The Implausible Story of Olive Far Far Away

by Tonya Alexandra

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘The point is, you don’t have to love me, Tom. You’re free to love anyone.’

  There is a long profound silence in which I only hear his breath; it’s shallow, shaky even.

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘Sorry. I just never thought of it that way. I always thought …’

  I wait. I have to.

  ‘I always thought I was supposed to love you. Like the curse made it my destiny.’

  ‘Well, you don’t have to,’ I say gently. ‘If you want to move on, that’s okay.’ I take another breath trying to find the courage I need to say these momentous thoughts. ‘I don’t want to lead you on, Tom. I can’t commit to you. I don’t want to commit to anyone.’ I feel wretched. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Tom takes a moment to answer. His voice is calmer than I expected. ‘So you’re not choosing Dillon either?’

  ‘I’m not choosing anyone. Like you said, I’m nineteen. I don’t know where I want to live or what job I’m going to do. I don’t know anything except that I want to have fun.’

  ‘That’s fair enough,’ Tom says.

  ‘That’s fair enough?’ I’m flabbergasted at how well he’s taking this.

  ‘Yeah. I wouldn’t mind some fun myself,’ he says.

  Huh.

  ‘What say we start over,’ Tom says. ‘Forget the curse, forget all the stuff that happened in Sydney—’

  ‘And Shewthrop,’ I add.

  ‘And Shewthrop,’ he says. ‘And you come to London sometime after the wedding and we just hang out, no pressure, and see how it goes?’

  ‘You might be dating one of those anaemic-looking office chicks by then. Felix tells me they’re goo-goo over your accent and surfer bod.’

  ‘I might.’

  ‘God.’

  He chuckles, knowing how he’s rankled me. ‘Will you come?’ he asks.

  ‘Well, I was planning on breaking into Buckingham Palace and drawing a moustache on the Queen’s face in permanent marker sometime before I left England.’

  Tom laughs. ‘I’ll be in on that.’

  ‘You will? Excellent!’ I say, feeling more hopeful than I have in a long time. Then I think of Jordan. ‘I’m not leading you on am I? By saying I’ll visit?’

  ‘You’re not leading me on, you’re just not ruling me out—big difference.’

  Hell. This boy has to be the most gorgeous creature on planet earth. ‘I’ll never rule you out, Tom fool. With or without the curse, even if you’re married, even when we’re really, really old, I’ll always somehow be yours.’

  Tom snorts a laugh. ‘That could be leading me on.’

  ‘Come on, you know I’ll always love you.’ My teeth chatter.

  ‘Not any better, Ol,’ he says and I can hear the smile in his words. ‘Look, go inside and get warm. You can not lead me on at the wedding, okay?’

  ‘Okay. Bye, baby.’

  Tom laughs. ‘Bye, Olive.’

  Inside, I stomp around trying to get feeling back in my fingers and toes. It went okay with Tom. It wasn’t entirely dreadful. I don’t think he hates me. He seemed more relieved than anything. Because he’s free of the curse, I think.

  More than that—we’re both free.

  A spasm of joy spreads down my spine. Who knew freedom felt so good?

  I poke around the ship until I find an empty cabin. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. Tomorrow I’ll be in Ireland and I’ll meet Derry Nial McDonagh. I’m excited and terrified and it’s hard to fall asleep but I do, listening to the deep gurgle of the ship’s engines and feeling good for setting Tom and me free.

  CHAPTER

  35

  It’s not like the ground shakes or anything when I step off the boat at Dublin but I can’t deny I shiver. Maybe it’s the call of my ancestors; I’d like to think they’d notice me turn up, even if I am invisible.

  Ireland is as cold as England but doesn’t feel so miserable. I don’t know why, you’d think snow would be preferable to rain, but there’s something snug about the low grey skies here. The misty rain is comforting somehow. I feel sprightly, hopeful even, as I walk through the ferry terminal out into the Dublin day.

  I follow my grandfather’s instructions and call Cian, feeling nervous as hell.

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Hi. This is Olive, Derry’s granddaughter …’

  ‘Are ya at the port?’

  ‘Um.’ Ideally I wanted a better read of the man before admitting where I was. Ah, what the heck. ‘Yes.’

  ‘On me way.’

  He hangs up and I stand there, quietly stunned. Rose would kill me if she knew a strange man was coming to pick me up to take me goodness knows where. I fire off a quick message to Jordan.

