Hello from the Gillespies

by Monica McInerney

  Victoria had applied for three jobs, and was down to the final stage in one. ‘Send me lucky thoughts, will you?’ she’d said to Genevieve.

  Genevieve had misheard. ‘Lucky boots?’

  Victoria had corrected her, laughing. ‘Thoughts, not boots.’

  The next day, Genevieve saw a beautiful pair of boots in a shop on Mott Street. It cost her three times as much as the boots cost to get them couriered to Sydney. They arrived the morning of the final interview, with her note tucked inside: I can’t be there but these lucky boots can. Victoria wore the boots. She also got the job.

  Were they working tonight? Genevieve wondered. Victoria was meeting Fred for a drink and a meal in the Hawker pub. She wondered what was even possible between Victoria and Fred now. She was having another man’s baby. How would any man cope with news like that?

  Genevieve hated the idea of Victoria being hurt. She decided to think about Matt instead. They’d emailed several times since his surprise message. He’d explained that he was in Australia location-scouting for a new film, a horror story that would take full advantage of the wildness of the scenery. He was flying into Maree, three hundred kilometres north of Errigal. After he’d finished his work there, he was going to drive down to see her. He wasn’t put off by the distance. He might find an even better stretch of lonely road for his film, he’d said. See how diligent I am?

  Diligent or deluded? You might get chased and attacked by a demented outback killer, she’d emailed back.

  Even more points for my diligence if I am, he’d emailed.

  Restless, Genevieve decided to check her new website. Maybe there had been a visitor or two already. But first, a cup of tea.

  As she passed the living room, she peeked in. Ig and Lindy had gone, but Celia and Angela were still there, watching television. A gardening program, by the look of it. At least that meant Genevieve didn’t have to protect Angela from Celia. She’d been polite with Angela so far, but Genevieve still didn’t trust her.

  In the kitchen, she’d just put on the kettle when she heard it. The sound of someone sobbing. Where was it coming from? The television? No, it sounded different than that. More real.

  It was Angela.

  Genevieve went straight in to her. ‘Angela? What is it? What’s wrong?’

  Angela just kept crying, her hands over her face.

  ‘What happened?’ Genevieve asked Celia. ‘What did you say to her?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Celia said. She looked as stunned as Genevieve. ‘We were just watching a gardening show I’d recorded and she suddenly started to cry.’

  Genevieve crouched beside her chair. ‘Angela, what is it? What’s wrong?’

  ‘I miss him. Could I ring him? Please?’

  ‘Miss who, Angela? Ring who?’

  ‘My husband. Where is he? Could I ring him?’

  Genevieve didn’t know what to do. Was this another memory breaking through? Was she thinking of Nick in Ireland? She tried to remember Ruth’s advice. Should she go along with it?

  ‘It’s a bit late now, but you can ring him tomorrow,’ she said.

  Angela kept sobbing.

  Genevieve had never seen her mother cry like this. It was heartbreaking. She also didn’t want Celia to see her like this.

  She touched her mother on the shoulder. ‘Angela, would you like to come and sit outside with me?’

  As Genevieve guided her outside, Angela kept sobbing.

  ‘Please don’t cry. We’ll ring him in the morning,’ Genevieve repeated.

  ‘But I can’t remember his phone number. How can we ring him?’

  Genevieve still didn’t know if she was thinking of Will or Nick. ‘If you give me his full name, I’ll look it up for you, if you like.’ She held her breath. Please, Angela. Please say Nick Gillespie . . .

  ‘His name is William Somers,’ Angela said. ‘He lives in Islington.’ She gave Genevieve his full address.

  Half an hour later, Genevieve went in search of Celia. Angela was now in her room. As abruptly as she had started crying, she had stopped. She had been quite calm by the time she went to bed.

  ‘What was it that sparked the tears?’ Genevieve asked Celia. ‘It had to be something on the TV.’

  ‘I told you, it was just a gardening program. A segment about roses. She was fine until they played a song. That’s when she started crying.’

