Hello from the Gillespies (33 page)

She’d sat out on the verandah with it for a while, taking some shots, but the older lady, Celia, had come and sat beside her and started asking her dozens of questions. How old was she? Where had she grown up? What was her husband’s name? What was her job? Before long, one of the girls had come out and interrupted. They often seemed to do that. Angela didn’t mind. She’d caught Celia looking at her in an odd way once or twice. It made her feel uncomfortable.

The camera was easy to use. Out on the verandah, she practised some more. She could look at her photos immediately too. No waiting for them to be developed. She could take hundreds to show Will and Lexie when they arrived.

They’d be here soon. She’d have to ask Genevieve or perhaps Victoria to drive her to the airport to get them. Genevieve had taken Nick to the airport today. Or to somewhere to catch a bus to the airport. She hadn’t heard all the details. She’d been outside as they were leaving, leaning against the fence, looking out over the paddocks, marvelling again at how often the colours changed out here. He had come up to her and said goodbye.

He had looked at her and for a moment, she’d had the strangest urge to put her arms around him. To hold him tight. She’d almost been able to imagine the feel of his body . . .

It was so odd. Perhaps it was just as well he’d gone to Ireland. And Will really had better get here soon.

Thirty-six hours of travel. Nick had counted them down. The bus from Hawker. Flights from Adelaide to Melbourne. Melbourne to Dubai. Dubai to Dublin. Hours waiting in what felt like overheated, overlit, overcrowded shopping centres rather than airports. More hours sitting in a cramped seat, too close to a complete stranger, with nothing to do but eat or watch movies on a screen the size of an envelope. More than once he’d felt the panic rising. He was trapped in this metal tube up in the sky, thousands of kilometres from his wife, his family, from Errigal. He had to get out of there. He couldn’t get out of there.

But now here he was. In Ireland. In Dublin.

It was six o’clock in the morning. He was in the immigration queue behind dozens of others, his passport ready. Outside, Carol would be waiting for him. She’d be holding up a sign with his name on it, she’d told him. They were going to get moving straightaway, driving across to Mayo that day. The itinerary was tight, with so much to see and do in eight days. But she was confident they’d manage it.

He moved forward a place. Then another. Finally, he was called forward. He handed over his passport, waiting for the warm Irish welcome, the witty comment. Nothing. It was stamped and handed back to him, the next person beckoned forward.

He’d just stepped out into the baggage hall when he heard a buzzing noise. The buzzing turned into a tune. ‘Danny Boy’. Genevieve or Ig must have changed the ringtone on his phone.

‘Dad, are you there yet?’ It was all four kids, on loudspeaker.

‘How was the plane?’ ‘How are you feeling?’

‘What films did you watch?’ ‘What’s Carol like?’

‘I’m not outside yet. I’m waiting for my bag. How’s Angela?’

He heard Genevieve shush the others. ‘She’s fine. No change. We’re all fine. Just checking you’re okay and that the phone is working.’

‘I’m fine too,’ he said. He briefly told them about the flights, the food, the films. His bag appeared. ‘I better go.’ He was about to say, ‘Give your mum my love,’ when he stopped himself.

‘Say hi to Carol from us,’ Genevieve called before she hung up.

Nick had expected only a few people outside waiting with signs. There were more than thirty, many with large banners decorated in ribbons and paint, welcoming home emigrants. He saw reunions between parents and children, meetings with grandchildren. Chauffeurs in suits held up iPads bearing names, instead of handwritten signs. Carol had said she’d be right there waiting too. She must have been delayed. He double-checked, re-reading the names on the signs and iPads. No, nothing for Nick Gillespie. He checked his phone. No message. She had his number. His phone was working. She was probably driving. Trying to park the car. The plane might have been early. He’d just have to wait.

Thirty minutes later he was still waiting.

An hour later he was still waiting.

He’d rung the mobile number she had given him several times. No answer. It was too early for anyone to be at her office, but he rang there all the same. No answer, no voicemail either.

Ninety minutes after the plane had landed, he was still waiting. He couldn’t get an answer on any of her numbers. He pulled out a printout of the last email he’d sent her. She had the right arrival time, the right date. They had last spoken just before she went on holiday. She had been bright and cheerful as ever, all organised and ready to go, she’d assured him. He’d sent through the latest payment, and the additional fee to cover their travel expenses. The final fee would be paid at the end of this week.

