Hello from the Gillespies (34 page)

‘Have you told your parents?’

‘Not yet. I don’t want to spoil Dad’s trip. And Mum’s away.’

‘You should probably ring her.’

‘I thought I’d wait until I could tell her face to face,’ she said.

They kept walking. Angela asked more questions. How many weeks pregnant was she? What was her due date? How was she feeling? Normal questions, interested but not overly concerned. A stranger’s questions, not a mother’s. But still oddly comforting to answer.

‘Have you had any nausea or morning sickness?’ Angela asked.

‘Not really. I’ve been lucky, I guess. But I feel different. Full up, if that makes sense. As if something is going on but I’m not sure yet quite what.’

‘You know to avoid soft cheeses? Pâté? And if you do get morning sickness, just —’ Angela frowned. ‘Sorry, I’ve forgotten it right now. But I know it worked for me every time.’

‘Every time?’

‘In all my pregnancies.’

‘How many pregnancies did you have?’

Again, that look of confusion. ‘One. Lexie’s. That’s odd. I nearly said three.’

Three. Three pregnancies, one with twins, one for Lindy, one for Ig. Victoria was on the verge of saying something when Angela stopped and pointed. ‘That’s it there, isn’t it? The blue flower.’

They didn’t mention the pregnancy again until they were nearly home.

‘Angela, what I told you before, my news – would you mind keeping that to yourself?’

‘What did you tell me before?’

Victoria smiled. ‘It’s fine. Don’t worry.’

Later that night, Genevieve was upset. ‘Forget about her remembering three pregnancies. I can’t believe you told her you were pregnant.’

‘We were talking, it was so relaxed, she looked like Mum, she sounded like Mum. I suddenly wanted to tell Mum.’

‘But she might tell everyone now. Before you’re ready to tell.’

‘I asked her to keep it quiet. I trust her.’

‘I hope you’re right.’

The next day, a Saturday, they watched and waited for a sign that Angela had said anything to the others. There was nothing. It was Celia who was surprising them. Celia and Lindy. Since the reunion cushion order, they’d become a kind of team.

‘Lindy’s just sucking up to her now she knows she’s got money to spare,’ Genevieve said.

‘Don’t be so cynical,’ Victoria said. ‘They actually get on. I think Celia’s good for her. She’s got Ig working too.’

The three of them had taken over the woolshed. Celia was getting them to sweep the floor and then spread tarpaulin everywhere. She was directing it all from a chair set up in the doorway.

‘There’s no point having all the cushion material in boxes and having to send Ignatius out to dig around in them any time you want a piece of thread,’ she said. ‘You need a system.’

‘How do you know about systems?’ Lindy asked, putting the broom down for a moment and wiping her sweaty hair off her forehead.

‘I worked in my husband’s spare-parts business for forty years, Rosalind. We supplied more than two hundred repair businesses around the state at one stage. There’s nothing I don’t know about supply and demand.’

‘I thought you were just his secretary.’

‘I ran it all. He was only the figurehead. The unfortunate truth is that in a spare-parts business the customers prefer to deal with a man than a woman. Sexist, but true. Let’s get to work here. We’re going to unpack all the boxes and set up a system with your coloured threads, your cushion covers and your stuffing.’

‘What about my cubby?’ Ig said.

‘We just want the contents, Ignatius. You can still have the boxes. They’ll be lighter to move around then too.’

‘A win-win situation,’ Ig said, continuing to sweep.

‘Where’s Angela?’ Genevieve asked Victoria. ‘She’s not on the verandah or in her room.’

‘She’s out near the gum tree,’ Victoria said. She was at the kitchen table with her recording equipment, replaying her recent interviews. ‘Taking photographs of the leaves, I think.’

‘Can you keep an eye on her? I’m going to have a long bath. Use up all the water while Dad’s away and can’t tell me off.’

‘Sure,’ Victoria said.

Outside, Angela had stopped taking photographs. She was trying to decide whether to read or nap. It was so relaxing on Errigal. The weather was so good, day after day. It got a bit hot sometimes, but the house was cool, and the verandah caught any passing breeze.

She should be doing a bit more sightseeing, really, but she’d decided to wait until Will and Lexie arrived. That way they would see it all for the first time together. The area was so beautiful. There was so much to photograph. She’d decided to capture details rather than the sheer size of it. That would be impossible in a photo. The colours changed so much, the vastness of the sky – a photo would never do it justice. Perhaps she could even use some of these images when she got back to London. Recreate some of those incredible colours with some of her glazes.

