‘Not today. I was thinking maybe tomorrow morning? After we’ve all got some decent rest.’
‘I’ll be there,’ he said, accepting the coffee mug from her. ‘There’s something else.’
‘What?’
‘I know that my father wanted me to have some of his paintings. His final work.’
Jack trod carefully. ‘OK.’
‘He was a very talented man, Jack. A special artist. When I look at his work, I can see him. It’s difficult to explain, but I feel such a powerful connection to him through his art. I’m just worried that it’ll all be too overwhelming.’
‘I understand. But you’ll have me to lean on. That’s got to count for something, right?’
Without thinking, Elizabeth stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. More than you know, she thought.
‘You’re something else, Lizzie. You know that?’
Elizabeth pulled back from their embrace. ‘Why, when we talk, does it always feel as though you’re on the verge of saying goodbye?’
‘It doesn’t feel that way to me.’
‘Jack, I know it’s none of my business, but is there anything you can tell me about what’s waiting for you in Cape Town?’
‘I just … I made a promise that I need to keep,’ he offered, his eyes suddenly serious. ‘A long time ago.’
Elizabeth stared back at him. She wanted to ask more. Wanted to know how long it would be until she could see him again. But something held her back. Instead, she squeezed his hands and stepped away.
‘So, listen, you’re not going to believe this, but Rosie’s quite keen to go for a walk this afternoon,’ Jack said, changing gears. ‘I’ve actually noticed a change in her – seems more energetic, somehow. Want to come along?’
Elizabeth considered the offer and then shook her head. ‘Thanks, Jack, but Joseph’s coming over in a while and I have so many questions I’d like to ask him. He was with my parents through everything. There are some things I need to know.’
‘Of course. I can stay behind if you like?’
‘No, thank you. This is one thing I need to do on my own. But I appreciate the offer. Enjoy your walk. We’ll talk later.’
Jack thought he detected a sudden coolness to Elizabeth’s mood, but wasn’t sure.
‘Sure you’re OK?’
‘I’m fine, Jack,’ she replied, in her best Television Advert Land voice. ‘See you this evening.’
Forty-five
Elizabeth watched as Joseph removed his hat and sat down at the dining-room table. There was something touchingly poetic about the old man in his faded sports jacket that threatened her resolve. She loved how slowly and deliberately he moved, as if the world – and indeed the air itself – were made of glass.
‘Thank you for coming to see me, Joseph. I appreciate it.’
‘Of course, Miss Bethy. I know how many questions you must have. I hope I can answer at least some of them for you.’
She nodded, grateful for his kindness. ‘Joseph, do you remember what my parents were like after I left? And I don’t want you to try to make me feel better. I just want the truth. Please.’
He looked back at her in a manner that suggested he never dealt in anything other than the truth. ‘Your mother was upset for a long time. Your father, well, he turned to his painting for comfort.’ Seeing the flash of pain in her eyes, Joseph leaned forward. ‘But do you understand why?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Why do you think they were sad?’
‘Because I … just left them here. I abandoned them. I was so determined to go that I never stopped to consider what I was doing to them. I was terribly selfish. Come to think of it … I never even said goodbye to you.’
‘Oh, Miss Bethy. Is that what you think? Is that what you’ve been thinking all these years? That your parents were heartbroken by the way you left?’
‘Y— Yes.’
Joseph regarded her with eyes that were both happy and sad. ‘Why do you think that?’
‘Because it’s the truth. You just said it yourself. I hurt my parents very deeply.’
‘I didn’t say that. I said that your parents were sad. But not for the reasons that you think.’
Elizabeth blinked, confused. ‘I don’t understand, Joseph. What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying that your parents weren’t upset because of the way you left. They were just sad that you were gone.’
‘I’m not sure I see the difference.’
