Hello from the Gillespies (37 page)

‘You’d think I’d been doing this for years, wouldn’t you?’ she’d said to him.

She had. Ig didn’t say anything. He’d also decided not to tell the others about any of this. Especially the calling-her-Mum bit.

Celia hadn’t even noticed they were gone, Ig realised, as they came inside. She had the volume on the TV turned up so high they could hear it even over the sound of the rain on the tin roof.

‘Okay, kiddo,’ Angela said. ‘Have a shower and get into some dry clothes.’

‘Okay,’ he said.

He smiled to himself as he went into the bathroom. He’d always liked it when she called him kiddo.

Genevieve, Victoria and Lindy weren’t home until after dark. They were full of talk about the storm. They’d had to wait at two of the creek crossings for the levels to go down enough for them to pass through. What Genevieve called ‘idiot tourists’ had kept driving across in their hired four-wheel drives, filming themselves whooping and shouting as the water reached past their tyres.

‘That’d be great on YouTube, wouldn’t it?’ she said. ‘“Here’s what we looked like just before we drowned.”’

‘Any news here?’ Victoria asked Ig. ‘What did you get up to while we were gone?’

‘Not much,’ Ig said.

If Nick had ever imagined a London architect’s office – not that he’d ever had cause to before today – it wouldn’t have looked like this. He’d expected a glossy, sleek building, floor-to-ceiling windows, minimal furniture. Intimidating staff. Classical music. He double-checked the address. Upper Street, Islington. It was the right place. The right name on the door too.
WSA.
Will Somers Architects.

It was on the first floor, above a drycleaners in the middle of a row of clothing and gift shops. The taxi driver from Paddington Station had told him Islington was a pretty exclusive kind of suburb these days. There was also a Tube strike on, apparently, which was why the roads were so crowded. Sitting in the back of the taxi, Nick could hardly believe he was here, in London. In a black cab. That he’d just travelled from Cork to Heathrow. From the airport to Paddington. He’d gone straight to the Islington Hilton, where his room had been ready. It was incredible, he thought again. His daughter able to organise all these travel arrangements from a sheep station in outback South Australia.

Genevieve had emailed him the night before, after they’d spoken the second time. When he’d told her what he’d decided to do, she insisted on taking care of all his bookings. Her email was businesslike.

His appointment with Will was for one p.m. Still an hour away. He walked the length of Upper Street and back. Past restaurants, clothes shops, cafes, gift shops, an Irish pub.

In the taxi on the way to Islington, he’d seen places he recognised from films, books. Baker Street, a statue of Sherlock Holmes out front. Once again, he thought how different this trip would have been if Angela had been beside him. This was her home city and he was here without her.

After his walk, there was just time to go back to the hotel and change into a fresh shirt. He didn’t need to re-read Angela’s letter. He already knew what he wanted to ask Will.

He pressed the buzzer beside the door right on one p.m. He thought of the Will she had written about, so successful, so sought-after. The Will who lived in the big London house, who —

A man’s voice sounded from the intercom. Nick had expected a secretary or receptionist. He gave his name.

‘Come on up,’ the voice answered.

The stairs were narrow. The walls needed painting. Nick could smell food cooking, something with spices – from a nearby restaurant kitchen, he guessed. One flight of stairs, and then another door with the same
WSA
logo painted on it. He pushed it open.

There was paper everywhere. Cardboard tubes, with architectural drawings sticking out, leaning against walls. Two desks close together, one covered in folders and more paper. The other with an old computer on it. Behind that a man in his mid-fifties, standing up, talking on the phone. He looked over, held up a finger to say he’d be with him soon.

Nick took a seat.

He imagined Genevieve firing questions at him.
‘But what did he look like, Dad?
’

He was shorter than Nick. Five ten maybe. He was wearing a suit, the jacket unbuttoned. It was hard to tell what colour hair he’d had, because there wasn’t much left of it. Brown? Dark brown?

Genevieve’s questions kept coming.
‘But was he handsome? Thin? Fat? Come on, Dad!’

Handsome? No. He looked kind of – what was the word? Puffy. Red-faced. But also pale. Blotchy. That was it. He was blotchy. Like a man who spent too much time indoors. Or a man who drank too much.

Was that what Nick looked like these days? No. He’d been the same weight for years. He was still fit. Tanned too. And he still had his own hair.

Was he actually comparing himself to this man? Yes, he was.

