Hello from the Gillespies (30 page)

‘Victoria was always so sweet. So was little Lindy. She wanted to be a twin so badly. She could never quite understand why she was always a bit smaller than the other two. And why they would always gang up against her.’

‘We didn’t “gang up”.’

‘Yes, you did.’

‘Rarely.’

‘Often.’

They glanced at Angela. She seemed to be listening.

‘Do you remember those dolls of yours?’ Joan asked. ‘And their names?’

‘The ones you gave me for my fourth birthday?’ Genevieve smiled. ‘I do, yes.’

Joan explained to Angela that she had taken Genevieve out for a day trip once, to Port Augusta. They’d gone to the cinema and Joan had let Genevieve have a whole bag of popcorn to herself. Afterwards, they’d visited all the shops, walking past the church on the way. Joan had pointed it out as Jesus’s house. As an end-of-day treat, Joan had bought her an inexpensive pair of dolls. That night, Genevieve had announced the names she’d given them. Popcorn and Jesus.

‘She was always losing them too. Especially when we were out and about in town, or even worse, in church together. You’d hear her shouting at top note, “Where’s Popcorn? Where’s Jesus?”’

Joan and Genevieve both laughed. It was one of the Gillespies’ favourite family stories. One of Angela’s own favourites.

Now, she just smiled politely.

Victoria called out from the kitchen. ‘Joan? What’s the difference between sautéing and burning?’

‘About thirty seconds. I’m on my way. Excuse me.’

Genevieve and Angela stayed where they were.

‘And what do you do for a living, Genevieve?’ Angela asked.

Angela had asked her the same question four times now. Genevieve realised she could say anything. She could tell Angela she was a nuclear physicist. An Olympic hurdler.

‘I’m a hairdresser,’ she said.

‘A great job, I’m sure. There’s always work for hairdressers. How did you get started in that?’

‘In a local salon in Port Augusta. Then I moved to Adelaide, entered lots of competitions, and won a lot of them too. I met a famous stylist from Sydney at one of them, who told me to get in touch if I ever wanted to work in film and TV. So I did. For the past five years I’ve worked on film sets – in Australia, and then I tried my luck in New York for two years.’ It felt so odd to be saying all of this. It was Angela who had driven her to her first interview at the salon in Port Augusta. Who had encouraged her to enter those competitions. Who had convinced her father that it would be good for Genevieve to move to Sydney.

‘That must have been exciting. Did you get to meet lots of famous actors?’

‘I did, but I’m sworn to secrecy, of course. I can do your hair for you while you’re here, if you like.’

‘That’s very kind. I can’t remember the last time I had a haircut.’ Angela frowned. ‘I actually can’t. Do I need one?’

‘You could do with a trim. I’ll do it for you tomorrow if you like.’

Angela smiled. ‘You really do offer all the services here – a warm welcome, beautiful views, lovely food and haircuts too. Thank you very much.’

It hit Genevieve then. This wasn’t just a joke. This wasn’t a game of pretend. She was talking to her mother, but her mother had no idea who she was.

‘You’re very welcome,’ she said.

She excused herself and went inside before she started to cry.

The next day, Genevieve kept her word. She cut her mother’s hair.

She set everything up in the kitchen, as she had done so many times over the years. Her scissors, her combs. The towel. The mirror. She’d done this so often, for every member of her family, ever since she was an apprentice. In recent years, she’d looked after film stars, models, actors, customers in Sydney, in New York. She’d taken all of it in her stride. She was good at her job and she knew it.

Today, her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

She had to excuse herself for a moment, go outside, take several deep breaths. When she returned to the kitchen, her mother was still sitting there quietly, the towel around her shoulders, gazing out the window at the view she had looked at for more than thirty years. Smiling as if she’d never seen it before.

‘It’s so beautiful here, isn’t it? So peaceful.’

‘Yes, it is,’ Genevieve said.

One by one, the others came in and watched as Genevieve combed, snipped, combed, snipped, the sound of the scissors loud in the room. Genevieve had always loved that sound. It didn’t take her long to finish the cut. She’d always known how to shape her mother’s curls into the most flattering style.

She picked up the mirror and showed her.

‘Lovely,’ Angela said. ‘Thank you so much. You really do have a gift, don’t you?’

Genevieve tried to ignore the sudden lump in her throat. ‘Any other takers? Ig? Yours is almost getting long enough to plait these days. Come on, sit down. I’ll be quick, I promise.’

