‘Yes, we’re English,’ I say.
She wipes her hands on her skirt and nods enthusiastically. ‘My aunt taught me,’ she says, gesturing towards an old woman with a wizened face and long grey hair who’s sitting with some other woman. The girl takes my hand, shaking it vigorously, doing the same with Ajay after. ‘I’m Gulsara,’ she says, putting her hand to her chest. Ajay and I introduce ourselves too.
‘We’re coming to see Lake Kaindy,’ I explain.
‘Ah, yes,’ Gulsara says, smiling. ‘Pretty.’
I smile back at her. ‘So we’ve heard.’
Ajay points to the structures. ‘What are those?’
‘Our yurts. We follow the herd, so they’re easy to put up, easy to take down. Hungry?’ Gulsara asks. ‘You must eat with us.’
‘Are you sure?’ Ajay asks.
‘Of course. We will stop and eat when the roof is done.’
‘We’ll help you then,’ I say. ‘We have time right?’ I ask Ajay.
‘Yep.’
Gulsara leads us past two elderly women who are rolling large powdery white balls, placing them in neat rows on a mat. They look up and smile as we pass. When we get to the structures, I see they’re round with pointy roofs, made from long lengths of crisscrossed wood. Several men of different ages are gathered around them, kneeling down or reaching up to secure the wood in place. Another two approach with a huge roll of bamboo sheet. Ajay jogs over, helping them to unroll it and place it against the wood. Gulsara leads me to where her aunt is sitting with two other women, one yanking at the end of half-formed rope, another woman binding its other end together from wild-looking animal hair. ‘Yak hair,’ Gulsara explains. ‘You can help us.’
I look towards the half-made yurts. I’m strong enough to help the men. But I ought to be polite. So I sit cross-legged with the women, letting them show me how to twist and bind the yak’s hair. In the end, I find it quite impressive, the way it eventually creates a strong piece of rope.
‘You have come to swim in the lake?’ Gulsara’s aunt asks in good English. She has a turquoise hat on her head – a bit like a beanie – with silver thread etchings. There’s a red scarf wrapped around her neck and she’s wearing a green felt outfit.
‘We’re diving,’ I explain.
She smiles, revealing two missing teeth. ‘Hide.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You like to hide under the water,’ she says. ‘I did the same as a child. Put my head beneath the lake, and hide.’
Is that why I dive now? To hide from a world where I feel like I have nothing? I look down at the end of the rope I’m working on and shrug. ‘I suppose you’re right.’
None of us says anything over the next half an hour. It feels peaceful, sitting here in the middle of this vast field, mountains peering over us as I rhythmically bind the rope together. Maybe I could live like this, moving from one place to the next. Niall’s website stated he was a nomad, preferring his own company. We’re so alike in that respect. Does that mean he’s actually my father? Dad – Dan – he was always so social, holding parties, visiting friends and colleagues. Mum too in her way. So where have I got these qualities from?
I feel tears sting at my eyes. One of the women looks at me and gently puts her hand on my arm. It makes me want to cry even more. God, what’s wrong with me?
‘Dust,’ I say, gesturing towards my eyes.
She smiles and nods. I know she doesn’t believe me but that’s fine.
When we’ve finished making the rope, we carry it over to the men, who use it to bind the bamboo sheets to the structure. Then we help bring across heavy fabric, throwing it over the bamboo and tying that down too. Finally, it’s time to create the roof, draping a white canvas sheet over the top of each yurt followed by a huge black waterproof sheet and then some more colourful sheets, securing everything with rope.
Ajay strolls over and we help bring colourful rugs into each yurt, fixing them on to the walls inside and draping them over the dusty ground.
‘That was fun,’ Ajay says after, wiping his brow.
A huge pot is carried past us, filled with a delicious smelling stew, and we sit down at a low-lying table of sorts, a thick rug beneath our shins. On the table is an array of food, from a huge bowl of what looks like spaghetti to smaller bowls filled with different meat and vegetable dishes. The floury balls I’d seen being prepared earlier are actually huge cheese curd balls, absolutely delicious as they melt in my mouth.
