I’m telling you all this so you’ll understand just how much of a shock it was that evening, when he slumped into a chair and started crying in front of me. I had never seen a grown man sobbing before – my dad would certainly never have wept in front of me – and I had no idea how to handle it. I knew that Tracey kept an emergency bottle of brandy under the café sink, so I offered him some of that, and after a while, he started talking.
He told me that his marriage was in trouble, that he and his wife had been arguing non-stop and that she had threatened to leave him. I tried to ask why, as gently as I could, but all he kept saying was that he wasn’t able to give her what she wanted, and that he felt helpless. I didn’t know what to say to comfort him, so I just kept pouring the brandy, but the more he drank, the sadder he seemed to become. To distract him, I started to confide my own worries, explaining how I was struggling to get over all my awful jealousy and trust Seth. He gave me some advice, and it helped, it really did. Lavender said all the right things, but she wasn’t an adult – not really, not compared to the professor anyway. His words meant more to me than hers, and after that first night, the two of us began talking a lot more.
It wasn’t in any way romantic between us – nothing like that at all – but I did start to care about him. He was like a best friend and a big brother rolled into one, and I felt special knowing that I was the one he had chosen to turn to at his time of need. It wasn’t very long before the professor knew more about me and my life than anyone else in London – even Seth.
But, of course, there were things that I didn’t tell him.
Bonnie closed her eyes for a moment to consider which part she should tell next. Everything back then had felt as if it happened all at once, but it was important now to separate those events as coherently as she could.
She tried to imagine what her daughter would want to hear, but that was impossible when she knew so little about her. She knew bits, snatches that she had picked up over the years, through letters she had received and searches on the internet. Evangeline Nash was a private person, but Bonnie had found a few traces of her online: photos of a sullen-looking teenager on the red carpet at a film premiere, her hand enveloped tightly by her adoptive mother’s; a local newspaper report detailing her first prize win at a dressage event. Her Facebook profile picture was of a striking dark bay horse, and further exploratory clicks had led Bonnie to a more recent photo of Evangeline with her arm wrapped around the shoulders of a laughing blonde girl.
That one had jolted her in its familiarity.
Would Evangeline slam the door in Bonnie’s face as soon as she realised who she was? Would David and Anna? It was no more than she deserved. Then again, if Evangeline was anything like Bonnie, she would have an incurable need to know all the facts, no matter how horrid and hurtful. Bonnie had always been that way, had perpetually chased and probed and nettled until she got the truth. Some facts had to be known, whether you sought them or not, and it was one of those that had convinced Bonnie she must finally make this trip. Because in order to face her future, she must first confront her past.
19
Not since my days at the stables have I had to set an alarm to go off so early in the morning.
It is amazing what the body gets accustomed to, but also how quickly habits can fall away from the fore if you don’t keep up with them. Since I quit my job at the yard, I often sleep in until past ten, and I have gone from being almost continually active to not moving much for most of the day. My once-firm thighs have softened, and my bottom is now the consistency of blancmange, where previously it was barley sugar. I even feel out of breath climbing the stairs nowadays, and I used to bound up them two at a time. I know it’s not good for me, and that I have done that dreaded thing and ‘let myself go’, but it’s only really now that I am starting to notice, let alone care much.
My legs are still aching from my long walk with Kit and Tui a few days ago and I’m keen to do something about my lack of fitness. New Zealand is not a country for sitting around – there is too much to see and do here, too much beauty outside to waste any time festering away indoors. Being here has given me a new hunger to explore and ramble, and it is this that I focus on as I rub the sleep out of my eyes and blunder across the car park.
‘Morning!’
Griff greets me from the open door of a coach, a clipboard in his hands and sunglasses pushed up into his tufty blond hair.
