felt something amazing with Dad when you first met him. Because you got it right, didn’t you? Whirlwind romance, married within a year, still together all these years later. You must have felt something that made you sure he was the one for you.’

Angela bought herself some time. ‘Let me think about it. You could try asking your dad too.’

‘I did,’ Lindy said, with a sigh. ‘Just now, in the kitchen.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘He told me to ask you.’

The morning of Angela’s trip to Adelaide for her specialist’s appointment, Joan rang to wish her well. ‘You’re sure you’re happy to drive down on your own? I can be over to you in an hour if you need me.’

‘I’ll be fine, I promise.’

‘No headaches today?’

‘Not for two days. I’m starting to feel like a fraud.’

‘Ring and let me know how you get on. I’ll be waiting to hear.’

Ig carried Angela’s overnight case to the car. He had been like a shadow all morning, checking she had everything. He and Genevieve had taken care of the hotel booking, doing it online, getting an excellent last-minute deal in a very nice city-centre hotel.

‘You’re a genius, Ig,’ Genevieve had said as he pressed print and handed her the booking confirmation. ‘Who taught you all this?’

‘Robbie,’ he said.

In the kitchen, Genevieve adopted a serious expression as Angela ran through the details of her trip once more. ‘I think I’ve got it,’ she said. ‘You’re leaving now, driving to Adelaide to see your specialist this afternoon. You’re staying one night in a hotel, then coming back tomorrow, expected time of arrival five p.m.’

‘Or before. As soon as I can.’

‘And I’m in charge until then. How will I cope? Can you remind me, how do I switch on the lights? And that kettle thing, do I take it outside and wait for rain? Or do I use those silver things by the sink? What are they called, taps?’

‘Very funny.’

‘Mum, just go, will you? Get in the car, drive away, see your specialist, then go out on the town tonight and dance the light fandango.’

‘Fandango?’ Angela said.

‘Fandango, fantastic, however you want.’ She hugged her. ‘Just go. Forget all about us.’

Victoria was in her bedroom, practising interview techniques. She came out and hugged Angela too. ‘You’re sure you don’t want one of us to come with you?’

‘Thanks, but I’m sure,’ Angela said.

Lindy asked the same question. ‘I could be packed in a few minutes. Your hotel looks so nice. I’d love to stay there too. To help and support you, I mean. It’s not just about the hotel.’

‘I’ll be fine, Lindy, thanks,’ Angela said. ‘You stay here and do your sewing.’

Lindy held up her latest cushion. ‘Look, I’m nearly done. Isn’t it gorgeous? A perfect twentieth-anniversary present.’

Angela agreed. She decided this wasn’t the time to tell her there were two Ns in anniversary.

Soon after, Angela was ready to leave. She’d hoped Nick would come to find her. He knew her appointment was today. He’d been in the office all morning and the office window looked out onto the yard. He would have seen Ig carrying her luggage to the car. The guilt she’d been feeling about her letter was starting to twist into a different shape. The kids had managed to get over the letter, hadn’t they? Even Celia had thawed a little over the past week or so, especially after all the attention she’d received thanks to her hospital stay. But Nick? There had been no change.

She kept her voice polite as she stood in the office doorway.

‘I’m off, Nick.’

He turned around only slightly. ‘Safe trip.’

‘Thanks.’

She was in the hall before he spoke again.

‘Good luck at the doctor.’

‘Thanks,’ she said, without turning back.

That was it, she thought. After thirty-three years of marriage, that was the best they could do.

As Angela drove away, Ig ran beside the car as he loved to do, racing it, waving in at his mum as she waved back at him. He wasn’t going to cry, even though he really wanted to. She was only going away for one night. She’d be back tomorrow. He wouldn’t have time to miss her, she’d told him.

But he knew he would. He already had a kind of sick feeling in his stomach. He used to get it all the time at school in Adelaide too. Some of the boys there had teased him when the teacher asked once who was the person they most admired in the world. The others named footballers and pop stars. One named an astronaut. When it was his turn, he told the truth. His mum.