  ‘What song?’

  Celia couldn’t remember.

  Genevieve rewound the gardening program until it was at the rose segment. She turned up the volume, expecting the song to be Bette Midler’s ‘The Rose’, or the one by Seal. It was a song she’d never heard before. A male singer, a deep haunting male voice, singing about a rose for his darling. She fast-fowarded to the end. The credits said the song was ‘Only a Rose’ by Geraint Watkins. She went into the office and googled him. He was a Welsh singer. She’d never heard of him, but their mother obviously had.

  Genevieve started googling something else then. A William Somers or Summers. Architect. Islington. London.

  Moments later, there was a long list on the screen. She scrolled down. Ten entries in, she saw it. WSA. William Somers Architects. An office address in Upper Street, Islington and a home address nearby. The same street that Angela had named.

  ‘Found you,’ Genevieve said.

  She was still awake at one a.m. when she heard the sound of Victoria’s car outside. She was sitting up in bed when she came in. ‘Well? How was it?’

  ‘It was great. Really great.’

  They’d talked all night, Victoria said. About Canada. About Sydney. His plans for the future. Her documentary series. It had been so easy. So great. Like the old days, but even better.

  ‘And what did he say about, you know . . .’

  ‘His letter? Just that he was so happy I’d met him and would I meet him again.’

  ‘I don’t mean that. Did you tell him?’

  ‘That I’m pregnant? No.’

  ‘No?’

  Victoria went bright red. ‘I was too busy kissing him.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Cobh was everything Carol had promised Nick. The sun was shining as he drove into the town along the coast road, with its view of a narrow harbour lined with coloured houses. The town itself was dominated by a cathedral, up on a hill. It also had the steepest streets he’d ever seen. He drove up one, the car engine straining. At the top, he parked. He had a perfect view over the town and harbour, the open sea beyond. The street was almost at ninety degrees, the houses built at what looked like impossible angles. They were also painted different colours: reds, greens, yellows. Most had window boxes too, empty of flowers now, but he could picture them in the summer, how bright the street would look, how bright the whole town would look.

  Carol had mentioned a hotel on the waterfront, not only for their accommodation but also for the Gillespie reunion. He saw now that it existed, but had she ever been here? he wondered. She had sent receipts, he remembered. He now suspected she’d never made the trip, just kept the money he’d paid and sent him falsified receipts and information off the internet.

  He drove back down to the waterfront, parked the car and walked the length of the harbour. It was a busy, bustling town geared towards tourists. There was a museum devoted to the Titanic, another to all the emigrants who had left Ireland for a new life in America, Canada, Australia.

  He booked into the waterfront hotel and went up to his room on the third floor. Had he somehow been given the best room? It looked out over the water, across to a small green island, further beyond to the sea. Down below was a bandstand, old-style lamps. To his left, an art gallery and the dilapidated wooden wharf used by the Titanic passengers. This hotel dated back to the 1800s. Perhaps his own ancestors had even stayed here the night before they left for Australia.

  He realised he no longer cared that he had been conned, that Carol and her company had turned out to be fakes. His ancestors had definitely sailed from Cobh. He had all the information about th
eir journeys in the files at Errigal. He’d had that even before Carol became involved. His uncle’s files had confirmed it. The two Gillespie cousins had been in this town. His connection here was real.

  All he wished, again, was that Angela was with him.

  An hour later, he was being taken on a personally guided tour of the hotel’s facilities by the young manager, Fintan.

  ‘And you could have the welcome-night party here,’ Fintan said, as they stood in the large dining room at the front of the hotel, the bank of windows looking out over the harbour. ‘We could arrange for musicians, Irish dancers, storytellers. Dining-wise, you could have a full sit-down meal or buffet-style, seafood, oysters, whatever you like. How many did you say you’re expecting?’

  ‘Around two hundred.’

  Nick imagined Fintan hearing the sound of a cash register. But he was being very helpful. He’d also confirmed Nick’s suspicions. He’d had no contact at all with Carol.

