Hello from the Gillespies (8 page)

That was the good thing about his friend Robbie. He only ever said what needed to be said.

‘Okay, Robbie,’ Ig said to him now. ‘Cubby time. No, not heavy at all. It’s just light sewing stuff. I’ll lift them one-handed. You can help me decide how to arrange them.’ He laughed. ‘Exactly. You’re the brains. I’m the muscle.’

The phone in the kitchen rang as Angela was on her way out to her pottery studio. At least, she called it her studio. Her family still called it the toolshed. She waited for one of the others to answer. The phone kept ringing. The answering machine wasn’t working properly any more, nor was the phone in the office, not since Ig had used them to try to record a rap song he’d written.

Angela came back inside and answered. ‘Gillespies, hello.’

‘So, I head off on a cruise for just a week and look what you get up to.’

‘Joan?’

‘Angela, you’re my oldest friend. I thought I knew you, but what got into you? Were you drunk?’

Angela felt a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. She reached across, shut the kitchen door and lowered her voice. ‘Welcome back. How was it? And what are you talking about?’

‘Your latest “Hello from the Gillespies”. Or, as you should have called it, your “Bombshells from the Gillespies”.’

Angela frowned. What did Joan mean? She hadn’t sent out her Christmas letter this year.

Joan was still talking. ‘I have to say, you shocked me and I’m not easily shocked. Did Nick mind you telling everyone about the mining lease? I’m not sure how Victoria will feel about you telling everyone your suspicions about her affair, either. I’d quite like to have seen a photo of Genevieve with those blue dreadlocks, though. What did you say Ig called her? A feral Smurf?’

Angela felt an unsettling shimmer. ‘Joan, what are you talking about?’

‘Your letter. I have it right here on the computer in front of me.’

Joan started reading from it. Angela went hot, then cold, then hot again.

It was her letter. Her ranting letter. The one she had deleted just as Ig had his accident. She hadn’t even thought about it again until two days later, as she sat beside Ig’s hospital bed reading an old newspaper. The date had leapt out at her: 1 December. The day she always sent her Christmas letter. A combination of exhaustion and worry about Ig had swept over her. She’d decided she wouldn’t send a letter at all this year. See if it mattered. If anyone even noticed . . .

So how had this happened? How on earth had Joan received it?

Joan was still reading aloud. Angela asked her to stop. Joan was her best friend. They’d shared secrets for years. Even so, the thought of her knowing all this – Angela’s headache started up.

‘Joan, I can’t understand it.’

‘You want me to read more?’

‘No, I can’t understand how you got it. Yes, I wrote it but I decided not to send it. I took your advice, wrote the truth for once. I even imagined you there beside me, urging me on —’

That was it! Joan had been on her mind as she wrote it. And in the fuss of Ig’s accident, rather than deleting it, she’d somehow, accidentally, pressed send and emailed it to Joan. Relief flooded through her.

‘It’s okay,’ Angela said, smiling into the phone. ‘I think I’ve worked out what happened. Oh, thank God it was only you. Joan, please, can you delete it? Right now? Every word of it? Then forget you ever read it?’

‘Of course.’ There was a pause. ‘But what about the others?’

‘What others?’

‘The other one hundred people on your mailing list.’

‘
What?
’

‘Angela, it didn’t just go to me. It looks like it went to everyone you know. All their names are right here on the email.’ She began to read them. Angela recognised name after name. All their neighbours in the Flinders Ranges. Nick’s relatives around Australia. Her old schoolfriends and distant relatives in England. People in Port Augusta. Ig’s school principal in Adelaide. Their local member of parliament . . . Name after name after name.

Angela’s hands were shaking.
Oh God, Oh God.
How had this happened?

Her voice was just a whisper. ‘Joan, what can I do? Is there a way of sucking emails back to the original computer?’

‘Like putting a vacuum cleaner on reverse? Oh, Ange, I’m sorry. No, I don’t think so.’

‘I’m dead. Nick will kill me.’

‘Not only Nick. I suspect the twins will too. Lindy won’t be happy either. Ig got off the lightest. He just sounds weird. The other three sound demented.’

Angela knew Joan was trying to lighten the mood, but she wanted to cry. ‘What am I going to do?’

Joan’s tone turned serious. ‘You definitely didn’t mean to send it?’

‘Of
course
not. I can’t even remember doing it.’