So where was she?

There was no point sitting in the airport any longer. He was starting to feel light-headed from lack of sleep. Even if there had been a hire car outside waiting for him, he knew he was in no condition to drive across the country to Mayo on his own.

He saw the tourist information desk. Fifteen minutes later, he was on his way to the taxi rank, with the name and address of a city-centre hotel.

It was freezing outside. The sky was grey. There was steady rain. The taxi driver smelt of cigarette smoke. He grunted when Nick gave the name of the hotel: the Gresham in O’Connell Street. As they drove, Nick waited for the witty chat, the stories. There was nothing. The driver turned up the radio. It was a pop station. The DJ sounded more American than Irish.

Nick hadn’t expected green fields, whitewashed cottages and stone walls here in Dublin. But in the early-morning winter light, the suburbs in from the airport seemed grey and bleak. They got stuck in a traffic jam, in the middle of the morning rush hour. He looked out at rows of shops, at pubs, all with the Irish names he’d expected. Kavanagh. Fagan. Kennedy.

The hotel looked expensive, five storeys high with a granite façade and flags flying out front. But what choice did he have? He hadn’t researched hotels in Dublin. He’d only expected to have one day here, when he’d finished touring other parts of the country. He paid the taxi with an unfamiliar bank note and carried his luggage in. He booked one of the cheapest rooms, trying to do the calculation from euro to Australian dollars. His room was in the back of the hotel, overlooking a car park. The rain was still pouring down. He had to turn on the bedroom light. If he hadn’t seen the clock downstairs telling him it was ten a.m., he would have thought it was still before dawn.

If only Angela were here. He’d had the same thought on the plane. At each airport. At each step of the journey.

He meant to lie down and close his eyes for just a few minutes. He woke with a start three hours later. His phone had beeped. A text message. It must be from Carol, at last.

It was from his network provider, welcoming him to Ireland.

He took out his itinerary again. He rang the numbers he had for Carol again. No answer.

He had the address of her office. He’d go there. Maybe there was a problem with her phone. He got directions from the hotel receptionist. It was close by, she said. Right on the river.

He found the building, three storeys, red brick. It was dilapidated-looking. Three steps led up to the front door, a row of buttons on the side. He looked for her company name. It wasn’t there. He pressed the top button. No answer. The next button. It took him five buttons to get any reply. He started to explain, talking into the intercom. The person at the other end didn’t speak, just buzzed open the door.

The hallway was cold. The walls had peeling paint. There was a box of brochures on the ground, with a pile of letters on top. He quickly leafed through them. Nothing for Carol’s company. He checked the box. The brochures were for an Irish cabaret night in a hotel further along the river.

He knocked on the nearest door. No answer. He went up the stairs. There were two doors. He knocked on both. One room was occupied. A man in his thirties, with a beard, heavy-rimmed glasses. No, he told Nick, he didn’t know Carol. But he was new there. It was a short-term office rental set-up. ‘You could try upstairs,’ he said.

There were three doors upstairs. He tried all of them. The first opened as he knocked on it. An empty room, just a battered desk and a few discarded power leads on the floor. The window didn’t look over the river, but onto an alleyway. He looked down. Litter blew along the ground. The second office was being used as a storeroom. The third office was occupied. A young woman, Indian, he thought, working at a computer. No, she said, she didn’t know anyone here called Carol. She’d been in the building for eight months. Was he sure he had the name right? The right address?

Nick showed her one of Carol’s emails. Yes, the woman confirmed, it was definitely this address. But this was just a short-term rental place, she said, as the man downstairs had said. Tenants came and went all the time.

There were no more rooms to try. If Carol had ever been here, she wasn’t any longer.

He stopped for a coffee and a sandwich on O’Connell Street. He had an urge to call home, to talk to – who? The only person he wanted to talk to about this was Angela. The one person he couldn’t talk to about this was Angela.

On the way back to his hotel, he passed an internet cafe. Five minutes later, he was at a terminal. He keyed in the website address of Carol’s company. It wouldn’t load. He retyped it. Still nothing. How long was it since he’d gone to this site? Months, he realised. He and Carol had always communicated by Skype or email. He’d had no need to visit her website again after the first time.