She remembered all the ceramic birds she had done before Christmas in London. She thought of the pottery shed that little Ig had shown her. Why wait until she was home again? That would be a great surprise for Will and Lexie when they arrived, if she had already started work on a new project.

She walked across to the shed. It took her several attempts to open the old blue wooden door. As she tugged at the handle, a breeze blew a strand of the climbing rose near her. She reared back. It was if she had been slapped. She put her hand to her cheek. Had it scratched her?

No, it was the smell of the rose that had startled her. She stood still for a moment. Something was just out of reach in her mind. Something about the rose. Had the Gillespies told her it was a special variety? It looked like an ordinary rose to her. They had roses in London too. A row of them in the back garden. Will looked after them.

She caught the stem and smelt the rose again, searching for that elusive memory. Was it about how difficult it had been to grow flowers out here? That must be it.

It was cool inside the shed. She turned on the light and shut the door again to keep out the heat. She picked up several pieces of work from the drying rack. She wondered what they were supposed to be. They were just odd shapes. There were so many of them too.

She couldn’t wait to feel the clay in her hands again. What would she start with? One of the exotic Australian birds she and Ig had seen on their birdwatching trips? A blue wren? A parrot?

No, she’d do her favourite bird. A robin.

She cut off a piece of clay and rolled it in her hands, softening it. She pictured a robin, the little plump body, the chest that she would glaze in that distinct rusty orange. Robin redbreast really was a misnomer. She pictured the tilt of its head, the delicate shape of its tail feather. She’d need some wire too, to make the spindly legs. She’d ask Ig to help her find some.

She shaped and smoothed, loving the familiar feel of the clay under her fingers. It was always so soothing. She opened her hand. It didn’t look like a robin yet. She started again. Her second attempt was no better. She’d try a different way, she decided. Form the body first, then the head, then join them.

Once again, the finished product looked nothing like a robin. How odd. She’d been making dozens of these every day before she left for this trip. Maybe she should do another sort of bird.

She tried. The wren looked like a squashed plum. The sparrow looked like a sausage. She had the pictures of them in her head, but they wouldn’t translate to her hands.

It was so strange. It was as if she had forgotten how to do them.

Nick was lost. In an unfamiliar hire car, on an unfamiliar Irish motorway, trying to make sense of Irish signs and see the road ahead through the sheets of rain pelting against his windscreen.

For the past two days he had stayed in Dublin, in the same hotel on O’Connell Street. He’d emailed home again, telling Genevieve once more that all was fine. If he told them what had happened, they would only worry. They had enough to worry about as it was. They’d had just one more brief phone call too. He had described green fields and stone walls, getting inspiration from the tourist brochures on the desk in front of him as he looked out of his hotel window at the car park and the grey skies.

He’d re-read all of his uncle’s notes. They were more boring than Carol’s notes, but they sounded more truthful. There was information about the original cousins who had come out to Australia from County Mayo and County Donegal. There was a sketch of the family tree, more place names, more listings of different sets of husbands and wives, each with at least five children. The same names kept appearing: Joseph, Ignatius, Aloysius for the boys, Honora, Mary and Josephine for the girls. Some had more details written by hand beside them. His uncle Joe’s writing? Perhaps. Joe had managed to gather a lot of information, especially considering he’d done it before the days of the internet. Before unscrupulous con artists came along to take advantage of idiot outback farmers who hadn’t realised they were being fleeced from day one.

No, he wouldn’t let himself think like that. He had to accept it, deal with it, move on. Those three phrases were becoming his mantra.

He decided to try to verify his uncle’s notes. It had to be easier to do here in Ireland than from the other side of the world. He asked for help at reception. The city was full of places to research family trees, he was told. He was given a list of addresses.

He made his way through the city, crossing the river, the wind and rain lashing at him. He walked along the crowded streets, hearing many different accents and languages. He looked up at the old stone buildings, down at the Liffey River, grey and muddy in the winter light. There seemed to be rubbish everywhere. There were so many poor homeless men and women too, begging on the streets, people walking past them, mostly ignoring them. Nick gave them all the change he had.

He queued at the family research office near Dublin Castle, and had a brief conversation with an official, giving all the names and dates he had. After a short wait, he was given a photocopy of a death certificate from the 1840s. It was definitely one of his ancestors. All the details tallied with his uncle’s notes. It was like a shot of adrenalin. He
had
come from this place. He did have a history here in Ireland.