As we eat, Gulsara’s aunt stands and starts talking in a deep, rhythmic voice.
‘She is telling stories of our founding clans,’ Gulsara explains in a low voice. ‘We must know these stories from many generations back, it is our şejire.’
‘Isn’t that Arabic for “tree”?’ Ajay asks.
Gulsara nods. ‘What you might call a family tree.’
I think of the drowned trees around the world where my mum’s name has been etched with another man’s. Is that my true family tree, my legacy? Are those etchings where it all starts for me…and ends?
I’ve never heard stories from past generations, only Aunt Hope’s occasional mentions of when the café was first opened by my grandparents and what it was like growing up in their messy house. But that’s it, no şejire for me.
What about Faith? What’s her story?
‘Are your parents here?’ Ajay asks Gulsara.
‘No. They died when I was very young.’ She looks at her aunt, smiling affectionately. ‘My aunt is my mother now.’
‘Same as Willow,’ Ajay says. ‘Your aunt brought you up, didn’t she?’ he asks me.
Gulsara looks at me. ‘You too?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t call her my mother.’
‘But she loved you and cared for you?’ she asks.
I shrug. ‘I guess.’
‘Then she is your mother,’ she says.
A group of children burst into giggles nearby. I notice they’re looking at some Polaroid photos. From here I can see one quite clearly, an image of them all standing proudly around a tall tanned man with a grey beard. Ajay frowns. ‘Isn’t that—’
‘Niall,’ I finish, heart thumping. ‘May I look?’ I ask the little boy who’s holding the photo.
He grasps my meaning and nods shyly as he hands it over. I look at the man in it. Those blue eyes are unmistakable, as are the black tattoos weaving their way up his arms. He looks older than the photo on his website, but happy, a big smile on his face. In the background I recognise the same hills that are overlooking the yurts right now.
‘Was this taken recently?’ I ask, showing it to Gulsara.
She nods. ‘This morning.’
I exchange a look with Ajay. ‘Where did the man go?’ he asks
‘The lake,’ Gulsara says, peering outside. ‘He tell me he go underwater with big camera, take special photos.’
Ajay and I look at each other as I try to contain my emotions.
‘Let’s go,’ I say.
We stand at the edge of the lake. It’s beautiful, glittering blue, surreal-looking. The branchless spruces that are spread out in rows across the lake’s surface look frozen in time.
But I barely notice the lake’s beauty. Instead, my eyes are scouring its banks for a lone figure, a tattooed man with a grey beard, a camera slung over his shoulder.
But there’s just Ajay and me.
‘Maybe he’s under the surface,’ Ajay says.
‘His things would be on the side.’
I stare at the glimmering water, wanting to dive in and hide beneath its depths, just like Gulsara’s aunt said. ‘Shall we dive?’ I say, already shrugging my hoodie off, desperate to get in and away from the glare of the sun.
Ajay smiles as he surveys the lake. ‘Please.’
The water is crystal clear as we splash into it half an hour later. Freezing cold despite the warm air above. The trees transform as we delve below, each one heavy with branches weighed down by pines, a contrast to their bare branches above, the trees kep
t alive by the freezing temperatures down here. The effect is quite something, making our underwater world feel ethereal. Ajay’s smiling from ear to ear as he swims around the trees, taking it all in.
I stay above for a moment, waiting for the bubbles from his snorkel to create a mushroom-shaped fizz below me. I do this sometimes, wait above, watch for the ‘mushroom bubble’, hoping it’s clear enough to see my reflection in it. This time it is and I see myself floating in it, my short black hair spiking above my head, my blue eyes staring back at me through my mask. I look like a little girl. Maybe I still am, stuck in that time before my parents passed away. How can I move on?
I need answers.
I glide through the bubbles, feeling them caress my skin as my reflection dissipates around me.