Ig was sitting up on the kitchen stool. He turned to Angela. ‘Do you think I should get it cut?’

Angela studied him for a long moment. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I think it looks great long.’

Ig gave her one of his special smiles and stayed where he was.

It was now four days since they’d returned home. Ig and Angela were out on a walk.

The previous night, after Ig and Angela had gone to bed, the rest of them had had a long discussion. As adults, they’d taken in most of what Ruth had explained to them about confabulation. They were worried Ig might not have. Victoria had volunteered to talk to him.

That morning, she had taken him aside. ‘Are you feeling okay about all of this, Ig?’ she’d asked. ‘I know it seems a bit funny, but do you understand that Mum isn’t quite Mum at the moment? That she thinks she’s someone else?’

He’d nodded.

‘And can you keep remembering to call her Angela, not Mum, so she doesn’t get confused?’

‘Yes,’ he’d said.

‘And don’t worry if she starts talking about London, or a different husband or daughter, will you? Or if she gives you any strange answers. She’ll be all right again soon. Ruth promised. So don’t be too worried, okay?’

‘Okay,’ he’d agreed.

‘Look,’ Ig said now, showing Angela a scar on his hand. ‘I cut my finger off.’

‘Did you? Ouch. When was that?’

‘At the start of December. I was standing on the table with the carving knife. Then I fell off and I landed on the floor and the knife at the same time.’

‘Ouch again. What did you do then?’

‘Mum was here and she took me to hospital. She put my finger in a bag with some ice first. Look, they sewed it back on.’ He wriggled it for her.

‘That’s incredible. And it still works perfectly too. How did your mum know what to do?’

‘She knows everything.’

They walked on in silence for a few moments. There was a rustle in one of the bushes nearby, a fluttering sound and then the sudden quick call of a bird. A blue wren shot out in front of them, trilled again and then flew back into the bush.

‘The birds are so different here,’ Angela said, smiling. ‘So colourful. The poor London birds seem very dull in comparison.’

‘My mum really likes birds.’

‘Does she? I like them so much I even make them for a living. Little ceramic ones.’

‘Mum’s got a pottery wheel here. And loads of clay. Do you want to see it?’

‘I’d love to, Ig. Thank you.’

In the kitchen, Genevieve and Victoria were looking out the window.

‘He’s taking her into the pottery shed.’

‘Is that a good idea?’

‘I don’t know what’s good or bad any more.’

It took Ig three tugs to pull the blue wooden door open. He switched on the light and stood back as Angela looked around.

‘This is nice. Much bigger than my studio in London.’

‘Do you like it better here?’

‘I’ve just got here, Ig. And I’m on holiday. It’s very different.’

‘But could you live here all the time if you had to?’

‘I think I’d get a bit lonely without my husband or daughter.’

‘But they’re coming soon, aren’t they?’

‘Yes, they are.’

‘Do you want to do any of your ceramic birds while you’re here?’

‘I don’t know.’

Ig watched as she cut herself a piece of clay, held it in her hand, started to soften it. She rolled it one way, then the other. When she opened her hand again it still looked just like a ball of clay.

She held it out to him. ‘Do you want to try making a bird for me?’

He shook his head. ‘But I can show you lots of real ones if you want. I know all their names.’

‘You’d take me birdwatching? Thank you, I’d like that.’

‘Want to take a picnic too?’

‘That would be great.’

‘Wait here.’

Genevieve and Victoria interrogated him as soon as he appeared in the kitchen.

‘We were just talking,’ he said. ‘About clay and London and stuff. And now we’re going birdwatching. I’m getting a picnic first.’

‘A picnic?’

‘We might get hungry.’

‘You had breakfast about twenty minutes ago. So did Mum.’

‘We have to call her Angela, not Mum,’ Ig said.

They watched as he gathered a packet of biscuits, two bottles of juice and two apples. He put them into his schoolbag, which he slung over his back.

Victoria reached up on top of the cupboard. ‘Want the binoculars too?’

He added them to his bag.

‘Ig, are you sure you’re okay?’ Genevieve said. ‘You’re not scared of her or anything?’

‘Why would I be scared of her?’

‘Because she’s different at the moment. Mum, but not quite Mum.’

Ig gave that some thought. ‘I’m not scared. I like this one too.’