  Olive: I’m about to get in a car in Dublin with a man called Cian. Prue knows about him. Make sure she doesn’t feel too bad if I end up dead in a ditch.

  Olive: I mean naturally she should feel a little bad because she was the one who gave me his number, but you know what I mean.

  Jordan: Olive. You’re invisible. Slip away if you need to.

  Olive: Oh yeah.

  Still, I’m feeling skittish. I’ve never ridden in a car with a stranger before. I search around and find a bottle, and, holding it by the neck, I smash it against a brick wall. It makes me giggle. I’ve always wanted to do that. I take a photo of it to show Dillon—he’ll be amused, Tom would be horrified—then stash it in my pocket. I feel better with a weapon, even though I doubt I’d have the nerve to actually stick it in someone’s neck. All that blood and thrashing about? I don’t think so.

  I’m waiting under a shelter to avoid the drizzle, wondering how I’m supposed to know who this Cian is, when I see a beat-up car pull up in the taxi zone, and a guy who I swear looks fifteen get out and start looking around. He’s wearing trainers, polyester Adidas trackpants and a hooded sweatshirt. He skims his hands back and forth over his shaved skull as he scans the docks.

  ‘Olive?’ he hollers, his Irish accent thick as mud.

  People turn to stare so I drop the bottle in a bin and rush over to him. I don’t know how I’m going to explain the invisible situation, but it’s obvious I’m not going to need a weapon.

  ‘I’m here, Cian.’

  He frowns in confusion. ‘Where?’

  ‘Here. I’m invisible—I …’ Oh god. How can I explain this?

  But Cian groans. ‘Not another one.’

  ‘Another one?’

  He opens the door to the passenger seat. ‘Aye. Get in.’

  I hesitate but a taxi driver beeps angrily at us to get out of the way, so I climb in, pressing down the six inches of takeaway litter with my boots like a garbage compacter. The taxi keeps beeping but Cian takes his time walking around to his seat, adjusting his mirrors, putting on his seatbelt, as if he wants to annoy the cabbie.

  ‘Won’t he take your plates and report you?’

  Cian laughs. ‘Hope so. It’s me brother’s car.’

  It makes me laugh too. Cian pulls out and we edge through the Dublin streets. The traffic is heavy so I get a chance to peer about, taking in the old city and its low-lying buildings. The road sweeps west and we’re driving alongside a wide canal, weeping willows draping languidly into the black water. It’s picturesque; ducks and swans skim under cobblestone footbridges, a long flat barge putters past as if out of breath, cute pastel-coloured houses with rambling cottage gardens gaze on from the banks. People are walking, jogging and biking along the canal despite the rain. It’s not a grand city obviously, it’s humble and warm, like a hug from your gran. Exactly the kind of town that could be home.

  ‘Dublin is lovely,’ I say, feeling wistful.

  ‘For sure.’ Cian is perched at the edge of the seat, head held high so he can see over the steering wheel. It’s a bit unnerving.

  ‘How old are you?’ I ask him.

  ‘Fourteen.’

  Cac! ‘Are fourteen-year-olds allowed to drive in Ireland?’

  ‘Not if we’re caught.’

&nb
sp; ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Fierce weather we’ve been having,’ Cian says. He’s trying to sound like an adult having a grown-up conversation. I’m not having any of it. He’s almost having to stand on his toes to change gear.

  ‘And Derry knows you’re driving?’

  Cian laughs. ‘He’s the one who told me to nick Mik’s car.’

  God. That speaks volumes about my grandfather. ‘So how do you know Derry?’ I ask him.

  ‘He’s me granddad.’

  I suck in a breath. ‘So we’re cousins.’

  ‘Aye.’

  I look at Cian with his gold chain and high-tops, his botched haircut that looks like he’s shaved it himself. He glances my way, giving me the crookedest smile I’ve ever witnessed, and I do feel something. I like the kid.

  ‘Yer the twenty-second.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Grandkid.’

  ‘Derry has twenty-two grandchildren?’

  ‘Dat we know of.’

  So I’ve got a huge family, no, a massive one! It’s not just Rose and me anymore. ‘I’ve got a sister too,’ I tell him.

  Cian snorts. ‘Dat’d be twenty-three then.’

  ‘Twenty-three!’ I’m in awe. ‘And you were saying someone else is invisible?’

  ‘I’ll leave it to Derry to tell all. His gran did a mighty job turning his life arseways, that’s one thing I’ll tell ya for nothing.’

