Hello from the Gillespies (38 page)

‘It’s a surprise,’ he told her.

‘You and Robbie?’ she said.

‘Not exactly,’ he said.

He and Angela were doing a mural. A mural of a bird aviary on the side of the woolshed. It was a big blank wall at the moment. He was going to paint it white first, and then with Angela’s help he was going to draw all the birds around the station. He’d been practising his drawings and he had them just about right now. And Angela said if he made a mistake, it didn’t matter, that birds came in all shapes and sizes and if he really wasn’t happy with any of his drawings, then they could just paint it white again and start a new one.

He knocked on the door of Angela’s room. There was no answer. He knocked again and called her name. Still nothing. He opened the door and stepped in. ‘Angela?’

She was asleep. There was paper all over the floor. He stepped closer. They were his mum’s letters. The Christmas letters. The ones they had all read through for their Boxing Day play that didn’t happen.

She opened her eyes, sat up and reached for her glasses. ‘Ig? Is everything all right?’

‘Yes,’ Ig said. ‘The birds are really good after the rain. I thought you might want to see them.’

She sat up straighter and looked around at all the paper.

‘Do you want me to pick them up?’ he said.

‘Thanks, Ig. They must have slipped off the bed after I read them last night.’

He gathered them, all out of order, but he didn’t think it mattered. He put the folder back on the end of her bed.

‘I’ll wait on the verandah,’ he said.

He was about to step outside when she spoke again. ‘Ig? Can I ask you something?’

He nodded.

‘Could you shut the door first?’

He did.

‘I’m sorry if this sounds a bit strange,’ she said.

He waited.

‘Ig, am I your mother?’

‘I don’t believe it!’ Genevieve’s voice carried around the whole house. She was in the office, at the computer. ‘Ig? Ig, are you there?’

‘What is it?’ Lindy called back from the kitchen.

Genevieve appeared in the doorway. ‘It was a joke. A silly joke, and I’ve had two thousand hits already. It’s madness! A few photos of cats. What’s the world coming to? I need to do more, immediately. Where’s Ig?’

Victoria looked up from her breakfast. She shrugged.

‘Lindy?’

Lindy was at the other end of the table, sewing. Celia was opposite her, also sewing.

‘Nothing from Dad?’ Victoria asked.

‘Nothing,’ Genevieve said. ‘Not since that last email. Infuriating in its brevity.’ She calculated the time. It was eight a.m. in South Australia. Still the previous night in London. ‘They’re obviously getting on like a house on fire.’ She heard voices outside and peered out the window. ‘Speaking of best friends, here they come, Master and Mrs Thick as Thieves.’

‘We’re doing something at the back of the woolshed and none of you can look until it’s finished, okay?’ Ig said as they came in. He’d begged for and been given another day off school.

‘Does it involve weapons? Chemicals? Warcraft of any type? Wait, let me guess, it involves paint,’ Genevieve said.

‘I’m sworn to secrecy,’ Angela said.

‘Can I please have the computer?’ Lindy asked, putting down her cushion. ‘I think my email must be down. I haven’t heard anything from Richard for three days now.’

‘You can have five minutes,’ Genevieve said. ‘Then I need it for more of my groundbreaking work linking cats with celebrities. Ig, wait till you see. We’ve gone viral.’

‘I need ten minutes,’ Lindy said. ‘That computer belongs to all of us, not just you. And I can’t believe you’re calling putting cat photos on a website your work.’

‘You’re right, Lindy, thank you. It’s more of a life passion than work.’

In London, Nick now had a long list of words he could use to describe Will to Genevieve.

A bore. A pain. The most tedious, self-absorbed man it had ever been his misfortune to meet.

He’d been in his company for two hours now. They’d met at the bar in the Irish pub as arranged, found a table, ordered meals and drinks. Guinness for Will. Coke for Nick. ‘On the wagon?’ Will said. ‘I’ll have a pint later,’ Nick answered. As they sat down, Nick waited for him to start asking questions about Angela. Nothing.

Once Will had confirmed this was Nick’s first trip to London, he hadn’t drawn breath. Nick heard all about Will’s family history in Islington, going back four generations. How his grandparents had bought a three-storey house when it was almost a slum area. He detailed all the landmarks in the area, including the Angel Clock Tower and the Islington Town Hall. He told Nick about the old Roman roads. The antique traders who had once lived and worked in Camden Passage. ‘All overpriced vintage hat shops and middle-class gift shops there now, if you ask me.’

Nick eventually interrupted him, trying to bring it back to personal matters, back to Angela. ‘Did you ever get married yourself?’

‘Twice. Worst two mistakes I ever made.’

Because he hadn’t married Angela? Was that what he meant? ‘How long did you and Angela go out?’

Will looked uncertain. ‘How old were we? Nineteen? Twenty? I can’t really remember how long. A few months, maybe?’