Will seemed to be having an argument with his caller. Something about an attic extension, the staircase being faulty. He kept switching between being soothing and being defensive. ‘I’ll be over tomorrow. Yes, I know I recommended those builders. I’ve never had any complaints about them before. Two p.m. Right. Bye.’ He put down the phone and rolled his eyes. ‘Sorry about that.’ He held out his hand. Nick took it.

‘Nick Gillespie,’ Nick said.

‘Will Somers. How can I help you, Mr Gillespie?’

It was half past eleven on Errigal. Everyone was in bed. Angela was awake, reading a magazine. It was still raining outside, but it was a soft, steady fall now, not the tumultuous downpour of before.

She heard a sound at the door. A tiny knock. ‘Come in,’ she said.

It was Ig.

‘I can’t sleep,’ he said.

‘Oh, Ig, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘But it’s very late. You should try.’

‘Will you come and tuck me in?’

‘Of course.’

She followed him down the hall to his room. It was the first time she’d been in here since she’d come to stay on Errigal. He clambered back into his bed. She tucked the covers in tightly around him. ‘There you go. Snug as a bug.’

He smiled at her, and shut his eyes.

Back in her room again, she took a seat on the side of her bed. Why had that felt so familiar? Why did this seem to keep happening to her? Doing something and feeling like she’d done it before. Not just tucking Ig in, but also the line about being snug as a bug. Other moments. In the woolshed earlier, when she was taking photographs, she’d had a flash of memory of a party. But there hadn’t been a party since she was here. Had they told her about one? Perhaps that was it. She was hearing so many stories from the family all the time, they were getting mixed up in her own mind.

It would be different when Will and Lexie were here. They’d be off doing trips on their own. She wouldn’t be spending so much time with the Gillespies.

Angela took off her slippers again and got into bed. As she reached for her book, she saw something on the bedside table. She hadn’t noticed it before. It was a thick folder with lots of paper inside it. A note was attached to the front.
I think you will find this most illuminating.

The note was unsigned. She opened the folder. It looked like a letter. Lots of letters.

She put on her glasses and started to read.

Nick had tried three times to explain to Will who he was and why he was there. Each time they were interrupted by the phone ringing. Will apologised. ‘My secretary’s only part-time. Day off today, as you can see.’

‘Could you take the phone off the hook?’

‘And lose a possible client?’

‘It’s important,’ Nick said.

‘Everyone thinks their renovations are important. And everyone wants it done now. You’re Australian, are you? Been living in London long? How you can handle this climate is beyond me. I’d prefer sunshine twelve months a year.’

‘Have you ever been there?’

‘Not yet. One day. When Concorde’s flying again and I win the lottery and can get there in five hours instead of – what is it, thirty-five hours?’

‘Not quite,’ Nick said. He had to ask now, while the phone was quiet. ‘I don’t live here. I’m visiting. My wife’s from London. Her name is Angela Richardson.’

Will just looked at him.

‘Angela Richardson,’ Nick repeated.

‘Right,’ Will said. ‘So she’s showing you around, is she? Great. And so who wants the work done, her family?’

‘She’s an old friend of yours. From years ago.’

‘Of mine? Your wife is an old friend of mine? Where is she?’

‘Still in Australia.’

‘She asked you to drop in and say hello? She’s got a better memory than me.’

‘You used to go out together. About thirty-five years ago.’

‘We did? Angela, did you say?’ He frowned. ‘Dark curly hair? Great eyes?’

‘That’s her.’

‘God, I haven’t thought about her in years. How is she?’

‘Good,’ Nick said. ‘We’ve been married thirty-three years. Four kids.’

‘Good for you. In Australia? In sunny Sydney?’

‘You don’t know where she is? You haven’t been in touch with her?’

‘In touch with her? Why would I? Listen, Rick —’

‘Nick.’

‘Sorry, Nick. Look, I don’t know what —’ The phone rang. ‘Excuse me.’ He answered. ‘That’s right. Attic conversions, bathroom extensions. Yes. Sure, I can. Tomorrow. Today? Sure. See you then. Yes, I know the street. I’m a local myself.’ He hung up. ‘Sorry, Nick. I’m caught up here today, as you can see. What can I do for you?’

‘I want to talk to you about Angela.’

‘It was a long time ago. I can’t see —’

‘She’s had an accident. Her memory’s been affected. I happened to be here in London. She’s mentioned you a couple of times. I was hoping you’d tell me what you remembered about her. It might help spark more memories for her.’