He rang her number again. No answer. About to log out, he sent a quick email home and then went outside into the cold and the rain.

There was no denying it. He knew what had happened. He’d fallen for an internet scam. He had been targeted by someone with an Irish accent, wit and charm, who had strung him along, step by step, euro by euro. Until the last minute. The last week, more accurately. The last time he’d sent her money.

But he still wanted to convince himself he was wrong. He had her bank account details. He’d track her down through that. If it was a Dublin-based bank account, he just needed to go to the head office, explain what had happened. Surely they’d be duty-bound to give him some information?

He checked the email. It wasn’t a Dublin bank account. It was a UK one. On Jersey, the island. An offshore tax haven.

He went to the police instead.

Two hours later, he was on his way back to his hotel. He’d met a sympathetic policeman in the city-centre station. Not a policeman: a guard, he’d learned they were called here. A young man, in his late twenties. He listened as Nick explained the situation. He rang the numbers on the email from Carol. He googled the website.

Nick saved him the bother of having to state the obvious. ‘I’ve been conned, haven’t I?’

‘I’m sorry, sir, I think you have. Was it a lot of money?’

‘A bit,’ he said. More than he was ever going to admit.

‘Does she have your credit-card details? You might need to cancel them if she does.’

That was one positive. She didn’t. He had sent her all the money via electronic transfer. To Dublin, he’d thought. To a bright, cheery office full of genealogists in Dublin. Not a tax haven on some island. Had she ever even been in Dublin? There was no way of knowing. But he knew one thing for sure. She wasn’t about to turn up.

All the bad thoughts came at him again. He was an idiot. A fool. How had he been so stupid? Why hadn’t he realised? He’d been a stupid, sitting duck. How much money had he sent her? For nothing? What a —

Stop those thoughts.

He’d been taught how to. He had to remember the lesson now. They were just thoughts. He had to let them flow past. Yes, it was bad; yes, he’d been conned. But it wasn’t the end of the world. He hadn’t been hurt. It was only money. He concentrated on those rational thoughts instead, turned up their volume in his head. He began to feel calmer. He made himself imagine his psychologist talking to him.
Yes, Nick, you’re in an unexpected situation. How are you going to react? Because you’re in charge of your own reaction. You can decide how to feel about it. Yes, you can feel humiliated. Stupid. Embarrassed. Now, move on. What else can you feel? Relief that it wasn’t worse? Even a small admission that somehow, deep down, you had always suspected Carol was too good to be true?
Or was that hindsight, trying to salvage some pride? Yes. But it was all helping him to feel better. It was only money. He was still here, wasn’t he? In Ireland. The land of his ancestors.

But what the hell did he do now?

Back in his room, he was at a loss. He was tired, but he couldn’t sleep yet. He was tempted to go downstairs to that big bar he’d seen opposite the reception desk, to take a seat, order a pint. The first pint of Guinness on Irish soil that he had been promising himself. But this wasn’t the time.

He went downstairs and took a seat on the other side of the lobby. He ordered tea. He would read while he drank it. Not a newspaper, not a book. He took out his uncle’s research notes. At the last moment, he’d packed them. He’d read through them all already, back in Australia, at Celia’s, at the hospital, in those bad first days after Angela’s accident. He’d needed all the distraction he could find then. He’d actually felt pity for his uncle as he read his notes. Everything in them was so different to the detailed information Carol had sent him. His poor uncle, getting it all so wrong.

The facts in here could still be wrong. All these addresses of Gillespie homelands, birth certificates, other documents. Who was to say his uncle hadn’t been conned at some stage too? But they were better than nothing. And they were now all he had.

‘That’s it,’ Ig said, leaning back in the office chair. ‘You’re all set up.’

Genevieve shook her head. ‘How can you be ten years old and know how to set up a website?’

‘Because it’s easy. And I’m nearly eleven.’

‘It can’t be easy or I would know how to do it too.’ The screen in front of them was full of colour. The title was across the top:
The Hair Raiser
. Ig had found a cartoon of a woman under a hair dryer, wearing cats’ eye glasses and smoking a cigarette in a long holder. Under that, Genevieve had written,
Your secret is safe with me. Not!

