‘Do you remember what you said to me when we first met, when you were very little?’
Christina shakes her head. ‘No,’ she says, placing her hand on a stump of damp moss, then bending down to finger a large flat fern.
‘You were in your bedroom, playing with that beautiful dollhouse your father made you. I came and said hello, and do you know what you did?’ Christina watches her smile at the memory. ‘You turned right around and looked me up and down, then you skipped towards me and took my hand, just like that, and you said, “You’re my mother.” It wasn’t a game. You chose me, Christina, and that was why I vowed I would always look after you.’
‘But I loved my own mother. When she went, I wanted her. I didn’t want you, you never replaced her.’ It’s the truth. Christina can’t spare her.
‘Of course I didn’t, though at the time I thought I could.’ Angeline walks on. Christina looks at Cian up ahead, twisting and jumping. She moves forward. She doesn’t want to lose sight of him. ‘I can see now how wrong I was,’ Angeline says. ‘You’ve always had the two of us. We were all connected. That’s why you should stay here. You should discover her again.’
‘But it’s too late now.’
‘Of course it isn’t, your life is only just beginning.’ To her surprise, Angeline picks up her hand and squeezes it. She doesn’t let go.
‘But how will I survive? What about money?’
‘I’ll help you out, and you’ll find a job, a way of making a living. It will be good for you.’ She smiles at Christina.
‘But why have you always made me feel like I was useless then?’
Angeline looks shocked. Her dark eyes open wide. ‘I’ve always believed in you, Christina, and here you look different to me…you are different.’ She puts her hands on Christina’s shoulders and a band of panic moves across Christina’s chest.
‘But what about Johnny? I can’t desert him. And what about Declan?’
‘Johnny needs time, and when you’ve done what you need to do here, contact him. He’ll forgive you. You of all people should know that.’
‘I don’t know…’ What is it she’s really afraid of?
‘Whatever you choose will be hard. It’s the risk you have to take. But if you come home now, Declan will take Cian away. He’s very angry.’
Christina imagines this – the supervised access, the biting loneliness she had endured the past couple of months, just waiting for it to change and the change never coming.
‘But Johnny…he’ll hate me, blame me for everything that goes wrong in his life, like I hated my mother…’
‘Like you had begun to hate me.’ The grief in her stepmother’s voice resonates through her.
Christina looks at Angeline. She’s small and dark, but her force is like an arrowhead. In her life, and in her mother’s, Angeline has had the ability to propel them forwards into the unknown. Christina fingers the cotton reel in her pocket. She can feel the fine threads of hair unravelling.
It’s true; they’re connected. This feeling floods Christina, that she always had a mother, and that she was Angeline.
‘No,’ she says meekly. ‘I loved you too much.’ The force of her revelation knocks her back and she squats on the boardwalk, shaking, unbelievably sad. ‘I thought my mother left because she believed I preferred you to her.’
Angeline squats down opposite her and looks deep in her eyes. Christina can see her love, unconditional, constant.
‘I always thought it was my fault,’ Christina mutters.
‘Oh, Christina!’ Angeline’s voice breaks, and for the first time in her life Christina sees her stepmother cry. She’s never seen such a thing. It’s like the shattering of glass.
HOME
Luke always lost the kelp game. But when he ran home crying to his mother, she would tell him not to cry. ‘Go out and cut more spears and get back in the game,’ she always said.
It had happened so fast, her illness. No one had told him until right at the end, and he found it hard to believe how quickly the life could drain out of someone. His mother had always been so strong. He remembered her hands, quick, light, but muscular, and how they would always be busy, cooking or sewing. That was her favourite occupation. Her sewing machine was her most prized possession.
There were times in Gail’s house when he thought he was in a dream and soon he would wake up. He would be back at home, sitting on a stool, watching his mother make quilts and his father make the tiny dug-out canoes he would sell for forty dollars apiece to the tourists. Of course they couldn’t be dead.
Luke remembered the day his father told him they would make a proper dug-out canoe, the real thing. It was just before his mother got sick. There had been lots of talk then in the village of reviving the old traditions, and his parents and grandfather had all been part of it.
Luke loved to play with the tiny tourist canoes. His father was able to paint intricate little designs on them. Luke liked to try to identify the different animals and which tribe they belonged to – deer, whale, thunderbird, bear.
Both his parents lived on in him; Luke knew the truth of this. But little Luke still needed to grieve and he knew that this could only be so when he went back to the island. When his feet hit the soil of his homeland he would at last be free.
CHRISTINA
It’s afternoon now and Christina is in the sky. They’re flying so close to the ground, she feels as if she could jump it. The noise of the small plane and their headphones makes it impossible to speak. She grabs Cian’s arm as the plane circles a gathering of sea lions sunbathing on a small crop of rocks.
They skim over the islands, the forest verdant and dense, then out to open sea. The water is a mixture of shades of red and green. It takes on a quality she’s never experienced before, so vibrant you would hardly believe it could be real. Suddenly the pilot points his finger and she follows the direction, looking out to her right.
A whale.