  ‘His grandmother was the gypsy who put the curse on my grandmother?’

  Cian shrugs. ‘I don’t know yer story but it sounds likely.’

  I can’t believe I’m actually related to the gypsy who cursed me. I’ve got her sorcerous blood running through my veins.

  My phone beeps.

  Jordan: How’s Cian?

  Olive: 14 and my cousin!

  Jordan: Only you!

  ‘Have we got far to go?’ I ask Cian, pocketing my phone.

  ‘About an hour.’

  ‘Then how did you get here so fast?’

  ‘I live here in Dublin centre, not far from the North Wall, with me da, Mik and me sisters. Derry’s further out west at me auntie’s.’

  ‘He lives there permanently?’

  I’ve read that in old times, tinkers travelled around the country camping on common property wherever they could find work. Apparently, these days some have settled, living in regular houses or camping their vans on halting sites. I know Derry used to roam around as a boy, but I have no idea what his life is like now.

  ‘He moves between the aunts,’ Cian tells me. ‘Needs the help, see. He’s getting on and all.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘Derry?’ Cian laughs. ‘He’s a mad old bastard.’

  An hour or so later we’re in a grim-looking commuter town west of Dublin and I’m feeling increasingly anxious. I’m about to meet Derry Nial McDonagh and I have no idea what to say to him. My anxiety isn’t helped by the fact that the petrol tank hit empty ten minutes ago and Cian has been shifting us into neutral every bit of downhill he can manage.

  ‘Almost there,’ Cian says.

  We’re rolling down a lane in a housing estate. Cian shifts into first gear for the hill ahead but the car doesn’t take. He uses the momentum to swing us off the road and slams on the park brake before we roll back down the hill.

  I squint through the rain at the grey stone houses. ‘This is it?’

  ‘Aye.’

  I feel a sinking disappointment. This is not the Ireland of my dreams. In my head, I imagined pulling up to a quaint scene of yellow gypsy caravans and wide-footed Clydesdales in an overgrown field. My grandfather would be playing an accordion by a roaring fire, eager-faced children at his feet.

  This place is nothing like that. It’s suburbia, boring and grey as my semi back in Sydney with Rose. Still, it’s not going to get me down.

  ‘Nice driving,’ I tell Cian.

  ‘Thanks.’ He grins at me. ‘Mik will have me guts for garters. I hope Sean’s got some petrol.’

  ‘Who’s Sean?’

  ‘Another cousin. Lives there with Derry and the others.’ Cian points to one of the houses up the street. It has three broken old cars and a caravan all wedged onto the tiny patch of worn grass out the front.

  Cian reaches into the backseat. ‘Want an umbrella?’

  ‘Can we share? I don’t want to spook the neighbours.’

  Cian laughs. He gets out of the car and comes around to collect me. He’s a sweet kid, despite the thuggish appearance he’s trying to cultivate.

  We walk through the rain and I’m grateful for the thick soles of my boots as the water gushes down the footpath, and then suddenly we’re standing outside the caravan.

  Like Mik’s car, it’s a beaten-up old model; dented, with flecks of peeling paint and bricks instead of wheels. Inside the cab someone is going beserk.

  ‘Feckin’ robbin’ thievin’ eegits! It’s feckin’ gone.’

  ‘That’s Derry,’ Cian tells me. ‘And before ya ask, he’s not deaf, it’s just the way he is.’

  ‘Took it!’ the yelling goes on. ‘Feckin’ packet of soup just robbed of me!’

  He sounds terrifying. I reach for Cian’s elbow as he moves to open the door. ‘Are you sure we should go inside?’

  Cian looks amused. ‘Aye, you won’t find him better than this.’

  CHAPTER

  36

  Cian opens the door of Derry’s van and I tentatively follow him inside. A wiry old man is bashing about in a cupboard set above a window. He has thin grey hair in a ponytail, salt and pepper growth on his cheeks. He’s wearing odd sort of cowboy boots with heels, and a blue shirt beneath a waistcoat.

  Cian greets him. ‘Hi, Granddad.’

  Derry keeps ranting. ‘Just wanted me soup. Can’t have a feckin’ sodden ting in my life!’ He bashes at the cupboard so hard it slips off one of its hinges. ‘Ah shite. The feckin’ door.’ He slams it again. ‘That’s fooked! Thievin’ eegits.’