He stood at the homestead gate and waved until her car was out of sight, just a cloud of dust from the dirt road trailing in the air behind her. Genevieve joined him, tousling his hair. He half-hated the way she did that, half-liked it.

‘She’ll be back tomorrow, Iggy. Don’t be too sad. Want to come and help me make chocolate biscuits?’

‘Not yet. Soon,’ he said.

He stayed outside watching until even the cloud of dust from her car was gone.

In her bedroom, Victoria was doing some broadcast practice, recording her introduction for the third time. She hadn’t done any presenting for more than two years, not since she’d moved into a producing role. It felt good to be back doing it again. Maybe Mr Radio had actually done her a favour. Dropping her in that mess. Getting her sacked. Forcing her to run home, shamed, ashamed . . .

Pregnant?

No. She couldn’t be pregnant to him. Of course not. It was just stress delaying her period. And it had to be the jet lag delaying Genevieve’s. But perhaps it would be a good idea to get a pregnancy test the next time they were in Port Augusta. And perhaps they should go there soon.

She pressed the on switch of the microphone again. ‘Hello, I’m Victoria Gillespie. Welcome to “Outback Lives”, my new series on —’

‘NO!’ A cry from Lindy suddenly filled the room. ‘It CAN’T be wrong. It CAN’T!’

Victoria switched off the microphone and swore under her breath.

In the kitchen, Genevieve was trying to calm Lindy down. ‘I’m sorry, but it is. Anniversary definitely has two Ns. Didn’t you check before you started?’

‘I just sewed it exactly as they wrote it on their order form.’

‘Then they obviously can’t spell either. So maybe they won’t notice.’

‘Of course they’ll notice. Or one of their kids will notice and I’ll be a laughing stock again. I can’t do
anything
right, can I? I’m a complete and utter failure!’

She snatched the cushion back from Genevieve and threw it onto the table. They both moved but not fast enough. They could only watch as the tin of cocoa powder spilt onto the white cushion.

Another wail filled the house. In her room, Victoria turned off the recorder again.

In the office, Nick shut the door to try to keep out the noise. He had no intention of going to see what was happening. Once again, he cursed the fact they hadn’t got around to getting the office phone fixed. If ever there was a time he needed to make a call out of earshot of his family, it was today.

A call to Angela.

He should have said more to her before she left. He shouldn’t have let it go on like this between them. He might have made a bad job of keeping the station running, but he’d made a good job of staying angry with Angela. She hadn’t even told him about the specialist’s appointment until three days ago, when he’d found Genevieve and Ig in the office booking a hotel for her. That’s when it had hit him. He and Angela had become one of those couples who only communicated through their children.

The only option was to go out to the kitchen and use the landline phone, or call her on the UHF radio. But not with Genevieve and Lindy in there, making a racket about something. Or with Victoria, Ig and Celia all in listening range. He didn’t want any of them overhearing him attempt to apologise to Angela.

Not just to apologise. To explain.

He’d read her Christmas letter again that morning. He’d read it so many times now he almost knew it by heart. He’d gone through every emotion – anger, hurt, embarrassment. Despair. He’d talked about it with his doctor. He’d also talked about it with his psychologist, during their last appointment.

It was Jim who had asked him the question. ‘Do you recognise yourself in what Angela was saying?’

Yes, he’d said. Eventually. In the past few days, he’d realised something else too.

Angela hadn’t just written the truth about him. She had let him off lightly.

Because everything she’d written about him was the truth, he realised. He
had
shut himself away. He
had
stopped talking to her. He hadn’t involved her in any of the decision-making about the mining lease. His family research
had
become an obsession.

He recalled his speech at the party. Getting emotional like that, in front of all his neighbours. Once, he and Angela would have talked about it the next day. She would have made him feel better. Not this time. He’d been too ashamed to ask her about it. It had been easier to say nothing.

Easier.