‘No matter. It’s done. So you have two choices. You can email everyone again and say it was a mistake and could they please delete it. Instant backfire. Those who haven’t read it will do so immediately. Or choice two, do nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Nothing. That would be my advice. Brazen it out. Do nothing. Say nothing. Hope it just sinks without trace. Most people hate getting these Christmas letters and never read them anyway.’

‘You read it.’

‘You’re my oldest friend. Usually I loathe them. They’re nothing but smug lie recitals, in my experience. At least you told the truth this time. It is all the truth, I gather?’

‘Yes, but —’

‘Shush. Don’t explain it to me, either. Just say nothing.’

Another awful thought struck Angela. ‘Joan, is Celia’s name on the recipients’ list?’

‘Let me check.’

A minute passed. Angela crossed her fingers.

‘Yes,’ Joan said.

Angela’s headache started to pulse faster. ‘Oh no. Of all the people —’

‘Let me see what you said about her. Here it is. “Insufferable snob. Interfering old bat.” Beautifully put. You summed her up perfectly. I’ve known her for years, remember. She’s also got the hide of a rhino. This won’t change a thing.’

‘But she’s Nick’s aunt. His only aunt.’

‘So let Nick deal with it. If he can take his mind off his family tree or his Irish girlfriend for long enough. Will they get married in Adelaide or Dublin, do you think? You Catholics are allowed to divorce now, aren’t you?’

‘You’re not helping, Joan.’

‘Yes, I am. You can either laugh about it or kill yourself about it, and you’re my best friend and I don’t want you dead. So we’re going to laugh about it and we’ll get you through this together.’

‘I can’t even go into hiding. Half the people on that mailing list are invited to the woolshed party. I’ll have to cancel it. No one will want to come now anyway, will they?’

‘Are you joking? They’ll all come now. You’ll be turning people away. And you can’t cancel it. My freezer is full of cupcakes for that party. By the way, did Lindy get my cushion order?’

‘That was you?’

‘I used a friend’s credit card. After reading your letter, I thought she needed all the help she could get.’

‘Is it for you? Are you sick?’

‘God, no. I’m fit as a Mallee bull. I just thought
Get Well Soon
would be quicker for her to sew than
Happy Birthday
or
Happy Anniversary
. I’m getting her to send it to my cousin in Perth. She’s a hypochondriac. It’ll make a perfect Christmas present.’ There was the sound of another voice in the background. ‘Glenn’s coming. I better go. I’ll call you again as soon as I can. Don’t worry; I mean it. We’ll get you through this.’ With that, she was gone.

Angela stayed sitting at the kitchen table, the phone in her hand. She didn’t want to put it back on the hook in case someone else who’d received her Christmas email decided to ring her. She was suddenly glad they had no mobile phone coverage out here. Glad they were so isolated.

She had a mental picture of their woolshed in ten days’ time. All their neighbours, all those familiar faces, staring at her, knowing all of her secrets.

She couldn’t bear it.

Brazen it out, Joan had advised. Do nothing. Say nothing.

How could she?

She had to do something. Most importantly, she needed to read the entire letter again, right now. Perhaps it wouldn’t be as terrible as it had sounded. And of course Joan was right. It was just a letter. Words on a screen. Perhaps it wouldn’t be necessary to say anything about it to Nick, to the girls, to Ig. It was Christmas, after all. People were so busy. And if anyone did happen to read it, perhaps they would think she was joking, that she’d joined some sort of creative writing class . . .

As she moved down the hall closer to the office, she heard talking. Talking and laughing. Nick was in there, skyping. Someone with an Irish accent. A female someone. Carol.

Angela couldn’t stop herself. She stayed in the shadows and eavesdropped. He sounded like a different Nick. The old Nick. The one she hadn’t seen or heard for months.

‘Carol, that’s great. You’ve made it all seem so real.’

‘It’s not me, it’s your family. I’ve just found their stories for you.’

‘But I’d never have found all of this detail without you. Those letters my great-grandfather —’

‘Great-great-grandfather.’

‘The political letters he wrote to the newspaper, how did you even know those archives existed?’

‘That’s my job. That’s why you pay me.’

‘You’re worth your weight in gold.’

‘Why, thank you, kind sir.’
A musical laugh
. ‘I’ve also found a new lead. It’s still early days, but it looks like a journal belonging to one of your great-great-aunts could be in a small museum in Letterkenny, in Donegal. It’s not online yet. The only way I’ll be able to check for sure is if I go there, but that would add to your expenses, and so I needed to check first, before I —’

‘Of course. Please, go as soon as you can. Do you need me to transfer some money in advance?’