I was happily surprised when Kit suggested after our walk that I join him and Tui on this day trip to Milford Sound – even more so when my half-sister started jumping up and down with excitement at the prospect. As it transpires, Griff operates a number of tours out of Queenstown, and he happened to have a few extra seats going spare today. Allie wasn’t able to join us because someone had to stay behind at the stables, and the girl who had covered for her and Kit on the day we’d all played Frisbee golf had the weekend off to attend a wedding. And anyway, Kit added, Allie had seen it all before, whereas I was a genuine tourist, and Tui a big fan of the seals that we were apparently guaranteed to see.
‘Hey,’ I say, glancing at my watch. ‘I’m not late, am I?’
‘Nah,’ Griff grins. ‘Kit only got here a few minutes ago – him and Trouble are already on board.’
Clutching the coffee I picked up on the way here, I head quickly into the cool air-conditioned interior of the bus. Tui, who is sitting about halfway down by the window, spots me straight away and calls out my name, her eyes screwing up in delight as I make my way along to join her and Kit. He taps his takeaway cup against mine in greeting, his expression communicating that he feels exactly the same about the early start as I do.
As Tui chatters away, telling me a story about how Beavis chased a rabbit and got himself stuck in its burrow, Griffin does a final headcount and, with a merry toot, manoeuvres the coach out through the deserted streets.
It is nearing six a.m., and the only people I see as we drive out of town are those opening their cafés or shops for the day. The sky is a faded navy blue, and the sun is tucked away behind the distant hills. It is undoubtedly going to be another scorching-hot day, but for now the heat is quiet, soothed into submission by the damp fingers of dawn.
‘So, we’re now on the eastern shore of Lake Wakatipu,’ Griff announces, his microphone crackling slightly as he clears his throat and starts to tell us all about the area.
The view out across the water is staggering. It is the sheer scale of the lakes and mountains here that so enthrals me. They make me feel smaller in size, but stronger in myself somehow. The flat Cambridgeshire countryside back home is isolating by comparison. Anything feels not only possible here, but probable, too. It is, simply put, incredible.
Tui falls silent as we continue further along the highway, passing bleached snatches of grass, dense patches of undergrowth and the occasional dwelling set back from the road. The Remarkables loom grandly above us, their jagged peaks silhouetted against the still-rising sun. I stare, my eyes glassy, trying not to think about Anna, and the clever words she would have chosen to describe this place. I still haven’t been able to face opening her memory book, but with every day that I spend here, I can sense myself becoming braver. Perhaps the fact that my birth mother is not here is fortuitous rather than disastrous. It has meant that I have been able to spend time getting to know Tui without the added pressure of her knowing that we are related, but it’s also given me some much-needed space for myself – something that I did not realise I needed until I had it. David was right, after all – getting away from home has been a tonic for my battered heart, even if the circumstances are a very long way from straightforward.
We stop for breakfast in the pretty lakeside town of Te Anau. Tui takes my hand and practically drags me down the steps into the sunshine, and the two of us wait under the shade of a bakery’s awning while Kit and Griff pop inside to pick up some goodies. She is wearing duck-egg-blue leggings today and a red Mickey Mouse sweatshirt, which she promptly yanks off and
attempts to tie around her waist.
‘Shall I help you?’ I offer, but she nods her head and says no.
‘I can do it, Gee-nie,’ she assures me through gritted teeth, but it’s hard to simply stand there and watch while she struggles. When I move towards her to help, however, Tui emits a shrill squawk of indignation and scurries away out of reach.
‘Don’t mind Miss Grumpy Pants,’ says a returning Kit, handing me a paper bag containing some sort of warm pastry.
‘She can be very stubborn, this one,’ adds Griff, who is making short work of an enormous sausage roll. ‘Tui the mule, I call her.’
‘Hmph!’ Tui crosses her arms in an exaggerated gesture of disapproval. ‘I’m not a mule, Griff. Jeez! I’m a puppy, that’s all.’
‘You are?’ Kit exclaims. ‘Well, then,’ he says, holding up another bag, ‘you’d better not have this muffin – it’s got chocolate chips in it, and those are poisonous for dogs.’
‘Mmmm,’ croons Tui, sticking out her chin and opening her mouth in a wide grin. ‘Chocolaaate.’