‘I can’t believe you’re doing this,’ Victoria said. ‘You’re asking for trouble. After everything that happened in New York and to me. Seriously, Genevieve. It’s bad karma.’

‘It’s not! It’s just a bit of fun. I have to do something to stop my poor brain from atrophying. None of you lot will let me near your hair, not even Celia. I can’t just sit around waiting for Angela’s to grow again.’

‘Let’s get started,’ Ig said, pulling his chair close to the computer again. ‘Tell me some secrets.’

‘Okay, let me think. One of the actors on that first series I worked on went through rehab three times. He broke out each time, literally knocked down the door and made a run for it. We were all sent out to try to find him. I think I looked in every bar in Greenwich Village.’

‘The poor man. Why should anyone but him and his family know that?’ Victoria said. ‘He might still be going through treatment. You could set him back months.’

‘Fair enough. Too personal. What about that music video I worked on? That indie band from Seattle. The singer is gay. She’s not married to the bass player at all.’

‘So what?’ Victoria said. ‘That’s her business.’

Genevieve spun around. ‘Stop heckling, will you? I’m trying to launch my career as a controversial gossipmonger and you’re making it very difficult.’

‘I don’t approve, that’s why.’

‘I think I liked you better when you were under my thumb.’ She winked as she said it. Victoria just rolled her eyes. ‘Okay, Ig. She wins. Forget the celebrity gossip. I’ll start with hairdressing horror stories from my past instead. If this site becomes the go-to place for hairdressers to swap tales, I’ll get loads of advertising from the big shampoo companies. Instant riches.’

Ig waited. So did Victoria.

‘Go on, then,’ Victoria said. ‘Give us some horror stories.’

‘I can’t think of anything. Misbehaving film stars aside, I always really liked my clients.’ She took the mouse from Ig, googled a hairdressers’ federation and found the chat room. ‘I’ll ask other stylists to email their tales anonymously. I’ll get hundreds then.’ She typed quickly:
Any horror stories? Badly behaved clients? Bleach disasters? Get it off your chest and on to my website!

‘What are you all doing?’

Genevieve looked over her shoulder at Lindy. ‘Talking about you. Where’s Angela? I thought you were supposed to be keeping an eye on her.’

‘She’s outside with her camera. Mum never took all these photos before this, did she?’

‘I don’t think she ever turned her camera on,’ Victoria said.

‘Her photos are really good,’ Ig said.

‘How do you know?’ Genevieve asked.

‘I uploaded them for her. I’ll show you.’ He took the mouse back from her.

‘How do you even know the word uploaded?’ she asked. ‘You’re some sort of shrunken man in a kid’s body, aren’t you?’

Ig ignored her, clicking until he found a folder marked
Angela’s photos
. He showed his sisters. There were dozens. No big sweeping landscapes but lots of tiny detail. The blue door of the pottery shed, with the red rose bush beside it. Sun shining on the metal bars of the sheep pens. The golden stone of the chapel. A pink galah feather on the ground.

‘They’re really good,’ Victoria said. ‘They’d make beautiful postcards.’

‘Any more word from Dad?’ Lindy asked.

‘Just that one email,’ Genevieve said. ‘He’s a bit jet-lagged but it’s all going well.’

‘Can I have the computer now?’ Lindy asked.

‘You’re skyping Richard again? He’ll be here soon enough, won’t he?’

‘He’s had to delay his trip. He’s still coming, but he’s gone away for a few days to do some intensive study first. Down to Phillip Island. A friend of Jane’s has a holiday house there.’

‘Do you mean Horrible Jane’s gone with him? It’s just the two of them away together?’ At Lindy’s nod, Genevieve gave a low whistle. ‘You’re very trusting. Or do I mean very naïve?’

‘Of course I trust him, Genevieve. Trust is the cornerstone of any good relationship. She’s just his flatmate. He’s my boyfriend. I actually need to check my website for new orders. I’ve finally finished the wisdom tooth one. It took ages.’

Victoria pinched Genevieve. Ig smiled to himself.

‘Well done,’ Genevieve said. ‘Want me to run it through spellcheck for you?’

‘Very funny.’ Lindy took a seat and clicked onto her website. The others were just leaving when she stopped them. ‘This has to be a joke. Is it you, Genevieve? Because it’s not funny if it is.’

