I shake my head. Niall stares down at his hands; he starts on his wrist again with all five nails but this time Dad and I don’t stop him.
‘I used to hope one might make it through,’ he says, almost to himself, ‘just one. I would apply for permission every year, sometimes more, to see you but it was never granted.’
I picture all those letters, thirteen times ten makes a hundred and thirty. Mine and Niall’s together makes two hundred and sixty. I wonder what Mom did with them. Did she burn them, throw them in the trash? The thought makes me cry even more and Niall is scratching, and Dad says more. He says that for a long time he tried to see us every week but Mom always managed to thwart him, in one way or another. He says he spent all his money on court cases to gain more time with us and to try to enforce the time he was supposed to have, but it didn’t work. He was totally broke when he went away – ‘broke and broken-hearted’ – and then he met this woman and married her. He says he flew in this morning with the express purpose of tracking us down. ‘I was at Newark airport – about to go visit my dad, actually – and I’ve been thinking for a while that Niall is over twenty-one now. Legally an adult. So I’ve been planning to come, to give seeing you another go. But there I was, in the States, so I just got on a plane for California and I decided I wasn’t going to leave until I found you both. And here we are.’
He sits back in the booth. He picks up a spoon and looks at it as if he’s never seen one before. ‘I never gave up on the hope I might see you both again,’ he says, apparently to the spoon. ‘There wasn’t a day, an hour, a minute when I didn’t think about you. I want you always to know that.’
I have no idea what to do with this information so I take a huge slurp of my soda and it’s gone kind of flat but, even so, it floods the back of my throat and I gag and cough, and Niall has to smack me on the back and he smacks me way too hard because he’s never been able to gauge the appropriate amount of pressure for things – he’s forever breaking jars or taps or window catches by accident. And while I’m coughing, I hear Niall say, ‘So whereabouts do you live?’
Dad says, or seems to say, ‘Island.’
‘What?’ I get out. ‘An island? Like, a tropical island?’
‘Not an – the.’
‘The island?’
‘The country,’ Niall says, ‘not the land form.’
I almost start crying again because I can’t understand what everyone is talking about and Niall just seems to get Dad, in the way he only ever got me, and I feel left out, and I hate feeling left out when it’s Niall because Niall is the only one I’m 100 per cent sure will never leave me out of anything – no matter how young or dumb I am, I know he’ll include me in everything – and suddenly it seems there’s this whole other unit I never knew about, with this man I don’t remember.
‘Island, island, island,’ Niall is saying.
‘Island, island,’ Dad is saying, ‘you’ve never heard of island?’
‘Of course I’ve heard of islands!’ I shriek. ‘I just don’t get—’
Then I hear Dad say, ‘Where the Sullivans came from,’ and the penny drops.
‘Ireland,’ I say, and everyone breathes again. ‘As in part of England.’
Dad goes to speak, then changes his mind. ‘Yup,’ he says instead. ‘You got it.’
‘Strictly speaking,’ Niall says, ‘it’s not part of England. It’s been an independent state, politically and fiscally, since—’
‘It’s next to England,’ Dad says hastily, giving me a smile, and I want to smile back, seeing him do this normal-dad stuff, smoothing things over between me and Niall, and again I feel that rearing sensation of something far away yet close, and I wonder if he used to do this when we were kids. He must have done.
‘And you’re married?’ I say.
He nods.
‘What’s her name?’
Oddly, he seems to hesitate. ‘Claudette.’
‘French?’ Niall asks.
‘Half,’ Dad says, and it strikes me that he does the thing Niall does, missing out words that other people consider mandatory, and I wonder if Niall got it from him.
A thought strikes me and I sit up straight. ‘Do you have kids? I mean, other kids?’
Dad nods again. ‘I do.’
‘How many?’
‘Two. A boy and a girl.’
‘Like us?’
Dad smiles. ‘A girl and a boy, I should have said. Like you but the other way round.’
‘What are their names?’
‘The girl is Marithe and the baby is Calvin. You want to see a photo?’
‘Yes,’ I say, even though I sort of don’t.
Dad reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. Niall and I lean over to look. Some people are trapped behind a sheet of celluloid. A small girl in a blue dress holds the hand of a woman with long hair. She has a baby on her hip. The baby is looking upwards as if something in the sky has caught its attention. The little girl stares out and it occurs to me she must have been staring at Dad, at Mr Daniel Sullivan, our father.
As if he senses my thoughts, Dad says, ‘She reminds me a lot of you.’
‘Who?’ I go.
‘Marithe.’
I stare into the face of the girl. She looks like a girl, nothing more.
‘Look,’ Dad says, and he flips the photo over and there, on the other side of the wallet, are me and Niall. Aged about six and twelve, in the back garden, holding hands. Or, rather, I’m holding on to Niall’s hand and he’s permitting me to do so. And Dad’s right. I do look like Marithe: the same tilted-up nose, the same red-blond hair, although Marithe’s is long and I was never allowed to grow mine. Too much like hard work, Mom always said.