Deft as a cruise ship magician, Kit gives Tui her muffin whilst somehow managing to unknot and retie her jumper around her hips at the same time. When he clocks my look of admiration, he laughs.
‘Not my first time,’ he says.
The four of us take our assorted breakfast bits down towards the shore of the lake. The water here looks as thick and dense as gloss paint, and is the deep, bruised blue of a thunderous sky. Griff sits down on a wooden bench and closes his eyes, luxuriating in the warmth of the sunshine as he absent-mindedly rubs sausage roll crumbs out of his beard. Tui, meanwhile, has finished her muffin at a speed that would impress even chief-of-the-cake-devourers Hayley, and is busy selecting stones to chuck into the water, the first of which sends a lurking gull scuttling away in noisy alarm.
‘Quite something, right?’ Kit remarks, between mouthfuls of bacon roll.
‘It’s so serene,’ I tell him, assuming that he means the view and not the bird. ‘Even in the quietest spots back home, you can usually hear the rumble of traffic, but here, there’s barely a sound. It’s so peaceful.’
As if on cue, Tui lets out a very long and loud burp, before collapsing into shouty hiccups of laughter.
Kit rolls his eyes.
‘You were saying?’
I grin back at him.
‘She’s brilliant,’ I say simply. ‘A comedy genius.’
‘That girl is the sweet potato of Bonnie’s patch,’ Kit agrees. ‘I reckon she would do literally anything for her – you know?’
‘Of course,’ I mumble, momentarily winded by his words. Little does Kit realise how much of a gut-punch it is to hear how cherished Tui is by her mother – by the same mother who felt unable to cherish me. Unable or unwilling – I don’t yet know which. But I find that I cannot resent Tui, even if I am a bit jealous of her. Because how could I? She absolutely deserves all this abundant love that everybody seems to shower her with – Bonnie’s most of all.
I look down at my napkin, which I have begun shredding into pieces in my hands, then back out across the water. Now that Tui has ceased lobbing her stones in favour of hunting for shells, the surface of the lake has returned to a glassy calm.
‘Time to get back on the road, kids,’ Griff says, stretching out each of his arms like a scarecrow. His eyebrows are so pale that the sunlight makes them appear translucent.
I take one last, lingering look across the lake, squinting until the scene begins to blur. I wish I could keep this moment as something other than just a memory, and then I would be able to return to it during times of need. I want to remember how it felt to be here, to be so close to something resembling contentment.
‘Come on, Gee-nie, come on,’ sings Tui, and this time when she presses her hand into mine, I squeeze her fingers back just as tight.
20
The closer we get to Milford Sound, the more enthralled I feel.
There is such a lot to know about this country, and I marvel at Griff’s humorous commentary as he entertains the coach with interesting facts and anecdotes, telling his captive audience more about Fiordland National Park and sprinkling in general titbits about New Zealand. No wonder Kiwis are so proud of their homeland – I would be, too. But then, of course, I suppose that my own heritage is linked to this place. Is that why I feel so at peace here? Or would the same have been true if I had embarked on a backpacking adventure, as Hayley and I originally planned years ago, without knowing anything about my roots?
For so many years, I have been content to fill my mind with only the stuff that I considered to be important, none of which ever reached as far as New Zealand. In truth, much of it did not reach past the gates of Mill House Stables. How sheltered I have been, and for so long, too. How could I have been so fulfilled by such a minuscule existence? It feels utterly baffling to me now that I’m here, learning and uncovering so much with every passing hour, and my previous life is starting to feel increasingly small.
We have only stopped twice more since breakfast – once to stroll past the jaw-dangling splendour of the Mirror Lakes, and again while we waited in line to drive through the Homer Tunnel – and Kit and I agree that it’s a relief to get the circulation going again via a short walk from the coach to the waiting ferry.