  Fintan finished his sales pitch, talking about menus, prices per head, accommodation offers. It was all white noise to Nick. He didn’t know the first thing about organising gatherings like this. It was why he had been so happy to pass it all over to Carol. At home, it had always been Angela who took care of any parties or celebrations.

  Fintan was still talking. ‘It really is the perfect venue, as you can see. I’m sure your guests would find it very moving, in fact, to stand in this room and look out at the same view their ancestors would have seen, so many years ago.’

  He didn’t need to lay it on quite so thick, but Nick could picture it. Picture himself, standing here in this room, surrounded by Gillespies from all over the world: America, England, Australia, Canada. There had even been interest from Gillespies in Argentina.

  If he did go ahead with it, would the kids make the journey too?

  Would Angela?

  He spent the next two hours walking through the town. He climbed the steep hill he had driven up earlier, with the houses at the impossible angles. He thought how much Ig would love to see this. How much he would like Ig to see this. Back down on the waterfront, he leaned against the barrier. The sun was going down, a soft light spreading across the water, turning the sea a silver colour. There was rain coming, he could see the dark clouds building to the west, but there was still sunlight. Everything looked polished.

  He heard a text come in on his phone. It was Genevieve. Have some news. Can you talk?

  He rang her. She was in Port Augusta, in mobile-phone signal range. She told him what had happened with Angela the night before. The tears. The song.

  No, Nick confirmed. He didn’t know that Welsh singer either.

  ‘I still think it’s a good sign, Dad, don’t you? It had to be the lyrics that made her cry. It’s all about someone giving their darling a rose. And that’s not all. She talked about Will again. I know his surname now. It’s Somers.’ She spelt it for him. ‘I looked him up. He really is an architect. In London. In a place called Islington.’

  ‘Has she asked to phone him again?’

  ‘She hasn’t mentioned him since. Once she stopped crying, it was as if she forgot all about him. That’s why I’m sure it was you, Dad, not him that she was thinking about. You and the rose. And that’s not all. She told us off last night too. Me and Lindy. We were fighting. And she sounded like Old Angela, not New Angela. I’m going to ring Ruth about it tomorrow. These have to be good signs, don’t you think?’

  He agreed. He told her to ring him immediately if there were any more moments like that. They spoke for a few more minutes. He briefly described Cobh. He told her he was still deciding what to do about the reunion. He sent everyone his love, then said goodbye.

  Sitting on a nearby bench, he took out Angela’s letter again. He usually avoided one particular section, but he read it all now – about Will, Lexie, their house in Islington, their life in London. Will wasn’t just Angela’s fantasy figure. He was a real man.

  What was it about Will that Angela had once loved? How was she able to remember him so clearly all these years later? What kind of a man was he? Nick hated himself for thinking it, but the suspicion wouldn’t go away. Had there been some contact between them recently?

  Back at the hotel, he asked about an internet cafe. The hotel had a computer he could use, the staff said. It didn’t take him long to find what he needed to know. Afterwards, he phoned Genevieve again.

  That night, he ate dinner in the hotel bar. A group of Australians had gathered there, men and women about his age, all a little merry. He could have joined them. Stood beside them at the bar on the pretext of getting another drink. Asked where they were from, what they were doing in Ireland. They would have invited him to join them, he was sure of it. They could have swapped travel and Irish ancestry stories.

  Not tonight. He had an early start in the morning. He had to be at Cork airport before nine a.m. He was catching a flight to London.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  In the kitchen of the homestead on Errigal, Celia was making tea. Angela sat at the table reading a novel.

  ‘So, we have the house to ourselves today, Angela,’ Celia said. ‘Peace and quiet at last.’

  ‘I’m still here,’ Ig called from his position on the living room sofa, where he was reading a computer magazine. He had a day off school. ‘And Joan’s coming over later.’

  ‘Of course,’ Celia said. ‘And Robbie’s here too, I suppose?’