‘Angela remembers it being a couple of years.’

‘She’s got a better memory than me, then. It was the seventies, remember. If we did go out that long, we weren’t exactly exclusive.’ He made quote signs with his fingers as he said the word exclusive. ‘I went travelling too. Spent six months in India. Went for the architecture, stayed for the drugs.’ He laughed, too loudly.

Nick said nothing. Not that Will seemed to care.

‘I met my first wife there. A free spirit like me, I thought. Let me tell you, by the time she’d finished dragging me through the divorce courts, the last thing I’d call her was free.’

Nick had a feeling he’d used that line before. ‘Any kids?’

‘Two boys with her. Both in their thirties now. Living with their girlfriends. No grandkids yet. They don’t have much to do with me. She turned them against me, after I had an affair with my secretary. Biggest mistake I ever made.’

‘Your current secretary?’

‘I wish. Lazy as sin, this one, but a looker. No, a different woman. Good thing I moved to the office above the laundry, because she took me to the cleaners too.’ Another too-loud laugh. There had been a stepson from that marriage too, he said. He didn’t see much of him either. He and that former wife weren’t on speaking terms. ‘The kids always take the mother’s side, don’t they?’

‘All sons? You don’t have any daughters?’ Nick asked.

‘No. Shame. They might have looked after me in my old age.’ He gave that laugh again.

Nick couldn’t picture Angela with this man for five minutes, let alone two years. ‘So, do you have any photos of Angela?’

‘I wouldn’t have a clue. Place is a bit of a mess. Bachelor living and all that. But I’m only two streets away, if you want me to take a look. I have some good whisky too. You must be sick of that Coke by now.’ Nick had stuck to it. Meanwhile, Will had drunk three pints of Guinness.

It was less than five minutes’ walk to his house. They passed more terraced houses, much bigger than the ones on Angela’s childhood street. Steps led up to front doors, all with fanlights. The houses were three storeys high. The curtains were drawn back in one. Nick was able to see into the front room. A dinner party was in progress, eight or so people sitting around a long table, a chandelier overhead. BMWs and Saabs were parked in the street outside.

‘Here we are,’ Will said. ‘Home sweet home.’

Nick tried to ignore the cold wind as Will stood out the front and pointed out architectural features. ‘The windows get smaller as they go higher. Those rooms were for the servants and no one cared whether they had enough light. Now this street is full of New Labour people. Sold us all up the river, if you ask me. I don’t have time for politics any more. They’re all as bad as each other.’

Nick expected Will to go up the stairs to the grand front door. Instead, he opened a gate in the iron railing and headed down to the basement.

‘Sorry, you’ll have to slum it down here. I had to sell the rest of the house to pay the second lot of alimony. Good thing my parents are dead. They don’t know this is all that’s left of the family jewels.’

Will’s basement flat made his office seem tidy. It looked like there’d been a break-in. Papers, books and CDs were strewn everywhere. There was a musty smell. A dead plant in the corner. It looked like a teenager’s haunt.

‘Take a seat,’ Will said.

It was hard to find one. Nick moved a pile of newspapers and sat on the sofa, by the dead plant. Will went into the kitchen down a narrow hall. Nick could see it was as cramped and dirty as the living room. He heard the clink of glasses.

‘Scotch or Irish?’ Will called.

A question, at last. The first one Will had asked him in hours. ‘Irish. From Donegal and Mayo. My ancestors left in —’

That laugh again. ‘Not you. What whisky? Scotch or Irish? Prefer the Scotch myself.’

‘Scotch is fine,’ Nick said.

Will came in with two glasses filled to halfway and the bottle tucked under his arm.

‘So, a photo of Angela?’ Nick asked.

‘Somewhere. Probably. It’s all coming back to me now. She used to like to go to that museum out near her house for picnics. The dead zoo place.’ Another laugh.

‘I was there today. The Horniman Museum.’

‘That’s right. Place gave me the creeps.’

‘But you might have a photo of her there?’

‘Maybe. I met her through my cousin, I think. There’s probably a group one of us somewhere.’ He went across to the bookcase and shifted a pile of football magazines. He picked one up. ‘I’m an Arsenal man, through and through. Their ground’s just up the road. Shame it’s not the weekend. I’d take you to a match. Hell of a team. I was at a match last . . .’

As Will kept talking, Nick realised there was little possibility of a photo of Angela here. Or of Will being able to find it if there was. Genevieve had asked him to get a photo of Will too. Sorry, Genevieve, but no, he decided. He tipped the whisky into the already dead plant and stood up.

‘I need to go. Any message for Angela?’

‘You’re leaving already? Tell her hello. Hope her life turned out better than mine.’

Back on Errigal, Genevieve hadn’t had a chance to ring her father. A new drama had blown up. Lindy had been in tears now for nearly half an hour. They’d started when she was in the office.

