by Vicky Adin
Bella didn’t want to go, she wanted to stay with Nana, but Sarah was adamant. Nana needed time to get over her jet lag and do all the chores and other things adults had to do. None of the explanations washed with little Bella who continued to throw a sizable tantrum.
“You are not going to win with that sort of behaviour, my girl. Do as you are told.”
Megan agreed with Sarah. “I’ll see you later, sweet Bella. Be a good girl now, and do as Mummy says.”
After a lot of hugs and kisses, Bella was buckled in her car seat, and two cars disappeared out the driveway, leaving Megan in peace. The first thing she wanted to do was read her great-grandmother’s letters. She had resisted opening the parcel from Jessica last night, feeling too tired to give it her full concentration. In the last three months, Megan had learnt a lot about her great-grandmother and felt she was a step closer to finding the real Isabel at every new discovery. The letters, she hoped, would provide the last links.
She prepared a light breakfast and sat comfortably in the armchair by the window. The rain of the day before had stopped, but the sky was still grey. The scudding clouds, with the occasional glimpse of blue, reminded her of Clovelly as she pondered how much had happened since then – and how much she had changed.
Megan found some scissors and cut open the fat, bubble-wrap envelope and withdrew the first bundle of letters, still tied with ribbon just as Jessica described. Excitement swelled inside her as she recognised the handwriting, despite the faded ink on envelopes made fragile with age. She laid the four bundles of letters, sorted into date order, on the small table beside her and, full of anticipation, unfolded the first letter.
Isabel’s words, barely filling the page, floated before her eyes. They were strange, formal yet childlike. She read them twice hoping to discover hidden depths but the letter simply asked Constance to inform their mother she had arrived safe and well and now lived in Auckland, New Zealand. She had met some people and was teaching piano.
That was it.
Megan checked the date – April 1913.
Bitterly disappointed the letter lacked the information she expected, she wondered why Isabel had written nothing about a husband or lover, or whatever he was at that stage, or about the baby, and how she’d got to New Zealand. Neither did she write about her impressions of Auckland or anything about where she lived – nothing of significance about her new life at all. Megan quickly read a few more of the letters seeking the details she craved, but they held nothing of interest either.
Disheartened, she picked up her notepad and started to jot down dates and ideas from what she already knew:
Isabel left home, shortly after her eighteenth birthday, at the end of October 1910 as companion to Mrs Baragwanath.
Mrs B returned home in late September 1911 as arranged, without Isabel. Did Mrs B know Isabel was pregnant? Unlikely. The dates are wrong, but she might have suspected Isabel was having an affair and chose to ignore it.
Isabel returned home when her father took ill; he died December 1911.
She was noticeably pregnant by then.
Her mother Eleanor banished her for bringing shame on the family.
Isabel returned to Italy either late 1911 or early 1912.
Where did she live? With the expat ladies? Unlikely.
With her lover? Luciano? Or could it have been Luigi?
Grandma Julia was born early June 1912 in Florence.
They left Italy December 1912 with Luciano.
April 1913 Isabel was still only twenty – and alone in a country far away from her home.
What about the baby? Ten months old? – Constance was ten years younger, so ten or eleven. Isabel could hardly pour her heart out to a child. What would you write to a child about in those circumstances?
She clearly didn’t write to her mother, given she asked Constance to pass on the message in her first letter.
Who were the friends she mentioned?
Why would Constance keep the letters all these years?
That last entry gnawed at Megan. The relationship between the sisters was odd and definitely fraught. She scanned a few more letters. They were in a similar vein – short, with hardly any details. A few lines about the seasons and how different they were, how she enjoyed the sunshine but it could rain just as much as in Cornwall. The houses were mostly built of wood not stone, and they used horses and carriages or walked.
Megan fiddled with her pen as she considered the missing links.
The letters in the first bundle contained little to quench her thirst for information – except one. Isabel lived in a boarding house called Arncliffe, in Symonds Street. It was a start but not much. Megan resisted the temptation to read the letters out of sequence. Later letters, to an older Constance might be more informative, but she felt it important to follow her great-grandmother’s lead.
The morning disappeared as Megan read more letters and jotted down more notes, or rather questions without answers. Her head dropped back as her thoughts drifted.
She woke with a start an hour or so later with a fuzzy head and feeling weighed down. With her body clock still out of sorts, she decided to put the letters away in her room to be thought about later. As she went about her chores she wondered how she could find what she wanted to know. A trip to the council archives might help, but then, she argued, what difference would it make? She knew where Isabel had once lived and was certain that whatever building now occupied the space would look nothing like the boarding house that once stood there. Kiwis didn’t seem to have the same sense of history as the UK and Europe and tended to knock down old buildings and build new ones. Maybe because wooden houses didn’t have the same timelessness or they deteriorated more quickly. Whatever the reasons, she just knew Arncliffe would be long gone.