  ‘No,’ Ig said. ‘He’s away at the moment. On holiday.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Celia said, looking across at Angela and rolling her eyes.

  Angela didn’t respond.

  Genevieve and Victoria had gone to Port Augusta to do some grocery shopping. At the last minute, Lindy had decided to go with them. She hadn’t been off the station in days. She was going stir-crazy, she said. She had cabin fever. She hadn’t even been able to skype Richard. He was still on Phillip Island with Jane.

  ‘Cabin fever? On a huge outback station?’ Genevieve said. ‘Only you could find this place claustrophobic.’

  ‘Don’t be mean,’ Angela had said.

  Again, they’d exchanged glances. That was definitely Old Angela speaking again. She didn’t seem aware of it. She simply said her piece, then returned to her book. She was working through all the books in the living room bookcase. All of which she had read before.

  Now Ig climbed off the sofa and came into the kitchen. ‘Do you want to go on another birdwatching walk, Angela?’ he asked.

  She put down her book. ‘I’d love that, thank you.’

  ‘I’d like to come too,’ Celia said. ‘Unless I’d be in the way?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Ig said. It was obvious he was lying.

  Celia smiled. ‘Before we go walking, Ignatius, I need to check my email. You’re the computer whizz, I believe? Can you please turn it on for me? My book club is meeting again next month. I really should find out what the book will be.’

  She followed him down to the office and watched as he turned on the computer and opened it to a search engine for her. He did it all without speaking.

  As she sat down she turned to him. ‘Now, I wonder, would you do me another favour? I promised my next-door neighbour’s grandson that I’d bring him back some real sheep’s wool from a real sheep station. There are still little bits and pieces out in the woolshed, I noticed. Could you please run out there and get me as much as you can find?’

  ‘But we swept it all up. When we were unpacking all the cushion stuff.’

  ‘Not all of it. I’m sure I saw some caught in the floorboards. It doesn’t have to be a bale full. Just as much as you can get. As quickly as you can.’

  ‘Why? Are you going home soon?’

  ‘Not yet, no. But I’d like you to get it for me now, please. While I’m thinking of it.’

  She waited until she was sure he’d gone. She knew that Angela was still in the kitchen.

  After the drama with that rose song the evening before, she’d decided that this had al
l gone on long enough. If Angela’s brain damage was as bad as they kept saying, then how could she read? How could she watch DVDs? Make conversation? Not only that: if the neurologist was right, and this was a temporary state of mind, then surely Angela should be starting to regain her own memories by now?

  Celia knew she wasn’t the only one thinking that way. She’d heard Genevieve and Victoria talking about it too. They seemed to have forgotten how voices carried here at night-time, in the still air, from one open window to the next. They believed their mother was starting to come back to them too. They’d noticed that pieces of information from her real life had been prompting strong memories and reactions. Yet they’d decided to keep that observation to themselves. Manage it their way. Despite the fact that Nick had asked Celia to keep an eye on them all in his absence. He hadn’t said it in so many words, but that’s what he wanted, Celia was sure.

  She knew that what she was looking for had to be here in the office somewhere. She’d heard Angela joking about it once with Joan, one Christmas, several years earlier. Joan had been teasing her about her latest Christmas letter, saying Angela had just cut and pasted it from earlier letters. ‘I did not,’ Angela had said, laughing. ‘They’re all one hundred per cent original. I’ve got a file of them if you ever want to refresh your memory. They’re historical documents. I might even donate them to the state library.’

  ‘Really?’ Joan had said. ‘Which section? Fiction or non-fiction?’

  Celia started to look through the filing cabinet. She’d have to be quick. Ig had looked suspicious. He was a smart boy. Didn’t miss a trick.

  She found it in the third drawer. A big folder in an upright file marked in Angela’s neat handwriting. Christmas letters. More than three decades of them. There wasn’t time to read through them now. She didn’t need to, anyway. She’d received and read all of them over the years already.