The Implausible Story of Olive Far Far Away

by Tonya Alexandra

  ‘Of course you can. Can I ask what for?’

  ‘I’m going to write some articles and make some money.’

  I don’t tell her it’s so I can afford to go to Ireland. Muirgheal thinks it’s a waste of time to try and find Derry, but I want to meet him, whether he can help me or not. He’s my grandfather.

  ‘Well, you could certainly do with the money,’ she says. ‘Is that that Winona Wyatt column you were telling me about?’

  ‘No,’ I say, as it suddenly occurs to me. ‘I want to be me. I’m going to use my own name.’

  Later that day, my phone vibrates as I’m climbing out the window to do the shopping for Muirgheal. I flip it open. Felix.

  ‘Felix, my mad tsar. How are you?’

  ‘Olive! Is that you? Oh my god.’ He sounds drunk or scared or super excited. Possibly all three.

  ‘Of course it’s me, you idiot. You called me. What’s going on? Have you been drinking?’

  I glance up at the clock and do the math. It’s after midnight in Sydney.

  ‘Yes. Well. A little bit. Some champagne.’

  That’s odd. Felix is a boutique beer kind of guy. ‘Blind and sophisticated, you’re well out of my league now.’

  ‘Olive. Shut up. You need to be serious for a second. I’ve got to tell you something. It’s important.’

  A sense of dread envelops me. ‘What?’

  ‘Promise you won’t make a joke?’

  ‘I’m sorry, who do you think you’ve called?’

  ‘Promise me.’

  I sigh. I feel very afraid of what he’s going to say. I duck out the window and sit on the fire escape. It’s the first week of winter. The metal is cold on my ass. ‘Fine. No jokes.’

  Felix takes a deep breath. ‘I’m getting married!’

  He sounds top-to-tail thrilled and he’s waiting for me to say something like ‘Congratulations!’ but I can’t. This is awful news. I hate it. What the hell am I supposed to do with Felix married? Is this girl going to let me crawl into bed with him? Is she going to let us mooch about in his room playing chess and complaining about life for full afternoons? I don’t want to play second banana to anyone.

  Felix pushes on. ‘I proposed to Prue tonight, and she said yes!’

  ‘You did it just now?’ I ask him, genuinely curious. ‘Why are you calling me? Shouldn’t you be off wining and dining her or something? It’s kind of creepy how you keep getting on the phone to me when clearly you should be paying attention to the other woman.’

  ‘Prue’s on the phone to her parents. I can’t call Mum because she’d be asleep and I wanted to tell someone.’ He pauses. ‘Someone important? Who cares and is excited for me?’ He’s waiting for me to respond. ‘Hopefully …?’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah. I care. And look, I’ll say it—congratulations.’

  ‘Sounds very genuine.’

  ‘It’s hard to be enthusiastic when I haven’t met her, Felix,’ I point out, very reasonably I think. ‘I mean she could be a mental case for all I know.’

  ‘She’s not mental, she’s smart. Remember—she wants to be a surgeon?’

  ‘A mental case who has a licence to cut me up, even better.’

  ‘Olive,’ Felix says. ‘Please be okay with this. I’m really, really happy.’

  I make a long groaning, moaning kind of noise. ‘But I don’t want you to be married. You’re a traitor. You’re supposed to be mine.’

  I don’t need to explain myself to Felix. He understands I don’t want things to change between us. ‘I’ll always be yours, Ol.’

  ‘Can I still sleep in your bed then?’

  ‘Ah, maybe not …’

  ‘See? She’s obviously unreasonable.’

  Felix laughs which makes me laugh too. It makes me feel a little better.

  ‘So when’s the wedding?’ I say with a sigh. ‘I guess I’ll have to fly home to be the spook at the ceremony.’ I start to think of the fun I could have pulling at Prue’s bridal veil, maybe tripping her as she walks down the aisle …

  ‘We haven’t got that far yet,’ Felix says. ‘I have to meet her parents.’

  I make a face. ‘Ghastly.’

  ‘They sound really nice actually.’

  I blow a raspberry at him through the phone. I’m sick of all these nice people.

  ‘So mature.’

  I laugh.

  ‘Just a minute,’ he tells me, ‘Prue’s off the phone.’