After dinner, Angela got up and yawned politely. ‘That was delicious. Thanks so much. Nearly as delicious as your picnic today, Ig. Excuse me, I might go to bed now and read.’

They watched her leave. Lindy spoke first. ‘Mum never ever did that, did she?’

‘I bet she wanted to,’ Victoria said.

Once again, after getting ready for bed, Angela stepped out onto the verandah. It had become her routine, to sit out here on her own every night for a little while. She didn’t turn on the light. She sat in the darkness that wasn’t darkness. The stars were so bright out here. The moon so big. It sounded quiet at first, until you really listened and heard all sorts of sounds. Faint bird calls. The scratching of animals. She’d even seen a kangaroo that morning, right at the homestead fence. Later in the afternoon, she’d spied an emu in the distance. Wait until Lexie saw them!

Yes, it had been another lovely day. It was so peaceful here. So relaxing. She loved spending time with that little boy too. He was such a quirky young fellow. Adorable. The girls were all so interesting as well. Each so different. And their family friend, Joan, was so warm and friendly. Exactly the kind of neighbour anyone would want to have.

She thought about the man too. The children’s father. Nick.

Over the past few days she had started to notice him more. Several times, she’d caught him looking at her. He seemed so sad about something. She wondered what it was.

‘Have you noticed something about Angela and Dad?’ Genevieve said later, once she and Victoria were alone in the kitchen, cleaning up. ‘She talks to us, but she’s hardly exchanged a word with him.’

‘Have you put that in the book?’ They’d done as Ruth suggested and started keeping a note of anything unusual that they noticed Angela saying and doing.

Genevieve nodded. ‘Of all of us, you’d think she’d remember him, wouldn’t you? The man she’s lived with for thirty-three years? There’d be some physical memory of him, wouldn’t there?’

Nick came in. Genevieve wasn’t sure if he’d heard or not.

‘How are you going, Dad?’ she said. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine,’ he said.

‘I’m not,’ Victoria said. ‘It all feels so strange. She looks just the same, but she’s completely different.’

‘And she doesn’t do any of the things Mum used to do,’ Genevieve said.

‘That’s because it’s not her any more,’ Nick said.

Genevieve heard a catch in his voice. ‘Dad? Are you okay?’

Nick didn’t answer. He had his back to them, reaching up for a glass.

‘There’s beer in the fridge if you want one,’ Genevieve said.

‘No, thanks.’ He poured himself a glass of water, then left the room. ‘Back soon,’ he said.

Fifteen minutes later, he was still outside. He’d planned to walk over to the chapel, to sit quietly on his own. He hadn’t got that far. Halfway across the paddocks, he’d stopped. The last time he’d been at the chapel was with Angela, the day he’d read her Christmas letter. He didn’t want to remember that conversation. Instead, he went in the other direction and leaned on one of the empty sheep-pen fences. It was a crisp, clear night, the stars bright, the moon huge. A night that promised hot weather the next day.

If he turned around, he would see the lights of the homestead, hear music, snatches of conversation, his children talking, getting ready for bed. He would go to bed soon too. To the bedroom that he and Angela had slept in for more than thirty years. To bed, alone. While she slept in the guestroom.

He’d kept trying to follow Ruth’s advice. Act normal. Go along with what she says. He had talked to Angela less than half a dozen times since they’d brought her home from Port Augusta. About the weather, the scenery. He’d offered her a cup of tea on several occasions. She’d accepted it once and declined it twice, smiling at him each time in that odd, distracted way. As if they were strangers. As if they hadn’t spent most of their lives together. As if she had no memory of him. No memory of their years as husband and wife.

It was temporary, Ruth had told them. It was her brain recalibrating. She’d come back to him again.

He hoped so. He hoped it was soon. Because it was breaking his heart to see her like this.

Back came the bad thoughts. The fog. He hadn’t made a new appointment with his psychologist yet, but he needed help now.

In the homestead again, he went into the kitchen. It was empty for once. He took the opportunity, picking up the phone and dialling. He spoke briefly.

The answer was immediate. ‘Of course. Come now. I’ll meet you halfway.’

He left a brief note. He knew the kids wouldn’t worry. They were used to him having to leave at all hours of the day or night. Station work, even caretaking work, was never nine to five.

He’d been driving for thirty minutes across the dirt road when he saw the headlights ahead.

They were almost exactly at the halfway point between their two stations. He parked and got out of his car. Soon after, the other car stopped. Joan got out and walked towards him.