Genevieve, Victoria and Celia had been in the kitchen. Genevieve was washing up. Victoria was cooking. Celia was sewing. Angela and Ig were still outside. At first, none of them reacted. Lindy’s sobs continued.

Celia eventually looked up from her sewing. ‘Shouldn’t one of you go and check on her?’

‘She’s probably just broken a nail,’ Genevieve said from the sink.

Lindy appeared, holding a piece of paper, her eyes filled with tears. ‘I hate her so much. I
hate
her. She did it deliberately, I know she did. It’s not about him. She doesn’t even want him. It’s about ruining things for me.’ Then she spun around to Genevieve. ‘You didn’t write it, did you? You and Ig? Somehow send this pretending to be from Richard?’

‘We’re too busy finding photos of cats, sorry,’ Genevieve said. ‘Why? What does it say?’

‘You tell her, Victoria,’ Lindy said, handing her the email. ‘I never want to see it again.’

Victoria read it quickly, then summarised. ‘It seems that while Richard and Horrible Jane were away on Phillip Island, they, how shall I put it, got together. Afterwards, Jane told him that she was in love with him, that she’d been in love with him for months. And he realised he had strong feelings for her too. He’s very apologetic but feels he owes it to Jane to explore the possibilities of this new relationship. So regrettably he won’t be coming to visit after all.’ She turned to her sister. ‘Oh, Lindy. I’m so sorry.’

Lindy gave another sob and ran down the hall to her room.

‘On the bright side, I suppose that’s one less bed to make up,’ Genevieve said.

Out at the shearing shed, Ig and Angela had finished the first coat of paint. The wall gleamed white; the surface was uneven in parts but it had the makings of a good canvas, they agreed. They were sitting on upturned crates eating their snack. Ig had brought it out in his schoolbag again. Biscuits and juice.

They hadn’t spoken much during the painting, or since their conversation that morning. When Angela had asked him, ‘Ig, am I your mother?’ he had waited and thought about what he should say. His sisters and his dad had told him to go along with the idea of her being from London, that she had a husband called Will and a daughter called Lexie.

But she had asked him a direct question. And it was true. So he had nodded.

‘Am I the others’ mother as well? The twins? Lindy?’

Another nod.

‘And Nick is my husband.’ She said it just like that. It wasn’t a question. She’d picked up the folder of Christmas letters. ‘This is all about my life, isn’t it? I wrote all of these.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You send one of those letters out every year. On the first of December. I help you send them.’

‘Did I do one last Christmas?’

‘Yes,’ Ig said.

‘But it’s not here?’

‘Not yet,’ Ig said.

She looked at him for a long time. Then she smiled. A big smile. He smiled back. She opened her arms. He stepped forward and she gave him a great big hug.

He’d missed her hugs.

‘Can I tell everyone you’ve remembered?’ he asked.

She looked serious again, as she shook her head. ‘Ig, would you please keep this between us for now? A kind of secret? I need to do some more thinking about everything. I need just a bit more peace and quiet first.’

He nodded. That made good sense to him. If he did tell the others, he was pretty sure there’d be a big fuss. And his mum wanted peace and quiet, not a big fuss. ‘Do you still want to go and see the birds?’

‘Yes. Yes, I do.’

‘I’ll wait outside.’

She joined him five minutes later, still in her dressing-gown, wearing runners instead of slippers, carrying her camera. They walked around the yard, then out almost as far as the old chapel. There were birds everywhere. She took lots of photographs. The sun was coming up, everything turning golden around them, the slopes of the Chace Range changing from darkness to a glowing red. As they started to walk back to the homestead, there was the sound of a kookaburra, the cackling filling the air around them. It made Ig laugh. It always did.

‘Is that your favourite bird?’ she asked him.

Ig nodded. ‘Sorry we don’t have robins,’ he said. ‘They’re your favourite, aren’t they?’

She nodded. ‘But kookaburras are pretty good too, don’t worry,’ she’d said.

Ig passed her another biscuit now. She was looking at him again in that kind of funny way, like she was really concentrating on something.

‘Are you remembering some more things?’ he asked.

‘I’m trying, Ig. I’m trying as hard as I can.’

‘That’s good.’ He took another bite from his biscuit.

In the kitchen, Genevieve hung up from talking to her father in London. He had rung before she’d had a chance to ring him. He hadn’t gone into detail about the meeting with Will. ‘Your mother had a lucky escape,’ was all he’d said. He confirmed there had been no contact between Will and Angela. He also had other news. He’d changed his flights. He was on his way home.

‘But what about the rest of his trip?’ Victoria said. ‘He didn’t see much of Ireland, did he?’

‘He said he saw all he needed to.’

Twelve hours later, Nick was in a plane taxiing down the runway at Heathrow airport. It had cost him almost as much as the original fare to change his flights. But it was worth every cent. He sat back in his seat and shut his eyes as the plane took off.