  I sit on the line, pulling my skirt up above my knees to get some sun on my legs, weak and pathetic as the sun is at this date and latitude. I can hear Felix saying, ‘Hey, baby. How did it go? They did? That’s great!’

  I want to puke, but I can’t miss the real excitement in his voice, which is kind of sweet. And yes, I’m jealous. I can’t comprehend how happy they must be. It’s at a level beyond my experience.

  Suddenly Felix is back on the line. ‘Prue wants to talk to you. Here …’

  ‘No!’ I yell. ‘Felix! Get back here!’

  But he’s gone, and sure enough the girl is on the line. ‘Hello, Olive?’

  Holy Mary, mother of Jesus, she’s English! Before I can stop myself I blurt out, ‘You’re English!’

  Unfortunately it comes across as an accusation, kind of like: ‘You murdered my flesh and blood, you filthy scoundrel!’ But she handles it with aplomb.

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I’m even a fan of the royal family, I’m afraid.’

  Oh no she didn’t.

  ‘Well, I’m afraid that’s not on,’ I reply. ‘Do you have any idea how much money that family sucks out of our country?’

  ‘A fair amount, I imagine,’ Prue responds. ‘I can’t say I’d be a monarchist if I was Australian, but they are a great source of pride among most English.’

  I scoff. ‘I’m not surprised. You lot love to lord it over everyone else.’

  ‘You’ve been to England then?’ she asks all innocently.

  Curses! Who is this wicked witch? She’s got me!

  ‘Actually, I was thinking of passing through on my way to Ireland,’ I say.

  Naturally, I have never pondered such an outlandish possibility but I do need to sound kind of reasonable and open-minded about the place.

  ‘Would you consider coming soon?’ she asks. ‘Felix and I are staying with my parents for Christmas. We’d love for you to join us.’

  Huh? What?

  ‘Christmas with you and your fiancé in England?’ Both those words disgust me. I’d rather spend Christmas in the Underworld with Hades.

  ‘That’s right. A real white Christmas,’ she says before she starts back-peddling. ‘Not that your Christmas isn’t real of course.’

  I smile. She is a little afraid of me. Excellent.

  ‘Well, thanks for the offer but I couldn’t possibly do that to your parents, fitting in an extra person …’

  Oh, how thoughtful and magnanimous I am!

  ‘It’s not an issue. They have the room.’

  Cac.

  ‘I don’t know. It’s a bit awkward though, isn’t it? Felix meeting them for the first time …’

  ‘That’s why it would be helpful if you came—for Felix.’

  I’m curious. ‘Has he told you about me? My condition?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Simple as that? She accepts it?

  ‘And?’

  ‘You’re important to Felix so you’re important to me.’ There is a beat before she continues. ‘Look. I’m under no misapprehension that you’re pleasant company, if that’s what concerns you.’

  I stifle my laughter. This is turning into a hilarious conversation.

  ‘But if you do fancy coming along, the offer is sincere.’

  ‘Um. Well. Thanks.’

  ‘Felix wants to speak to you again.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say, relieved. Then I feel a little bad for not being particularly gracious, so I call into the phone as she hands it over, ‘Oh and congratulations.’ But I’m pretty sure she doesn’t hear.

  ‘So
what do you think?’ Felix demands. ‘Jump on a plane across the Atlantic, you’ll be in London in no time.’

  ‘No way. I mean England …’

  ‘You’re racist.’

  ‘You’re allowed to be racist to English people.’

  ‘I’m not sure it works that way. Come on, it’s not like you have to pay for anything.’

  ‘Time is money, baby.’

  Felix groans. ‘Look. I’ll send you the details. You can think about it.’

  ‘Blah.’

  ‘But Ol?’

  ‘Yes?’ I’m getting impatient.

  ‘I’d really appreciate it.’ He speaks softly, like he doesn’t want Prue to hear. ‘Maybe you could help me get around so I don’t look like a complete idiot in front of Prue’s parents? Marrying a blind man is not exactly the biggest hope you’d have for your daughter …’

  Cac. I didn’t think of that. Felix must be terrified. It pains me to think of him in England all blind and vulnerable. I can’t go to Ireland to look for Derry when Felix needs me. He’s my guy.