‘She has amnesia or something? Sorry to hear that. Look, now’s not the time. Are you staying nearby? We could meet later. Talk over a pint or something.’

They agreed on a time. Eight p.m. Nick suggested the Irish pub on Upper Street.

‘Fine,’ Will said. ‘I’m not barred from there yet. Joking. See you then.’

He’d picked up the phone to make a call before Nick had even left the room.

Outside, Nick checked the time. It was too late to phone home. He passed an internet cafe, went in and sent a quick email instead.
It’s the right Will. Meeting again later tonight. Dad x

Once again, he followed Genevieve’s instructions. He took the Tube from Angel Station up the road. Got off at London Bridge. Took the train to Forest Hill.

It was nearly two-thirty as he came out of the station. He stood on the footpath and looked around. Why hadn’t he made this trip with Angela before? In all their years of marriage, she’d only ever been back here twice, when her parents died. It had been chaos while she was gone. Joan had nearly moved in full-time, to help out.

Had he ever asked Angela about her childhood here? He must have, in the beginning. He was sure he had. But then so much had happened so quickly for them. Meeting in that pub in Sydney, getting engaged, not just a first-year-of-marriage baby but twins. He knew she was from South London, from a council estate, but had he ever even seen photos of her house?

He followed Genevieve’s directions. Walked along the main road, turned left at a small grassed area, walked up a hill and there he was. On the street Angela had grown up in. There was a row of terraced houses, all identical in design, two windows downstairs, two windows upstairs. Each with a patch of front garden. That was it. She’d grown up in the end house, according to Genevieve. It had a geranium in a pot at the door, but beyond that, it looked like the others. A little shabbier, if anything.

He did as Genevieve had asked and took some photos, feeling self-conscious. Get one of you in front of it too, she’d asked. There was no one to take it. He wasn’t going to do one of those selfie things the kids laughed about. The other photos would have to be the proof he’d been here.

Just as he was about to leave, a middle-aged woman came up the hill, carrying shopping bags.

‘Excuse me,’ he said.

She looked suspicious. He explained why he was there, that this was his wife’s childhood home. Maybe she even knew her?

‘Richardson? No, must have been before I moved in. No one of that name here now.’

She reluctantly agreed to take a photo. Just as reluctantly, Nick stood in front of the house and smiled. It was only when he looked at it at the bottom of the hill that he realised her thumb had been over the viewfinder.

It was raining again, heavily, as he crossed the road to the Horniman Museum. No wonder this had been a big part of Angela’s childhood. It was a grand mansion with a huge clock tower, in the middle of what looked like ordinary suburban houses. It was already starting to get dark, but he could see cultivated gardens around it, open spaces, and far off, a view of the London skyline. He came inside out of the rain. What was here that Genevieve had wanted him to see? Stuffed birds? A walrus?

At the reception desk, he asked for directions.

The woman pointed. ‘Just down there. You can’t miss it,’ she said.

She was right. It was the first thing he saw as he walked into the large display room. A huge walrus, perched on a fake iceberg. It was the size of a baby elephant. It was also strangely smooth. He walked over to the security man sitting nearby. ‘That walrus? What’s funny about it?’

‘Everything, if you ask me.’ The man explained the background, that it had been stuffed in the last century by a taxidermist who’d never seen a real one and so filled up every inch of the skin. ‘But he’s the star of our show now,’ he said. ‘People travel for miles to have a photo taken with him.’

Nick held out his camera. ‘Would you mind?’

The guard took several. Nick checked. No thumbs. ‘Thanks.’

He did a quick circuit of the rest of the large room. It was crammed with cases of stuffed birds, skeletons, animals, reptiles. He was glad to be outside again ten minutes later.

Ig woke up before dawn. He lay there and looked out the window. The birds were noisier than ever. They always were after lots of rain. His dad had explained it. The ground got churned up, insects and worms rose closer to the surface. It was a feeding frenzy for the birds. Ig had liked the words ‘feeding frenzy’.

Angela should see it too. It would be good for her photos and for their Plan. Genevieve had bought everything he had asked. Pots of paint: green, red, blue. ‘What are you up to now?’ she’d said the night before as she handed them over. ‘I was expecting your list to say ten bottles of Coke and eight bags of chips, not half the contents of a paint shop.’