Joseph held back for a moment, thinking of another way to explain it. ‘My wife and I have two children, Miss Bethy. My firstborn left home when she was just seventeen years. Her circumstances worried me greatly. My eldest daughter was twenty-six years when she left us. She was moving into her own house with the man she had just married. A kind and good husband who I respected very much. I cried the same way for both of my children when they left. You see, it’s not that you left so young. It’s the way of life for children to leave home and to walk their own path. It’s just that you left at all. Do you understand?’
‘But I treated them so badly in those last months. I know I hurt them—’
Joseph held up a hand. ‘Your parents understood that you were young and had your heart set on doing what you felt was right. They were just worried about you. It didn’t change how much they loved you.’
Joseph spoke with such quiet authority that Elizabeth didn’t know how to respond.
‘Your mother was a wonderful woman. She spoke to me about your life overseas. She told me about your letters and the things you were doing. The places you visited. She was so proud of you for how you were living on your own and making a life for yourself so far away from here. She cried a lot for you, Miss Bethy. But they were good tears.’
‘B— But I never got the chance to tell them how sorry I was for the things I did. I never expressed how much they meant to me,’ she stammered, raising up her arms. ‘For the wonderful childhood they gave me here. I just wish that—’
‘Just because you never say the sky is blue, doesn’t mean that it isn’t. Do you understand? A mother knows. A father knows.’ Joseph’s eyes narrowed. ‘When your father spoke of you, you should’ve seen how his eyes used to dance.’
Elizabeth could no longer bear to look at him. She had spent so many years persecuting herself that she never even considered the possible flaws in her argument. That perhaps her parents understood that she was just young and impetuous. And that maybe they just missed her.
Elizabeth rose up from the table and walked over to Joseph. She bent down and kissed him on his forehead. ‘I’m so sorry I never said goodbye to you,’ she whispered, her tears slipping onto the collar of his white shirt.
He placed a calloused hand on top of hers and gently patted it.
‘In my culture,’ he whispered back, ‘we never say goodbye.’
Forty-six
They had just sat down at a small nondescript restaurant on Sutherland’s main road, when Jack remembered that he hadn’t switched on his mobile phone for some time. As he searched his pockets, a waiter arrived to take their order.
‘Just a lime and soda for me,’ Jack said, thumbing the power button on the ancient Nokia. ‘And a bowl of water for him, if that’s OK?’ he added, glancing at Pilot who had slumped down under Rosie’s chair.
While Jack’s phone powered up, Rosie and Sam placed their food orders. As the waiter headed for the kitchen, Rosie sank back into her chair and dropped a hand onto Pilot’s head. ‘Whose genius idea was it to go for a walk? In the bloody desert no less.’
‘To be fair, it’s not quite a desert,’ Sam countered, using his handkerchief to mop a line of sweat from his brow. ‘It’s a semi-desert. And I think you’ll find that the walk was your idea.’
‘Oh thank you, Sir Samuel Attenborough. Maybe later you can lecture us on the many different deserts of the world. That would be such a treat.’
Having been fully resuscitated, Jack’s phone issued a shrill chirp.
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‘Listen to that. Your decrepit phone has a message for you,’ Rosie offered. ‘It must be from early man. A Cro-Magnon.’
‘It’s an old phone, but it works just fine.’
He punched in the number for the voice message system and lifted the handset to his ear. A woman with a sultry voice informed him that he had one new message.
There was a click and a slight hiss of static.
‘Jack, this is Henry. I’ve opened your envelope and, as I’m sure you can imagine, well … I obviously can’t accept it. I don’t know if this is even real. Have you really just given me a cheque for …’ he trailed off, his mind seemingly unable to verbalise the amount. ‘This is ludicrous, Jack. I can’t possibly take this. Please phone me back as soon as you get this message.’
Jack pressed the End Call button and brought the phone down to his lap. He accessed the messaging option and typed a short note.
Hi Henry, I’m afraid I must insist that you accept the money. Please use it for the purposes we discussed.