Is that what had happened to him? He’d started taking the easy route, because it was just that: easier, safer? That’s what the family research had become, he knew that. A safe hobby. At least when he was researching the past, there could be no nasty surprises, nothing that would actually affect him, hurt him. It was also helping him assuage his guilt. He might have had to lease out half the Gillespie land, but look how much he now knew about his Gillespie ancestors.

In the past week or so, he’d begun to look at that in a different way too. If he hadn’t signed that contract with Carol’s company, he might have stopped the research. Shelved his plans for the reunion. But he was committed now, not just to hosting a reunion with two hundred strangers, but to his first overseas trip in just a few weeks’ time.

Without Angela.

His wife, his best friend, the woman who knew him better than anyone else in the world.

That’s why her Christmas letter had hurt so much. He thought he had hidden his pain from her. The letter was proof he hadn’t. She’d seen right through him. She’d seen him for what he had become. She was right. He wasn’t the man she’d married.

Was it any wonder some old English boyfriend she hadn’t mentioned in years had become her ideal, fantasy husband? Nick had been so angry about that at first. Not just angry. Hurt. Humiliated. Knowing their neighbours and friends had also read all about this Will. The successful architect. The soft, pen-pushing Londoner, who did all the cooking, who made her laugh, talked to her, who’d given her a life of luxury, of money, one perfect daughter, in a big city. There it was, Angela’s ideal life laid out in her own words. All that she had really wanted. None of which Nick had been able to give her. Round and round his head the thoughts had gone: Angela didn’t want to be married to him; she regretted meeting him. He hadn’t been able to get past that.

Then he’d remembered something the psychologist had said to him. That just because Nick thought something didn’t mean it was real. That for every negative feeling he had, there could be a stronger, positive one. It was a matter of choosing a thought that made him feel good about himself, not bad.

During his long walks on the station over the past weeks, he’d tried. Over Christmas, he’d tried. When the kids were acting out that concert, before they all fell sick, he’d tried. He’d heard afterwards what their plan had been. To act out highlights from Angela’s letters, everything she had written about the two of them over the years.

Four days after Christmas, alone in the office late one night, unable to sleep, he’d found the letters in the filing cabinet. He’d read them for himself. All of them. Yes, they mostly told the positive stories. And yes, sometimes Angela had used more flowery language or gone into more detail than he might have liked. That was one of the reasons he’d stopped reading them.

But Angela had also written about the tough times they’d had over the years. When his parents died. When Angela’s parents died, and she had twice gone back home alone to London. About how their lives had started to change when the drought came. When the wool industry collapsed. What it had been like to wait for rain year after year, to have to start selling off the stock. She hadn’t ignored any of the realities of their lives on Errigal. But she had always stayed positive. Every letter had remained upbeat. She’d always included the good things that were still happening, with their children, among their friends, in their community, with her station-stay business.

With him.

In every letter, from the first one to the last, she had talked about him. Year after year, in letter after letter, he’d read, in her words, exactly what she thought of him. How much she loved him. How proud she was of him. How much she loved her life here on the station with him and their children. How much the two of them had gone through.

Together.

After he’d finished reading the letters, he’d gone outside and sat on the verandah, in the darkness. An hour had passed, maybe more. No wonder she had felt shut out. No wonder she had felt lonely. No wonder she had needed to take up pottery, invent a fantasy husband to keep her company. He had thought telling her nothing was the best way. The only way. That by keeping his troubles to himself, he was shielding her. He had been wrong. All he had done was cause her more pain.

He hadn’t even had the decency to say goodbye to her properly this morning, before she drove off on a four-hour trip to find out once and for all if she had a brain tumour. Enough, he decided. Enough silence between them. He needed to apologise to her. To explain. And, once more, to ask her if she would come to Ireland, to London, to Europe with him.

He couldn’t ring her, but he could email her. She only had an old-style mobile phone that didn’t have the internet, but there’d be a computer in her hotel. When she rang later, he’d ask her to check her email.

As he moved his chair closer to the desk, he realised something. This wouldn’t just be the first time he’d emailed her. It would be the first time in thirty-three years that he’d written her a letter.

He stared at the blank screen for a long moment, and then he began.