‘Of course it’s funny if it’s me. What are you talking about?’

‘This order for twenty cushions. Oh, my
God
. It’s not for twenty. It’s for two hundred cushions. Two
hundred
.’

‘It must be a typo.’

‘It’s not a typo,’ another voice said.

They turned around. Celia was standing at the door. ‘I ordered them.’

‘But two hundred?’ Lindy said. ‘Did you mean two?’

‘No, I meant two hundred. It could even be more. I thought your cushion covers would make perfect souvenirs for everyone who comes to your father’s Gillespie reunion. Something handmade, by a Gillespie herself. You can decide on the design, but I thought a few shamrocks might be nice. And simple wording,
Gillespies Reunion, Ireland
, and the date should do it, don’t you think?’

All their mouths were now open.

‘But that will take me weeks. Months,’ Lindy said. ‘And it will cost you a fortune.’

‘You’ve got the time and I’m prepared to pay. It’s my contribution to the reunion. I loathe flying, so I can’t be there. This way I can play a small part. My husband would approve, I’m sure.’

Lindy beamed. ‘I can’t believe it! I’ll be able to use up all my supplies. I might even have to order more!’

‘No!’ Victoria and Genevieve said as one.

Lindy sprang out of the chair and threw her arms around Celia. ‘Oh, Celia, thank you! You’re a lifesaver. I’m going to get started right now.’

Celia patted her hair down. ‘Careful now. No need to be quite so boisterous.’ But she couldn’t hide the fact she was pleased.

Later that morning, Genevieve set out with Victoria to drive to a station sixty kilometres to the west of Errigal. They’d arranged the trip two days earlier. A joint mission, Genevieve had dubbed it. Victoria was going to interview all three generations of the station family, the Ryans. Genevieve was going to do their hair.

Genevieve was soon in her element. They set up a production line in the house. All seven members of the family, male and female, old and young, took turns talking to Victoria in one room. After they’d been interviewed, they went to the sunroom at the back of the house to have their hair cut or styled by Genevieve. She even managed to do a perm, using the laundry sink. It all took her back to her earliest days as an apprentice hairdresser in Port Augusta, the chat, the constant activity, moving from one person to the next so quickly. Each family member asked about Angela, of course, but the conversation had quickly widened to cover everything from sport, health issues, TV programs, weather, celebrity gossip, relationship problems.

‘That was brilliant,’ Genevieve said as they waved goodbye, five hours later. ‘Maybe we should go into business together.’

Victoria raised an eyebrow. ‘Really? You’d last a month out here.’

Genevieve shrugged. ‘Two months, maybe.’

Shortly afterwards, the turn-off to Hawker and Errigal appeared. They kept driving. At Genevieve’s urging, Victoria had made an appointment with her former doctor in Port Augusta. She’d asked Genevieve to come with her.

In the car they could talk without any fear of being overheard. ‘Is it a wasted trip, though?’ Victoria said. ‘Do I really need to do another test? I’ve done three. They’ve all been positive. How could they all be wrong? And I feel different, Genevieve. I’m sure I’m not imagining it. It feels like something is happening. Something inside me.’

Genevieve reached across to squeeze her sister’s hand. ‘You’re going to need to see a doctor eventually. It may as well be now. Have you decided what you want to do?’

‘I haven’t been able to think about anything else. I’ve changed my mind a hundred times already. But I’m nearly thirty-three, Genevieve. This might be my only chance to have a baby.’

‘But it’s —’

‘I know it’s his. I know what you think of him. What everyone thinks of him. But that’s not the baby’s fault. And he wasn’t all bad. He was smart and he could be funny and he —’

‘Was married. With kids,’ Genevieve interrupted.

‘I knew that. I knew it was just an affair. I knew there was no future in it. I knew all that at the time. But it was my choice, Genevieve. I still wanted it. And I’m not a complete innocent, no matter what Mum said in her letter.’

‘And Fred? Have you thought about him? What you’re going to tell him?’

‘I can’t stop thinking about Fred. It’s all so complicated, isn’t it? But he has to know. I have to tell him. As soon as he gets back.’ She hesitated. ‘Even if he decides afterwards that he never wants to see me again.’

Genevieve just squeezed her hand again.