  ‘Bub. I’ve changed my mind. Of course I’ll come. With an invisible girl guiding you around you’ll be the most sure-footed blind man in town.’

  ‘Thanks, Ol. It means a lot.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go to England for anyone else,’ I say. ‘But I am sleeping in your bed.’

  CHAPTER

  23

  It’s hard to leave Muirgheal. She sends a box of my clothing to Prue’s parents’ house via parcel post, because she can’t have me stealing more. Then she rides in a taxi with me to JFK and we stand at the terminal debating departure flights.

  ‘Which has better first class do you think?’ I ask her. ‘Virgin, British Air, Delta …?’

  ‘Lufthansa leaves in twenty minutes.’

  ‘Ooh! But Iceland Air would go via Reykjavik!’

  ‘Olive, you don’t have the clothes for Iceland,’ Muirgheal scolds.

  ‘Fine. Look, Air France leaves in an hour. Maybe I’ll stop over in Paris for a croissant and coffee on the way.’

  ‘Listen to you my little international traveller.’ She searches for my hands. ‘I’m going to miss you.’

  ‘I won’t be gone long,’ I say, picking them up. ‘And Rose will be here the day after tomorrow.’

  Rose is flying to New York to be with Muirgheal for Christmas, then she’ll stay on until New Year’s to see Jordan and me. It’s sweet how Rose and Nan have reconnected. The three of us have been on FaceTime all the time. Muirgheal can’t get enough of it.

  Dad even bought Rose her flights after I had a frank discussion with him about Muirgheal’s noble intentions all those years ago. He’s a good guy, my dad, trying to make it up to Muirgheal and Rose. To all of us, I guess.

  ‘That will be wonderful.’ Muirgheal squeezes my hands. ‘I’m proud of you, making this detour for your friend. It’s a lovely thing to do. Very selfless.’

  ‘You hate England too?’

  Muirgheal laughs. ‘I’m so glad we’ve had this time.’

  I have to choke back my emotion. ‘There will be more of it. There’s so much story fodder in New York you won’t be able to get rid of me,’ I joke. ‘Lucky invisible girls don’t need working visas.’

  ‘Well, I’m proud as punch of you and your work. You’ll be getting a Pulitzer some day.’

  God love grandmothers. I’ve only managed to publish two things under my own name so far, but that’s okay. It feels good to be writing for myself. It’s nice to have something real to do aside from chasing answers about my curse.

  ‘Pass on my best to Derry if you find him.’ She presses her lips together. ‘Tell him our daughter was a blessing. That I don’t regret a thing.’ Her eyes are wet and shiny.

  I pull her into a hug before I cry too. ‘I will.’

  I’ll see her soon so it’s not a terrible goodbye. It’s actually pretty wonderful to have another person in my life to cherish. Family are a pain in the ass most of the time, but they’re also pretty great.

  Because she’s a loved one I don’t look back as I walk away and slip past customs. Somehow, Dillon made himself a part of me forever.

  Prue’s parents live in a small village a few miles out of Oxford—which, you need to know, is a city, not just a fancy university or a pretty great dictionary—so I don’t get to see London at all.

  The bus from the airport to Oxford is far more luxurious than the sleeper bus in China. There are only about twenty people on board and nobody makes a sound (let alone hack up their lungs onto the floor or let their babies defecate beside you). It’s warm and hushed, and people mind their own business.

  I press my nose to the glass as we glide through the landscape of grey skies, bare trees and green, green grass, made familiar by the inordinate number of BBC programs I’ve watched over the years.

  England, I think. Maybe you’re not that bad.

  Not that I’d ever vocalise that thought.

  It’s bitterly cold when I get off the bus in Oxford. The mid-morning sun is weak and I’m glad for the wool scarf Muirgheal insisted I take. New York was cold by the time I left, but when you’re all alone somehow it feels colder still.

  I fall for Oxford immediately, and not only because of the perfectly poetic way it’s called the city of dreaming spires, or the way it’s an ancient medieval town based around a university that is seriously old. The streets I wander have a lofty intellectual air; they are quaint and cobbled like some old Sherlock Holmes flick. I can’t wait to come back here with Felix, strolling the alleyways eavesdropping on philosophical banter. Yes, Felix will positively pee his pants over this scholarly vibe.