Jack lifted his head for a moment, thinking of what else he could type that would convince Henry to use the money to keep both his hotel and The Galaxy going. And then he had it.
You gave me your word, Henry. You have to stand by your promise to me.
He clicked Send and watched as the witchcraft that was mobile-phone technology spirited his words from the screen.
‘So what was that about?’ Rosie asked.
‘Henry thinks that the money I gave him is too extravagant.’
‘Is it?’
He shrugged. ‘Probably.’
Forty-seven
Elizabeth looked down at the key in her hand and then back up at Jack.
‘We’ve got nothing but time,’ he assured her. ‘Nowhere else we need to be.’
The morning sun glinted off the studio’s small cottage-pane windows. Elizabeth moved her hand towards the door, hesitated, and then slipped the key into its lock. She held still for a moment before twisting her wrist.
The old door creaked open on hinges that had not been tested in some time.
She pushed inside and Jack followed closely behind her.
The studio was much as Jack had been expecting – a single open space accentuated by a high-beam roof and a flood of natural light. At the centre of the room hung a black ceiling fan that made Jack think of a spider suspended on its dragline. The back wall was fitted with wooden benches, upon which an array of painting supplies was stacked. Buckets, rolled canvases, tubes of paint, sketch pads, acrylic pots, books, jars full of paintbrushes and an assortment of aprons were just some of the items that caught Jack’s attention. He could also make out the corners of old frames stacked under one of the benches.
But what stood out most about the studio were the seven large easels positioned in a half-circle around a lone stool. To Jack they seemed like guardians of a sort, rigid wooden sentinels standing watch over the room. They were easily as tall as him and were draped in loose folds of white cloth, their square shoulders outlining the size of the art cradled in their arms.
Elizabeth’s gaze shifted from one easel to the next. ‘They’re all still here. I can’t believe I’m looking at them.’
‘Why are there so many?’
‘I don’t know. But they’ve always been here.’
She moved towards the easel closest to her and for a moment Jack thought she was about to reveal the painting it held, but instead she drifted to the middle of the semicircle and dropped onto her knees. Not bothering to ask what she was doing, Jack lowered himself down beside her. He watched as her eyes honed in on the easel in front of her.
She pointed at its stout wooden legs. ‘When I was young, I used to sit at my father’s feet while he painted. One day, he gave me some paint of my own and told me I could decorate the legs if I liked.’
She held her hands to her mouth and began to cry. Jack leaned in and noticed that the legs were covered with faded dabs of flowers and trees. There were patches of sky. Rivers and fields. Dogs. People.
Jack could imagine Elizabeth as a small child, sitting at her father’s feet, a place from which, he realised, she had never truly moved away. He could almost see the morning sun on her back as she ran her paintbrush along the wood.
After a while, Elizabeth managed to compose herself enough to stand up. She moved over to a bench where a brush lay beside a dust-covered palette that was smeared in globs of different oils, some mixed, some not.
‘My father would never leave his oils like this. He was meticulous.’
Jack didn’t know what to make of this.
‘Joseph told me that my father had his stroke here in the studio. While he was painting.’
She hunched over and picked up the paintbrush. ‘Whatever he was working on … he never got the chance to finish it.’
She brought the brush up to her nose, breathed in its scent, and set it down again. She then moved around the room, carefully inspecting a number of old trinkets and books. Jack could almost see the memories clinging to them. Eventually, when there was nothing left to look at, she returned to the seven wooden easels in the centre of the room.
‘When Joseph told me that there were some paintings here that my father wanted me to have, I didn’t think I’d ever be able to look at them. So many times I’ve tried to imagine what they are.’
Jack reached out and took hold of her hand.
She turned to him and smiled. Her eyes were bloodshot and swollen. ‘This is it, Jack. The last thing I have to face. And then,’ she began, her voice trembling, ‘maybe I can start to breathe again.’
‘Why don’t you turn around and let me pull away the covers. I’ll tell you when they’re ready.’