The fact Isabel once worked as a piano teacher could be significant. If nothing less, she’d earned her keep in what would have been considered a ladylike manner. What more did she really need to know about her distant ancestor? Except she was charged to ‘find Isabel and honour her name.’
Shrugging off thoughts of Isabel, Megan decided she had better start on her own plans. She needed a good lawyer here in Auckland who could work with Jessica, and a property advisor of some sort, plus a good accountant, people who would look after her interests and explain things in simple language. Thoughts of Jessica reminded Megan she must reply to her latest email. The relationship with Max had developed considerably. There was no talk of marriage just yet but, Megan thought, it could well be on the cards.
After writing up a list of possible candidates, Megan made appointments for the following week and then checked the clock to see if there was enough time before the family arrived home to face the one thing she had managed to avoid for two years.
It was time to visit the cemetery.
Megan stood in front of the headstone and read the words chiselled onto it. It needs a clean after the winter rains, she thought, as she waited to feel something. To feel Tony still with her, wanting to talk to him, but she felt only emptiness.
As she ran her hands through her hair to release some of her unease, Megan realised Tony was always with her in the back of her thoughts. They had never been together here. She would never find him in this cold, sad place, which only brought back memories of the worst day of her life.
She got back in the car, turned around and quickly drove to their favourite beach. She sat on the seat under the trees where they had sat many times and watched the ocean in the bay change its mood according to the wind and the light. Today, although slate in colour with the odd sparkle as the faint winter sunshine peeked between the still grey clouds, the water was calm, with waves softly lapping at the sand. Something about the beach filled her with joy and gave her peace. One day she would like to live right on a beach like this. The sounds and smells were familiar and comforting and she breathed in the salty air and closed her eyes in affinity.
And Tony was sitting right beside her as usual. She smiled. At t
hat moment, as though in support, the sun burst through the cloud and lit up the section of water in front of her.
She knew whenever she needed to talk to Tony this would be her haven and meeting place.
* * * * *
“What are you looking so pleased about?” asked Sarah a week later after Megan had returned from her meetings.
“I’ve had a rather successful afternoon.”
“Doing what?” Sarah’s tone was sharp.
Megan noticed how Sarah avoided any eye contact as she continued to prepare Bella’s dinner.
“Nothing much.” Megan paused, wondering why Sarah might be cross with her. “Not yet anyway. Can I help?”
“You could throw some mushrooms in with the chicken pieces and pop them in the oven for me.”
For a few moments, the two women worked silently side by side in the kitchen.
“What sort of nothing much?” nudged Sarah as Megan finished seasoning the chicken and put the lid on the casserole.
“Just engaging some personnel to set up a trust and a company.” Megan shut the oven door and began to cut up the vegetables.
“Personnel? What sort of personnel? What company?”
“Oh, you know, lawyers and such like. I told you I needed to set up a mechanism to manage Constance’s money. Just making sure I’ve got it all covered.”
Now Megan avoided eye contact. She smoothly changed the subject. This was not the time to tell Sarah about any of her ideas. “Jason tells me his application to change routes has been approved.”
“So I hear. That’s good news, isn’t it, Mum. And so much nicer for you – to have us all living in the same city, I mean. All of us together again – except for Dad, that is.”
Megan thought Sarah’s rapid speech and insistence on them being ‘all together again’ a little strange. She’d never been much bothered about her brother in all the years he’d lived overseas. What was bothering the girl now?
Megan hoped she sounded comforting and reassuring. “Yes it is, sweetheart. Good for us all, I think.”
“When are they due to arrive?” Sarah’s voice wobbled.
“Not till early October. Trina promised to stay with Teresa and Giacomo over the summer.”
“Oh. Okay. So what did you say the name of your company was?”
“I didn’t.” Megan smiled impishly. “And you’ll have to wait until I can talk to you and your brother at the same time, to find out.”
Megan poured two glasses of wine, handed one to Sarah and gave the girl a quick peck on the cheek. “So don’t ask.”
“Okay, Mum, I won’t nag, but any hints? That’s a long time to wait.” Sarah took a sip of wine, her raised eyes sought answers over the brim of her glass.
“Maybe it is. But it’ll take that long to get everything sorted, and you have enough to do without being bothered with legal details. I won’t do anything rash without talking to you first, I promise.”
“Deal! Now, tell me what else have you found out from great-great-grandmama’s letters?”
A few hours passed before Megan had the opportunity to tell Sarah anything further. Nick arrived home and the end of day activities took over. Later that evening, over a late-night cup of tea Megan happily took up Sarah’s opening.
“I have to say I was disappointed with the letters. They were quite stilted and revealed little I don’t already know. I expected outpourings about her new, exciting life in New Zealand with a husband and baby, but they were the exact opposite. They were so lifeless I found them disturbing.”
“So what did she write about?”