  A few Australian prime ministers studied at Oxford but I’m more excited by the fact that Aldous Huxley walked these streets.

  ‘I wish I had my soma!’ I cry out.

  A few people turn, startled, but just as quickly hurry away. Maybe they don’t get the reference to Huxley’s Brave New World. But maybe it’s just too cold to stay out investigating random people yelling random quotes. Maybe it happens every day.

  Felix and Prue don’t arrive until this afternoon but I decide to walk to Prue’s house. I figure I can hang out in Prue’s village, nap under an apple tree or something. Okay, maybe not in this weather.

  I was expecting snow—for Prue’s real white Christmas—but it’s just muted shades of grey. I’m glad it hasn’t snowed. It will be satisfying to point out to Prue how awful a cold Christmas is without the promised white.

  I pull out my phone to direct me to the village of Binsey and discover it’s only three kilometres and I can walk alongside the Thames all the way there.

  How pleasant, I think (not as cynically as I want to), and I follow the directions to the river.

  This is the same Thames river that runs through the heart of London. This water has meandered under the London Bridge past the Tower of London and the London Eye. For some reason it amazes me.

  It’s that strange feeling of believing a place exists because you’ve heard about it from books and stuff—and then when you actually go there, you realise you didn’t really believe it existed before, but seeing it, touching it, being there—you know at a deep intrinsic level it is real. People do live in England. They are doing it right now. They are seriously walking their little dogs by rivers in Oxford, sneezing, like that guy over there.

  Thinking about things like that blows my mind. I am so small.

  I push my hands deep into my pockets and follow the path along the river. It’s flat country, green pastures, those quaint low stone walls. I hunt about for wildlife, hoping to see a fox, a stoat maybe—are those real things? I am basing my whole English wildlife knowledge on Beatrix Potter and Toad of Toad Hall—but I don’t see anything except some dull-coloured birds and a few bleating sheep.

  It’s all very charming but it’s freaking cold and the clouds hang so low, I feel like I need to stoop to walk under them. No. There’s nothing young and free about this place—not like Australia. This c
ould never be home.

  There’s not much of a village to speak of in Binsey but the pub is busy. It’s one of those stone and white plaster buildings, totally dominated by an enormous thatched roof. A gold plaque out the front reads that there has been a pub on the site for over 800 years.

  Eight hundred years! It’s hard to imagine the kind of people who would have come here eight hundred years ago. There certainly wouldn’t have been the idiot in bicycle lycras who’s taking a selfie in front of it now.

  Have we progressed at all as a species?

  Adorably twee as it is, I don’t fancy spending the day in the pub. I’ll head to Prue’s house. Maybe it’s large enough that I can break in and wait in her bedroom without causing alarm. I don’t have a formal address for her place, just instructions to take the second left after the pub, then follow the path to the end of the lane. It’s the red brick place apparently.

  I follow the instructions, turning left into Shewthrop Lane, a road so narrow two cars would have to slow down to pass one another. Deciduous trees line either side. Their bare boughs stretch overhead, creating a ghostly kind of archway. It would be gorgeous in summer but I like it now. A crow calls and I shiver—this is Edgar Allen Poe eerie.

  I pace down the middle of the crushed stone road, hugging myself against the cold. There are no houses here, it has become rural so quickly. I’m beginning to feel uneasy as I near the end of the lane. A huge set of wrought iron gates mark a driveway not much narrower than the road I’m walking on. Is this the right place?

  When I reach the gates, I see the pebbled driveway sweeps through acres of formal gardens to a huge mansion. Or is it a manor? A small castle maybe?

  I glance at the inscription on the brass name plate: Shewthrop Hall.

  I’ve heard that name but I can’t place it. Surely I’ve got the wrong address.

  The red brick place? Yes, the building is reddish stone, but I was imagining Australian suburbia. This hall could fit twenty Australian houses into it. Probably more. It looks like a hotel. Nobody lives like this anymore, do they?

  I pull out my phone and google Shewthrop Hall. On the social pages of some Oxfordshire website I find a photo of a well-dressed man and woman standing on the steps of the building in front of me, holding glasses of champagne. The comment reads: The Earl and Lady Wroxden host a charity ball at Shewthrop Hall for the Oxford literary society.