Cian has already seen it. He bounces up and down in his seat, rubbing his hands with glee and flashing his bright eyes at her. They’re right above it now. It’s splendid, seamlessly flowing through the ocean, every now and again water shooting out of its blowhole. It has a rhythm of its own, a majestic, indifferent pace.
It was Cian who wanted to take the seaplane to Luke’s island. She had been unsure but was finally swayed by the fact that it took only fifteen minutes, compared to nearly two hours by boat. Now that she’s made her decision, she doesn’t want any time to reflect. She just wants to get there and see Luke again.
She should be frightened. The plane is tiny and they’re so fragile – a molecule of metal above the vast Pacific. But this isn’t how she feels. She looks out the cabin window at the iridescent stretch of the horizon, its limitless possibilities. She surrenders herself to the moment and sees an eagle swoop down to the sea’s surface, plucking from it its silver prey, water sprinkling the air, reflecting a thousand parts of herself.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’m deeply grateful for those of my friends and family who read early drafts of this book, gave me great support and feedback and also helped me with elements of the research: Kate Pengelly, Fintan Blake Kelly, Thérèse Dalton, Donna Ansley, Stephen Sibley, Monica McInerney, Eileen Blishen and Bernie McGrath. Many thanks to Anabel Lyon and Anakana Scofield, who helped me immensely with the Pacific side of the book, to my wonderful editors Alison Walsh, Imogen Taylor and Kristin Jensen and all at Tivoli in Ireland and Pan Macmillan in England, especially Michael Gill and Trisha Jackson. Thank you to my agent Marianne Gunn O’Connor for her unerring support and dynamic vision.
The book has been very much inspired by the writings of Peter Webster, a First Nation Canadian, and from reading his book, As Far As I Know: Reminiscences of an Ahousat Elder, I was able to write about native traditions and stories particular to the Nuu-chah-nulth. I hope that I have written about these traditions with the appropriate sensitivity and respect. Joanne Streetly’s book Paddling Through Time was h
ugely influential in helping me plan Greta and Henry’s journey and gave me a wonderful inspiration for that part of the book. Salt in Our Blood: An Anthology of Westcoast Moments, edited by Joanne Streetly, was another fascinating resource, as was the Museum of Northwest Art in La Conner and the work of the artist Morris Graves. Thanks also to Dale Irvine for house swapping with me and providing me with the chance to explore the Pacific North-West.
The gorgeous B&B is based on Seacroft B&B By-the-Sea in Victoria, run by my good friend, Ginny Youens. There is also a mention of Kraft Kaffee in Oldcastle, run by Kathleen O’Reilly, who has provided a tiny haven for me lately.
Áine Tubridy’s books When Panic Attacks and Going Mad? provided me with great insight into exploring both Christina’s and Greta’s situations. Buddhism of the Sun, compiled by Jim Cowan, was a helpful source for Angeline’s Buddhism. The music of Damien Rice was a prime inspiration for the mood of the book. I’m extremely grateful for his permission to use lyrics from the track ‘Cold Water’ from his album O. Irish artist Kathy Prenderghast’s piece The End and the Beginning II was the inspiration for the cotton reel metaphor, and the passage ‘The Stitches’ was inspired by concepts explored by Oldcastle artist Aoife Curran. What Luke sees and imagines as pictures is very much inspired by the soulful work of American artist Ashley O’Neal.
This book is dedicated to my mother, Claire, who died during the time I was working on it. I’m forever grateful for all the gifts she has given me in this life and I’m constantly inspired by her spirit. My humble thanks to Barry Ansley, who has been my ‘tree’ during this difficult time, and to his patience and support while I disappeared for hours, writing. Thank you to all my friends and family – my stepfather Roger, my stepsisters Liz and Carolyn, their children and my aunts, uncles and cousins as well as Barry’s family and of course my brother Fintan – for their love and support. Last but certainly not least, thank you to my stepdaughter Helena, who helped me to see through the eyes of the young Christina, and to Corey, my son, for his wonderful insight into Cian’s world.
A Small Part
of Me
NOËLLE HARRISON was born in England and moved to Ireland in 1991. While based in Dublin in the early nineties she wrote and produced plays. She has won awards for her short stories and has written extensively on visual art in Ireland. Her first novel, Beatrice, was published in 2004. A new play, The Good Sister, premiered in Ireland in 2005. She lives in Oldcastle, County Meath, with her partner and their young son.
‘Harrison is an intriguing and sensual writer, confidently charting out her own distinctive territory’
Sunday Independent
‘The search for redemption and the simple heatbreaking love of a mother for her child imbues this novel with echoes that you won’t forget’
Irish Independent
Also by Noëlle Harrison
Beatrice
For my brother, Fintan
And for my mother, Claire, a small part of me
First published 2005 by Tivoli,
an imprint of Gill & Macmillan, Dublin
This paperback edition published 2007 by Pan Books
This electronic edition published 2011 by Pan Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
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ISBN 978-0-330-52975-4 PDF
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Copyright © Noëlle Harrison 2005
The right of Noëlle Harrison to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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