  ‘Relax, will ya?’ Cian says. ‘It’s only a bit of soup.’

  Derry turns on Cian. ‘The feckin’ madness of life, lad! Just taken from me, like that.’

  ‘Cop on will ya!’ Cian insists again. ‘I’ve got Olive here.’

  The old man quiets. His eyes narrow and he thrusts his chin up. ‘Aye? Where is she then?’

  ‘I’m right here,’ I say, stepping forward. ‘Nice to meet you, Derry.’

  His face falls. ‘Jaysus. Not another one.’

  It probably should comfort me but it doesn’t. ‘Yeah about that—’

  ‘Tell Joanie to wet the tea, lad,’ Derry says to Cian. ‘Bring it out when it’s done.’

  He waits for Cian to leave, then, pacing up and down the aisle in his caravan, says, ‘Ya don’t want to go in there, love. Bleedin’ thieves. Ya don’t take a man’s soup.’

  I glance around the caravan, my eyes pausing at a framed embroidered proverb, ‘The grace of God is found between the saddle and the ground’, then a large picture of the Virgin Mary bathed in red lamplight. It intrigues me. He’s a devout Catholic despite the mad gypsy magic coursing through his veins.

  ‘Where are ya?’ Derry snaps suddenly, making me jump.

  ‘Just here by the door.’

  ‘Sit down,’ he says, pushing a scrawny sleeping dog off a bench.

  ‘Thanks.’ I watch the dog hobble to the end of the van and curl up on the stair.

  Derry is still pacing. ‘So yer Muirgheal’s granddaughter?’

  I’m starting to sweat. It’s warm in here but he’s unsettling me with the pacing, the constant swiping of his hands through his hair. He’s buzzing with energy, like he’s got ants crawling all over him. I shuck off my jacket, concerned he may actually have lost his mind. ‘You remember her then?’

  ‘Remember her! I wanted to marry the girl!’ He paces to the door and starts muttering, ‘Fierce as wildfire, she was.’ He lurches back my way and I see his blue eyes gleaming. ‘She slapped me across me face for trying to pinch her arse, day
we met.’

  I chuckle. It doesn’t surprise me.

  ‘I didn’t know she had a kid,’ Derry goes on. ‘Hell of a surprise hearing about ya.’

  ‘You had no idea Muirgheal was pregnant?’

  His face bunches up, his eyes squint, his teeth bare in a horrid yellow grimace. ‘No. One day she was just … gone.’

  I’m bewildered. ‘So you don’t know anything about my mother? How she was cursed to be invisible like me?’

  ‘I said no!’ Derry snaps, slamming his fist on the table.

  I take a breath in the silence that descends. I suppose it’s natural to be overwhelmed hearing you have invisible descendants by an ex. I try to be understanding.

  ‘Well, Muirgheal told me to pass on her best,’ I tell him. ‘She said to tell you your daughter was a blessing and she doesn’t regret a thing.’

  Derry chokes up. I watch his old face turn in on itself as he fights the welling tears. He clutches the sink. ‘Aye, she was a good girl.’

  We share a long moment of silence, and I wonder if he is thinking what if.

  But if Derry had married Muirgheal, I wouldn’t be alive. I guess I do owe the gypsy something. Damn it.

  ‘You’ve done well for yourself,’ I say. ‘Twenty-three grandkids.’

  ‘Twenty-three?’

  ‘I have an older sister, Rose.’

  ‘Rose.’ He starts pacing again. ‘A fine name, Rose.’

  ‘Are you still married to Branna?’

  ‘Angels took her, long ago.’ He’s pulling at his ear like there’s something stuck in there. ‘Can’t believe ya know about Branna.’

  ‘Your story is my story. It’s the only thing that explains the way I am.’

  His hands swipe across his skull again. His eyes look troubled, worn away.

  ‘But you don’t even know the story,’ I say, admonishing myself. ‘What happened was, some crazy gypsy woman cursed Muirgheal for being pregnant with your child. She had to be from your Traveller group, maybe your—’

  Derry jerks forward. ‘Ya can’t blame Yseult!’

  I startle back in my seat. ‘Who’s Yseult?’

  ‘Yer great-great-grandmother. I was her favourite. She only wanted the best for me.’ His head is wobbling now. I wonder if he has Parkinson’s disease. There’s got to be an explanation for the twitching and inability to be still. ‘She thought the best was Branna.’