‘Yes, you’re pregnant,’ Dr Reynolds said.

This was the first time Dr Reynolds had seen either of the twins in nearly five years. Before she’d done the tests, Victoria had told her everything, all the circumstances. If she was expecting any sort of lecture, she didn’t get it. The older woman was matter-of-fact as they worked out the dates since Victoria’s last period. She was nearly eleven weeks pregnant.

‘Have you given any thought to your options, Victoria?’ Dr Reynolds asked.

Victoria hesitated for only a moment. ‘I want to have it.’

‘And the father?’

‘He won’t be involved.’

‘Does he know you’re pregnant?’

Victoria shook her head.

‘He has a right to, you know that,’ Dr Reynolds said.

‘I’ll be the father,’ Genevieve said. ‘I mean it, Victoria. We’ll do it together.’

‘It’ll be hard work,’ Dr Reynolds said. ‘It’s hard work for a couple. It’s extremely hard work for a single woman.’

‘She’s not a single woman,’ Genevieve said. ‘She’s got me. I’ll be —’

‘Genevieve, are you still talking for your sister? I thought you’d have grown out of that by now.’

Genevieve stopped talking.

‘I know it’ll be hard,’ Victoria said. ‘But I think I want to try.’

Ten minutes later, they were on their way back to Errigal. Genevieve was now driving.

Victoria turned in her seat so she was facing her. ‘Am I crazy? I can’t have a baby on my own, can I? I don’t have a proper job. I live at home with my parents. I’m in serious debt. I’m not even a grown-up myself. How can I take care of a baby?’

‘Because it’s a baby. It’s tiny. We can handle it. We’ve already practised on Ig. Look how well he turned out. Our baby will be a cinch after him.’

‘Our baby?’

‘Of course it’s our baby. You think I’d let you do this on your own? You won’t be able to keep me away. Except for when you’re going through labour. Then he or she is all yours. I’ll be outside with the cigars and the other dads.’

Victoria’s eyes filled with tears. ‘What would I do without you, Genevieve?’

‘Wither and die?’ Genevieve became serious. ‘Let’s slow this all down, Victoria. Take it one step at a time. My advice is, we don’t tell anyone anything yet. Not Fred, not anyone at home, anyone at all. Let’s keep it between us for now, until you’re completely used to the idea. You’re beautifully womanly. You won’t start to show for a while yet.’

Victoria nodded. There was plenty of time to tell everyone, after all. She looked down and placed her hand on her belly. ‘There’s a baby in there. Can you believe it?’

‘No, I can’t,’ Genevieve said. ‘It’s incredible. I always thought the nuns were making it up.’

While Genevieve and Lindy drove Ig into school the next morning, Victoria and Angela went out for a walk. Angela had her camera with her. At breakfast, she’d asked about a wildflower she’d seen, a small blue one. She wanted to photograph it but hadn’t been able to find it again since her first sighting. Victoria remembered there was a clutch of them at the foot of the hill that was home to their swings. They were on their way there now.

It was a beautiful morning, clear and warm. A quartet of colourful birds was flitting around the trees nearby. Angela pointed them out, asking what they were. Native parrots of some kind, Victoria said.

‘I’ll ask Ig about them later,’ Angela said. ‘He knows a lot of birds. He should be a tour guide when he grows up.’

‘I think he wants to be a computer hacker, but that’s not a bad second option,’ Victoria said.

There was a comfortable silence between them. Victoria tried to remember if it had been like that when New Angela was Old Angela. She couldn’t remember ever actually going on walks like this with Old Angela. Her mum was always doing something, planning something, getting ready for something or cleaning up after something. Was that just what life was like when you were a mother? You were so busy with your children you didn’t have time for your children? She felt a lurch inside her. Not the baby kicking, it was too early for that. But the realisation. She was going to be a mother. She was going to have a son or a daughter. By the end of the year.

‘I’m pregnant, Angela.’

She said it without thinking. She said it because she suddenly had to tell someone other than Genevieve. She said it because she wanted to say it to her mother, even if she was the new version, not the old one.

‘Are you?’ Angela said. ‘Is that good news or bad news?’

‘I don’t mind being pregnant. But I’m not in a relationship with the father. I mean, I was, but I’m not now.’