He queued again, gave the extra information he’d found on the certificate and was given more photocopies. Again, he struck gold. Another ancestor’s birth certificate, a great-great-aunt, with even more details: her religion (Catholic), her father’s occupation (tailor). He felt like he was on an historical treasure hunt, trying to put together an intricate jigsaw puzzle stretching over generations. He was sure now that Carol’s research had been faked. It didn’t matter. He was the detective now.

That night he decided he would still go to County Mayo. He had a definite ancestral address now, outside the town of Westport, in a place called Liscarney. A different address than the one Carol had given him. His ancestor’s occupation was different too. Carol had told him the Gillespies were all farmers. ‘It was in your blood, Nick.’ But the certificates he’d seen today had described them as tailors and shopkeepers. No farming background at all. Which meant that the two cousins who had come to Australia, and had found themselves in the middle of nowhere, had probably been starting from scratch. Not just new to Australian conditions and climate, but to farming life altogether.

He’d been on the road for six hours. It had been dark by four p.m. It was nearly eight by the time he drove into Westport. After deciding to go off the motorway, he’d got lost yet again. He’d driven through one small town after another. Perhaps they looked beautiful in the summer, with a blue sky above them and flowers in window boxes. In winter, in the pouring rain, they looked soulless and depressing. The only people he saw seemed to be running from their cars to shops, umbrellas aloft or hoods pulled up. He hadn’t seen anything that resembled any of the photographs he’d spent the last year poring over or uploading onto the computer’s screensaver. All he could think about was the big blue sky above Errigal. The space and the light there. How huge but also how full of promise it must have seemed to his ancestors, coming from a small, damp, cramped country like this. He passed what he assumed were farms, a collection of buildings, stone walls enclosing fields that were smaller than the yard at Errigal. He passed other fields holding fifteen black-faced sheep at most. That was it? That was their flock? At its peak, there had been ten thousand sheep on Errigal.

The rain kept falling. He’d expected it to be wet – it was winter, after all – but he hadn’t expected the rain to fall constantly like this. There was no let-up. The fields on either side of the road were flooded now, lakes of silver water covering what he presumed were once crops. The sky felt like it was just metres above his head. He’d had his headlights on since he left Dublin. Of course it was going to be different than Australia, he’d known that. But even discounting what had happened with Carol to sour his arrival, he’d expected more. A sudden kinship, a feeling of homecoming. He’d thought the land, the scenery would speak to him, touch him somehow.

All it did was make him homesick for Australia.

He’d phoned home that morning before he set off. He kept up the charade that all was going as planned. Genevieve had assured him in turn that everything was fine on Errigal, that there was no change with Angela, no big news. He’d hoped she wasn’t lying as much as he was.

Westport was hilly, with a series of one-way streets, a fast-flowing river. He pulled into the car park of the first hotel he saw. He was drenched by the time he got his bag out of the car and found his way into reception. He checked in for two nights. His room had a better view this time than the one in Dublin, as far as he could tell at night-time. There was a tree to look at, at least. He was hungry. Thirsty. He’d have a hot shower first. His body was still aching from the flight. His muscles had tightened even more after the long drive.

As he walked past the hotel bar, he heard music. A traditional session of some sort. The first live music he’d heard. He decided to postpone the shower. Have something to eat and enjoy the music instead.

He found a table to the side of the room, near an open fire. There were three musicians: a guitarist, a fiddle-player and an accordionist. There were only a few other people in the room. A waiter appeared. Nick ordered fish and chips.

‘Anything to drink, sir?’

Nick looked across at the bar. The wooden counter was polished to a gleam. He’d been in Ireland for three days without so much as a sip of Guinness. It was time he had one.

As his meal and pint arrived, so did a coach load of people. A group of American tourists, on a five-day guided tour of Ireland. They filled the seats around him. A couple sat beside him and introduced themselves as Ken and Patty from Cincinatti. ‘We know, it rhymes!’ Patty said. They had Irish ancestry too; everyone on the tour was in search of their Irish roots.

There was a singalong. He knew this wasn’t an authentic music session, that it was staged for tourists just like him, but they played all the songs he loved: ‘Danny Boy’, ‘Rocky Road to Dublin’, ‘Whiskey in the Jar’. The Americans were in great spirits beside him, singing along. Several of them even attempted to do some Irish dancing. The mood was so happy, the conversation flowing, everyone having a wonderful time. This was exactly how he’d expected Ireland to be. As he’d imagined it.

Himself and Angela here together.

He got up and left before he finished his pint. He didn’t want to be there without her.