It was easy to talk out here. They’d both turned their headlights off. The only light was coming from the stars and the moon. He had known Joan all his life. She was the closest person he had to a big sister. He had been so glad, so grateful when she had taken Angela under her wing all those years ago. He’d always trusted her. He trusted her again now. He needed her to tell him the truth. He got straight to the point.

‘Did she want to leave me, Joan? Before this happened? Was she that unhappy?’

‘Never. She loved you so much. Loves you so much. She’s been worried sick about you.’

‘But her letter. Everything she said in it, about the man in London, about —’

‘Forget about that bit for now. It’s the other part you should read. The part about you. That’s exactly how she felt, Nick. That you’d stopped talking to her. Closed yourself off from her. She couldn’t understand why.’

‘I had to.’

‘Why?’

There was a long pause.

‘Nick? What’s wrong? What’s been going on?’

He told her. Hesitantly, to begin with. Her silence encouraged him. He told her everything. About his depression. The debt. Exactly why he’d accepted the offer from the mining company. He told her about the visits to his doctor. The psychologist. If she was shocked, the darkness hid her expression. When she spoke, her voice was as calm as ever.

‘I wish you’d told Angela all of this. It would have helped you. It would have helped her.’

‘What do I do, Joan? I don’t know how to handle this. How to be with her.’

‘Just be yourself, Nick.’

‘She doesn’t know me any more.’

‘Then let her get to know you again. That’s who she fell in love with thirty-three years ago, remember. You haven’t changed that much, apart from a few grey hairs. You’re definitely as stubborn as ever.’

He couldn’t see her smile but he could hear it in her voice.

‘Do you still love her?’ Joan asked. ‘Do you still want to be married to her?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘Good. Because I happen to know for a fact she feels the same way about you. You’ll get through this. We have to let nature take its course. She’ll come back to us. And in the meantime, be nice to her. Really nice. Then go off to Ireland. And make sure you bring her back a really good souvenir.’

‘Thanks, Joan. For everything.’

‘Any time, Nick.’

They didn’t hug. It wasn’t their way. Nick waited until she had got back into her car. He waved goodbye, and stayed until her car had disappeared from sight. Only then did he head homewards himself.

Victoria and Genevieve talked through the night, once again. During the day, someone always seemed to be within earshot. They needed to keep their news to themselves for now. The news they’d had for nearly a week.

Victoria was pregnant.

‘
Might
be pregnant,’ Genevieve tried to reassure her once again. ‘It might have been a faulty test.’

‘They’re supposed to be fail-proof.’

‘There’s always one that’s broken, surely. Maybe you were just unlucky.’ She squeezed her hands. ‘We’ll go to Port Pirie or Port Augusta tomorrow. Get another test.’

‘But what if that’s positive too?’ Victoria’s eyes filled with tears. She asked the question she’d asked every night since she’d done the test. ‘Genevieve, what am I going to do?’

‘Just wait. Wait and see. Wait until we know for sure.’

The next morning at breakfast, Victoria and Genevieve casually announced they were going to drive across to Port Pirie after they’d dropped Ig to school. It was his first week back. They told their father they were going to buy groceries. He just nodded, distracted. He’d had a call from one of his neighbours that morning, asking if he could lend a hand with some stock.

Lindy decided to stay on the station. She was trying to catch up on her cushion stitching. While they had all been in Adelaide and Port Augusta, she had received another three orders.

It was Genevieve’s idea to ask Angela if she’d like to join them. She’d like that very much, Angela said. She went to her room to get her bag.

Lindy looked alarmed. ‘Is that a good idea? Didn’t Ruth say it’s better to keep her here?’

‘We won’t let her out of our sight,’ Genevieve said. ‘We’ll drive straight there, get some groceries and come straight back. She’ll be fine.’

They lost her within twenty minutes of arriving in Port Pirie.

‘She was right here,’ Victoria said, standing in front of the supermarket. ‘Where did she go?’

‘I don’t know,’ Genevieve said, panicked. ‘And she hasn’t got a phone. We can’t even ring her.’

‘You go in that direction. I’ll head this way.’

Victoria ran down Ellen Street, past shops, pubs, a cafe, quickly looking inside each one. There was no sign of Angela. Then she saw the bookshop further down the street. As a family, they’d called in there often over the years, chatting to the owners each time. Would the New Angela have felt drawn there as well?