The vast white vessel has an upper and lower deck, but everyone – including Kit, Tui and me – heads immediately up the metal steps, keen to be in the best spot for both scenery and sunshine. It’s invigorating to be out in the clean air, and as the engines rumble into life and the boat moves slowly out into the water, I grip the railings with cheerful anticipation.
The only thing I know about Milford Sound is that Rudyard Kipling once referred to it as the ‘eighth wonder of the world’ – a fact that David repeated to me multiple times before I flew out here. As the boat chugs on, however, I soon understand why Mr Kipling was so overawed by what he saw.
Vast peaks the colour of ash burst up out of the dark, swirling water of the fiord, while veils of mist cling like toddlers to their jagged sides. Waterfalls tumble down from the clifftops, each one tossing its load into the deep basin below with a powerful yet light-hearted abandon that both thrills and astounds me. The sky above is a faultless Tiffany blue, blemished only by the merest suggestion of cloud, and I lift up my chin to gaze at it, overwhelmed yet again at its colossal breadth. It’s as though my senses are lined up one by one, like soldiers on parade, each one ready for action. I can see and hear the awesome beauty of this place – but I can feel it, too, just as I can taste the spray in the air and feel the wind rushing through my hair. It is impossible not to be moved by Milford’s might and magnitude, inconceivable not to feel privileged simply to be here.
I tear my eyes away from the view in order to steal a glance at Tui. Like me, my half-sister has been wowed into stillness, the frothiness of her irresistible personality temporarily subdued by wonder. Beyond Tui and also with his eyes trained on the water, Kit looks utterly lost in thought. But as if he can feel the weight of my scrutiny, he looks round and catches me staring at him, the sides of his mouth dancing upwards in an easy smile before I have time to turn away.
Around Billy, I often feel as if I am the one driving the conversation forwards, and that to a certain extent, at least, he reacts to my remarks, rather than vice versa. Our friendship trots along with the ease that comes only once you have spent years in another person’s company, and are therefore privy to all their foibles. With Kit, however, the opposite is true, because although he is easy-going and approachable, I still can’t read his expressions, or those little tics that so often give people away. When he fixes me with a look like the one he is giving me now, so genuine in appearance yet so disarmingly kind, it makes me feel strangely bashful and unsure of how to react.
Further embarrassment is avoided thanks to a sudden collective shriek. The ferry driver has aimed the bow of the boat right under the largest waterfall, soaking two thirds of the top deck in the process.
‘Tui!’ It’s Griff, calling across from the opposite railings.
‘Come and see what I’ve found,’ he says, beckoning with a hand, but Tui is already slipping and sliding her way across the wet boards towards him.
‘Watch out!’ I shout, just as Kit yells, ‘Bloody hell!’ and the two of us leap forwards and catch one of Tui’s arms each at exactly the same time, saving her from an almost certain collision with the floor.
‘Jeez,’ she grumbles, shaking us off without a word of thanks.
‘Well,’ exclaims Kit. ‘That’s charming. Of all the ungrateful little toads.’
I am about to reply, when Tui calls out my name, her frantic hand flapping even harder than the ferry’s red, white and blue flag.
‘What’s the matter?’ I begin, hurrying over and then letting out a cry of delight. Because there, lounging below us on an outcrop of flat rocks, is a whole little tribe of brown seals.
‘They’re amazing!’ I say, beaming first at Tui then at Griff.
Lifting my camera, I zoom in until I can see the small, inquisitive faces in more detail, delighted by their black beady eyes and short grey whiskers. Despite the proximity of the boat, most of the seals appear to be fast asleep, and I point out as much to Tui.
‘Lazy bones,’ she says laughingly, but I can see that she is enchanted.
‘Actually,’ I tell her, ‘seals are nocturnal – do you know what “nocturnal” means?’
Tui shakes and then nods her head.
‘Well,’ I continue, happy to put my lifelong animal fascination to some good use for once, ‘it means that they are active at night time. That’s when they prefer to catch fish for their dinner, and it must be quite hard work, because they are so tired afterwards that they sleep nearly all day.’
One Winter Morning Page 11