‘That would be helpful, if you don’t mind. I’ve done a rough calculation, petrol and accommodation expenses. I’ll need to stay overnight, unfortunately. It’s a five-hour drive from here. Such a shame you’re so far away. You could come too.’

‘I’ve been thinking the same thing. That I should make a kind of reconnaissance visit to Ireland, to help me plan the reunion. I’ve already had a look at possible flights in late January or February, just for ten days or so. Carol, this is a lot to ask, on top of everything else, but would you —’

‘Mum?’ It was Ig, in the hall beside her.

She looked down and put her finger to her lips.

‘What are you doing?’ he whispered.

‘I’m trying to hear what Dad is saying to the lady in Ireland,’ she whispered back.

Ig listened for a moment too. ‘That’s Carol. His girlfriend.’

‘His girlfriend?’

Ig nodded. ‘Lindy and I think he’s in love with her.’

From the office came another burst of laughter from Carol.

‘No, of course I won’t recommend a car hire company! I’ll drive you around myself. I’d be honoured. I’ll need to charge you a daily rate or my boss will kill me, but it will be as low as possible, I promise. You’re my number-one client, after all.’

Angela felt nauseous. Was Nick really talking about a spur-of-the-moment trip to Ireland? For ten days? On his own? Flying there on his own, at least. But meeting Carol once he got there. Travelling around with Carol . . .

Ig whispered again. ‘Mum, are you and Dad going to get divorced?’

‘Of course not.’ She said it as firmly as she could at low volume.

‘Mum?’ It was Ig again, still in a whisper. ‘Can I please have some curtains?’

She was still trying to listen in. ‘Sorry, Ig, what?’

‘Some curtains. For my cubby. Please.’

As she heard more laughter from Carol, Angela was glad of the distraction. She steered Ig back down the hallway, trying to sound normal.

‘Another cubby, Ig? How many is that this year?’

Ig counted under his breath. ‘Ten. But Robbie thinks this one will be the best.’

She found some old curtains in the linen cupboard. He inspected them closely before nodding.

‘So, how is Robbie these days?’ Angela asked casually as he headed for the back door.

‘Good, thanks.’

‘Is it nice to have him back again?’

‘Yep.’

‘Great. Well, tell him I said hi.’

‘Tell him yourself.’

‘He’s here now?’

Ig nodded, then stood, waiting.

Angela cleared her throat. ‘Hi, Robbie.’

There was silence.

‘He says hi to you too. Thanks, Mum. See you later.’

Angela was on her way back to Nick in the office when Lindy rushed in from the verandah. She was holding the cushion cover. ‘Mum, look!’

‘You’ve finished already?’ Angela took it. There was one letter in the centre of the cover. The G of
Get Well Soon
.

Lindy was beaming. ‘It looks brilliant, doesn’t it?’

‘It sure does,’ Angela said.

Nick appeared. ‘The reunion’s on. I’ve decided to definitely go ahead with one.’

‘In Ireland?’ Lindy said. ‘Cool! Are you still thinking October next year? Can we all come?’

Angela looked back and forth at them. ‘You know about the reunion too?’ she asked Lindy.

‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I’ve been working out on the verandah. I’ve overheard Dad and Carol talking about it. Or should I say flirting about it.’ She laughed. ‘Joking, Dad. That’s great news. Well done. Sorry, you’ll have to excuse me. I’ve got loads of work to do.’ Lindy slipped past them both, cushion in hand.

Angela tried to sound breezy. ‘Carol’s helping you organise a reunion now? I thought she was just a genealogist.’

‘Carol seems to do everything. When she heard I’d already been in touch with Gillespies around the world, she even suggested where to hold the reunion. I was thinking of either Donegal or Mayo, where the two original Gillespie cousins came from. She had a better idea. Hold it in Cobh.’

‘Cove?’

‘It’s in County Cork. Pronounced Cove, spelt C-o-b-h. It’s where most of the emigrants sailed from; their final connection with Ireland. I’ve been researching it for the past few days. It’s a beautiful port town. So much history there, even an emigration museum. The perfect place for a reunion.’

Angela waited for him to mention his reconnaissance trip to Ireland. He didn’t. She found a bright smile from somewhere. ‘That’s great news.’

Tell him about the letter, an inner voice said. Now. But she couldn’t. Not until she’d re-read it. This was her chance. ‘Would you mind if I used the computer for a minute?’