“Mundane things. As Constance grew up Isabel eventually started writing about Julia, but only in casual ways – how she was doing in school and that she played the piano quite well. There was never any mention of the father or how Isabel coped alone in a strange country. The sisters had little in common. I don’t think they knew how to communicate with each other. Their lives were so different. As time passed, Isabel wrote about Julia getting married and her granddaughter Caroline, but nothing about the boys who had died. The last letter was about the car accident that killed my parents. But the letters held no emotion. They were statements of what happened.”
“How sad, for both of them,” sympathised Sarah. “But especially Isabel, with no family to talk to when such tragic things filled her life. She must have been a very strong woman, I think.”
Megan found it remarkable that Sarah would use the same words to describe the women of the family as Jessica. Why did they think Constance and Isabel – and her, if Jessica was to be believed – strong?
Megan had thought similarly of Isabel for a time. Now she wondered whether her great-grandmother had ever given anything much thought. She seemed to move through life in a progression of events. She certainly never expressed any sentiments in her letters, and the girlish excitement of her journal had vanished.
“I think she was very young and resilient and just got on with life. She had no choice. There was no going back. In later letters, she dropped a few enlightening bits and pieces of information in here and there. It seems Constance used to send Isabel money from time to time. And two or three of the letters appeared out of character – one asked Constance to write, and one begged her to say she’d been forgiven. I assume Constance did not reply, since the tone of the letters returned to being formal and brief missives of facts.”
“Except maybe that’s why she sent money,” said Sarah.
“Maybe. And I found one very formal letter that confirmed what Constance had written in her letter to me. Isabel knew she was dying and wanted Constance to keep in touch – and presumably to keep sending money although she didn’t specifically ask – and be mentor to her great-grandchild, namely me. But we know that didn’t happen.”
There were so many missing pieces.
“But didn’t you tell me you’d found out Luciano what’s-his-name had left New Zealand without Isabel and the baby? How did you know that, if not from the letters?”
“Shipping records,” answered Megan. “I found him listed on a ship headed for Sydney early in 1914. It seems our dear Luciano knew how to look after himself and escaped any ties before war was declared.”
“Did you or Paul find any records of him in Australia or Italy after that?”
The mention of Paul made Megan feel guilty. She’d not replied to his last email. He’d been chatty about all sorts of things without actually telling her anything important. He seemed focused on writing a detailed and complex programme for the next year’s intake of students, so he said. She didn’t know what to say in reply.
“No. Nothing. Unfortunately. I haven’t been able to find out what happened to Luciano Rossi after he got off the ship. There are no war records or a death certificate. He just vanished.”
Chapter 30
The weeks flew by in the lead-up to Jason and Trina’s return. Megan kept busy helping find suitable rental accommodation when she wasn’t on the hunt for Isabel. With a little advice from the library and the local genealogy branch, her research skills had improved immensely, and she spent many hours searching the Internet for clues.
The day she found an advertisement on the Papers Past website for a Lady Isabel of Arncliffe House who taught piano was a real fillip. Whilst there was no surname, Megan felt certain this would be her Isabel. Another find of more interest was a notice of a school prize-giving for a J Trevallyan for pianoforte. It had to be Grandma Julia, who had been a wonderful pianist and taught piano for many years, just like her mother, it seemed. They were all good leads but nothing definitive. None of the variations of Isabel’s name showed up on any records or official documents. She couldn’t even find her death certificate.
This morning, in particular, Megan was feeling defeated by the magnitude of the task. There was so little for her to go on. She got up from the computer after yet another fruitless search and let her mind wander to the latest exchange with Paul.
Something about him had been niggling at her
, yet why she should be thinking about him at all, she couldn’t say. They hardly knew one another. She should have written him off as a passing friendship a long time ago. Why hadn’t she? She still didn’t have a clue why he left Florence so suddenly, and he was being particularly secretive about his reasons.
Whilst they’d kept up email and occasional phone calls since, these were bland updates with general news rather than anything personal. The distance between them, not only physically but emotionally, seemed huge. It was as if they both recognised the attraction between them and had consciously made the decision not to get involved – without saying anything to the other one.
What was it about him that kept him in her thoughts?
The email alert sounded, drawing her back to reality: “Please go and see this place and if it’s as good as it looks in the photos, then sign us up for it,” wrote Jason, providing a weblink and an address.
Megan flicked through the information and thought the place had great potential. After making an appointment, she was about to jump in her car when there was a knock on the door.
“Paul!” she cried, shocked by his extraordinary timing. How on earth did he find her? “What brings you to Auckland?”
Megan wondered what she would say if he answered ‘her’.
“It’s still summer vacation in the northern hemisphere, so with a couple of weeks to spare, I decided to get a taste of what New Zealand is like these days. I told you – I intend to return home permanently before too long.”
Something in his tone or the way he stood implied he wasn’t telling the truth, or not the whole truth anyway.
“And is that all?”
Why was she pushing him? What did she really want him to say?
As if to confirm her suspicions, he burst out laughing. “It seems you know me too well. I thought I could be all innocence and just say, ‘because I wanted to’. I do want to return, and I do have plans. It’s just a question of when.”
“So why are you here now?”