Elizabeth nodded and turned to face the windows. She closed her eyes and listened as the cloths were removed.
When Jack was done, he stood back and regarded the seven paintings. He felt something rise up in his chest that was both triumph and defeat. ‘Turn around, Lizzie,’ he whispered.
Moving slowly, she did as instructed and then opened her eyes. At first she struggled to comprehend what she was looking at. Smudges of darkness and vivid colour danced hysterically in her vision, until, finally, they pulled together.
She lifted her hands to her head and pushed her fingers through her hair.
The seven paintings weren’t seven paintings at all.
They were one painting, spread across seven canvases.
It was the memory of a father and his young daughter, huddled together under a vast amphitheatre of stars. Every painting was complete, save for the canvas on the far right-hand side. Between the stars and the ground lay the sketched outline of an old drive-in screen whose metal panels were peeling away like the curled petals of a desert flower.
Forty-eight
As the days led up to Christmas, a sense of tranquillity settled over the farm. Tranquillity and purpose. Seemingly energised by the pure air and Elizabeth’s composed frame of mind, the four of them set about returning the farm to as much of its former glory as was possible. They painted walls, cleaned floors, repaired portions of the thatch and even made an attempt at restoring some of the loose stonework at the back of the studio. An attempt that, valiant as it was, proved to be physically beyond them and ultimately had to be redone by a local artisan.
Careful not to overly exert themselves, they made time for long lunches and even lengthier dinners, meals at which Joseph and his soft-spoken wife, Gloria, were often present. When Christmas Eve finally rolled around, most of what they wanted to achieve had been done, and they sat down to a feast.
Sitting at the head of the table, Elizabeth looked around the room and allowed herself a sigh. She felt more at peace than she had in years. To her right sat Jack, Sam and Rosie. To her left, Joseph and Gloria.
Feeling that the moment was right, Elizabeth stood up and placed a hand on her glass. The light conversation fell away and everyone turned to look at her.
‘If it’s OK with all of you,
I’d like to say a few things.’ She waited for a response and was met with nods and smiles. ‘Firstly, I just want to thank you all for so generously helping to breathe new life back into the farm and for getting me through what has been a very difficult homecoming. I really don’t want to get all emotional about it – Lord knows there’s been enough of that – but I do want you to know how much I appreciate everything that you’ve done for me. Joseph and Gloria, I’ll never be able to thank you properly for all your hard work over the years. Whatever money has been paid to you, it hasn’t been enough. Not even close,’ she said, knowing that she would soon make amends for that. She then lifted her glass. ‘To Joseph and Gloria.’
‘To Joseph and Gloria,’ the room chorused.
Elizabeth then turned to her three friends and, for a moment, her smile faltered. ‘What do I say to you lot? To the people responsible for helping me to heal a wound that, for the longest time, I thought was beyond repair. I know I have a ways yet to travel as I come to terms with everything, but for the first time in so many years I can look beyond this. I can’t begin to tell you what that feels like.’
Elizabeth watched as Rosie blew her a kiss.
‘I also have a small announcement to make. I’ve decided that I won’t be returning to the estate. For what’s left of my life, I want to wake up and fall asleep on this farm. I was here as a young girl and I think it’s right that I come back now.’ She paused to gather herself. ‘And, of course, you are all welcome to stay with me if you so choose. Nothing would please me more. There is space for everyone. But we can speak about that in the days to come. For now, I just want to tell you all that I haven’t felt this good – and this blessed – in such a very long time. Thank you and Merry Christmas.’
As one, everyone stood up from the table, taking turns to embrace her. Elizabeth’s eyes were drawn to the crackling flames of the fireplace on the far side of the room. For a moment she could picture her father reading to her younger self as she lay cocooned in a heavy blanket. Sitting on her favourite armchair – one that Jack had just repaired – Elizabeth’s mother turned to her and smiled.
The Last Road Trip Page 14