After thirty minutes, Ajay points to the dive computer on his wrist. We need to head back up. We slowly ascend, passing ghostly pine trees, their branches tickling our skin. When I burst to the surface, for once I’m grateful for the feel of air on my skin. We wade out, remove our equipment and dry off, both quiet as we pack up, the low sun bouncing off the lake’s surface before us.
The sound of people talking in the distance pierces the silence. I look up, see a couple walking through the trees up ahead. They have rucksacks slung over their backs, walking boots on their feet.
‘Speak English?’ Ajay calls out to them.
‘Yes,’ they reply.
Ajay takes the Polaroid photo of Niall that the kids let me have and strolls over to the couple. ‘Seen this man?’
They look at it then nod. ‘He was at a hut we passed,’ the woman said.
‘When?’ I ask, joining them, my heart thumping in anticipation.
‘Twenty minutes ago,’ she replies.
‘Where is the hut?’ Ajay asks.
She points towards a path weaving its way through the trees. ‘Walk down the path, then you will see it.’
‘Thank you,’ I say.
We quickly get our stuff together and start heading towards the hut, walking between the glimmering lake and the green fir trees that line it. Above us the setting sun winks between the branches, a soft breeze swirling around my bare neck.
Might I really be about to meet Niall Lane for the first time?
Soon, we come to a clearing, a small hut lying in the distance. But as we draw closer, I see it’s empty, quiet.
‘There’s no one here,’ I say, disappointed.
‘Wait,’ Ajay says. ‘Look.’
I follow his gaze to see a man walking out from behind the hut. He’s tall, tanned, grey beard, black tattoos.
I freeze, unable to breathe for a few moments.
‘It’s him, isn’t it?’ Ajay asks. I nod. ‘Go to him, I’ll just be here.’
I swallow. ‘I’m not sure I want to now.’
‘“There are only two mistakes one can make along the road to truth,”’ Ajay quotes again. ‘“Not going all the way, and not starting.” You’ve started. Now you must go all the way.’
I look at Ajay and he nods, brown eyes encouraging. I somehow place one foot in front of another. As I draw closer, Niall looks up. His blue eyes are striking against his lined, tanned skin; his hair longer than in his photos, peppered with grey. He’s wearing a dark wetsuit, his camera in his hand. Behind him, I see a rolled out mattress in the hut, a book, some clothes.
I try to see something of me in him. But my heart’s hammering so loud in my ears, I can barely focus.
This is the man Mum may have loved once.
The man who accidentally killed her sister.
He frowns, tilts his head like he might recognise me.
‘Niall Lane?’ I ask, surprised my voice isn’t shaking.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m Willow North, Charity’s daughter.’
Emotion floods his face. ‘Jesus, you look just like her.’
I examine his face. Is he acting like a man who’s seeing a ghost or who’s talking to his estranged daughter for the first time? I can’t tell.
‘Did you send me an invite to your exhibition in Brighton?’
He nods.
‘Why?’ I ask.
He shrugs. ‘It was an impulsive decision. I guess I wanted to meet you.’
‘But you never replied to my email and messages.’
‘I’ve been off the grid the past few weeks.’ He smiles. ‘Hasn’t stopped you finding me though.’
‘I have some questions.’
He gestures to a nearby log. ‘Want to sit down?’
‘Alright.’
I sit and he sits beside me.
‘How can I help?’ he asks.
‘Were you having an affair with my mum?’ The question just pops out.
He takes in a deep breath. ‘I wouldn’t call it an affair.’
‘Did you come here together?’ I say, gesturing around us. ‘As lovers, I mean?’
‘We didn’t come here as lovers, no.’
‘Okay, let me put this another way. You were here twenty-eight years ago with my mum, right? I’m twenty-seven.’ I let that statement hang in the air as I watch his expression. It’s unreadable.
‘I know how old you are,’ he says. ‘I think the question you’re trying to ask is, am I your father?’
I don’t say anything, just wait.
He sighs. ‘I’d like to know that myself. The truth is I have no idea.’
I feel my shoulders slump. I was hoping for some answers. ‘Do you think my mum knew?’
He thinks about it for a moment. ‘No, I don’t think she did.’
‘And my dad? Do you think he suspected?’
His face tenses. ‘Who knows?’
‘You didn’t like him, did you?’
‘He was no saint.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
He looks away. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
I feel like I ought to defend my dad. ‘You can hardly talk. You killed my aunt!’
He closes his eyes briefly, pinching the top of his tanned nose. ‘It was an accident, Willow.’
‘Really?’ I dig her map out from my bag. ‘I found something on her map.’
He peers at it, intrigued. ‘What do you mean?’
I explain about the imprint and he sighs. ‘I think I know what that’s all about.’
‘What?’
‘Faith was pregnant when she died.’
‘Oh. But why would she say she was scared?’
Niall shrugs. ‘Maybe she was planning on having an abortion? There are risks if she’d kept it, it would have been a huge decision.’
‘I’m not convinced.’
He looks like he’s trying to figure out whether to tell me something.
‘Is there something else?’ I ask him. ‘This is my family we’re talking about.’
His face closes up. ‘There are things best left unsaid.’
I shake my head, suddenly exhausted. ‘I can’t believe this, you sound just like my aunt. I’ve been visiting the places on this bloody map for answers but all I get are more questions.’
‘Maybe you don’t need answers. I’ve learnt over the years the truth doesn’t always make you happy.’ His face fills with emotion. ‘I want you to be happy. It’s very important to me. That’s why I paid to have the ship salvaged. I knew you would want to see it.’
‘You did that?’ He nodded. ‘Why? Because I might be your daughter?’
‘Because your Charity’s daughter.’ His voice breaks and for a moment I want to give him a hug. But I stop myself and instead we both sit quietly for a moment, a breeze circling around us, the leaves of the pines above us fluttering.
Eventually, Niall turns back to me. ‘If you want answers, maybe you need to look closer to home?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean speak to your aunt.’
I laugh. ‘You don’t think I haven’t tried to already? She won’t tell me anything.’
‘Maybe it’s because she’s trying to protect you. She was very
close to your mother, she’ll have more answers than I do. Prove to her you’re not a kid that needs protecting. Show her you can cope with the truth.’ He pauses, scrutinising my face. ‘If that’s what you’re sure you want?’
Chapter Eighteen
Charity
Kazakhstan
July 1988
Charity stood in a busy street in Almaty, Kazakhstan’s capital city, looking up at the hotel where Hope was staying. The sound of drilling echoed around her. The city seemed to be in the middle of a transition, new subways and hotels rising up, dust clogging the streets. And among it all Charity stood very still and very quiet as people jostled past her, clutching at the handle of her suitcase like it was an anchor.
‘Charity!’ She looked up to see her sister standing at the hotel’s entrance, a huge smile on her face. Hope jogged down the steps of the hotel and pulled Charity into a hug. ‘I’m so pleased you came. I couldn’t believe it when I got the message yesterday.’
‘I can’t quite believe I’m here.’
‘It’s wonderful! Your boss is very good to let you have the time off.’
‘I’ve worked enough unpaid overtime in the short time I’ve been there to make her feel guilty enough to say yes.’
Hope laughed. ‘Well, I’m sorry the hotel isn’t the most attractive of hotels. But it’s the best one here for the price and there aren’t any decent hotels next to the lake. Most people head out from Almaty. You must be starving. I know it’s only five but shall we get some dinner after you check in?’
‘Sounds good.’
Thirty minutes later they were sitting in the hotel’s restaurant with its old-fashioned décor of beiges and creams that reflected the hotel’s exterior.
‘So what are you running away from this time?’ Hope asked after they ordered their food.
‘You know me too well.’
‘I do.’ Hope leant forward, face serious. ‘What’s wrong, Charity?’
Charity told her everything that had happened over the past few weeks.
‘So Dan’s been lying?’ Hope asked when Charity had finished.
Charity nodded. ‘I’ve seen a different side to him.’
‘That’s the way relationships work though, isn’t it? You get to know people, see them for what they really are. The question is, do you trust him? And do you love him?’
My Sister’s Secret Page 24