But Niall, as usual, is thinking about something else entirely.
‘That’s your wife?’ Niall says, pointing at the woman with the baby.
Dad waits a moment before replying, ‘Yes,’ in a voice that’s weirdly uncertain, as if he’s not sure this is the true and correct answer.
Niall looks at the photo. He looks at Dad. He says, ‘Claudette,’ in a reflective, questioning tone.
Again, there is the sense of something flowing between the two of them and this time it doesn’t make me mad: it makes me kind of happy.
Dad inclines his head.
‘As in …’ and Niall says a word that could have been ‘whales’ or ‘wills’ or ‘wells’ and I’m not really listening. I’m not interested in his wife, though she is pretty, in a skinny, boho, European sort of a way. I’ve got my eye on that girl, the way she’s standing on one foot, the other raised as if she’s about to make a dash for it. Go, I want to say to her, my little doppelganger across the Atlantic, go for it.
‘Wow,’ Niall says, in a drawn-out way. ‘OK.’
AUCTION CATALOGUE:
CLAUDETTE WELLS MEMORABILIA
London, 19 June 2005
From the private collection of Mr Derek Roberts, former personal assistant to Ms Wells.
LOT 1
DATE PLANNER FOR THE YEAR 1989
Black and gold cover, some creasing to corners, notations on all pages in the hand of Ms Wells.
Note to collectors: 1989 was the year Ms Wells left university and moved to London. The diary records the dates of her final exams, the date of her arrival in London, the times of various job interviews and, in late December, the evening on which she first met Timou Lindstrom.
LOT 1
LOT 2
VINTAGE SCARF
Silk, dark red border with interlocking abstract design. Shows some wear; fading to one corner. The scarf dates from the early 1950s and is believed to have once belonged to Ms Wells’s paternal grandmother. Included in the lot is a photograph of Ms Wells with her hair tied up in the scarf, taken in late 1989 or early 1990 at a party on a rooftop in London.
LOT 2
LOT 3
BOOK CONTAINING DRAFT OF A LETTER FROM WELLS TO LINDSTROM
Some signs of wear and damage, as if it has been cr
umpled up, then flattened out. The text reads:
[STARTS] – easy for you to say I can get another job. I love this job but they won’t give me the time off. Sometimes I think I should just seize the carp and other times I think I must be mad for even entertaining the idea of chucking everything in here and going to Sweden for six months to act in a film but what I don’t know is— [ENDS]
The book is a copy of The New Poetry, selected and introduced by A. Alvarez (Penguin Books, London, 1962). Some discoloration to pages; notations in Ms Wells’s writing.
[not pictured]
LOT 3
LOT 4
TILL RECEIPTS
Various, all dated 1990, some with notations by Ms Wells. Includes drinks at a bar in Soho, dinner at a restaurant in Shoreditch, a pair of orange and blue trainers from a shop in Covent Garden, several London Underground tickets, several supermarket receipts, most timed in late evening, a bookshop receipt for The Rough Guide to Sweden, ed. 1990.
[not pictured]
LOT 5
SNOWGLOBE OF WESTMINSTER BRIDGE AND BIG BEN
Written on the surface in indelible black ink is:
In the event of homesickness, break glass. Timou L.
LOT 5
LOT 6
COPY OF MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT’S LETTERS WRITTEN DURING A SHORT RESIDENCE IN SWEDEN, NORWAY AND DENMARK
(Penguin Classics, London, 1987, not pictured)
Some wear and tear to corners; written on flyleaf are the words, ‘Claudette W’. Marking page 156 is the stub of a boarding pass for a flight, London Heathrow to Gothenburg, on 02 March 1990, in the name of CLAUDETTE FRANCINE WELLS. In the back is a note from Lindstrom, dated February 1990:
Dear Claudette,
What you said on the phone last night is true: it is a big step. But it’s the RIGHT one, you know it is. Astrid and I were talking it over after I hung up. You love your job of course but think about this: is it better to facilitate films or to MAKE them?
You know the answer.
Astrid has found you a place to stay, with a friend of ours. We thought you would prefer a room in an apartment with a cool painter girl than a hotel room, yes?
See you then. We are going to have THE TIMES OF OUR LIVES. Everything is coming together for the film. Will tell you more when we see you.
Timou
LOT 6
LOT 7
MARIMEKKO SHOULDER BAG
Jokeri pattern in lime green, 100% cotton, made in Finland. Some sun damage, small hole to stitching on one strap. Included in lot is a photograph of Wells, with the bag over her shoulder, on the island of Käringön, south-west Sweden. Also shown in photograph, from left to right: Astrid Bengtsson, Timou Lindstrom, Pia Eklund and unidentified man with Border Terrier dog.
LOT 7
LOT 8
THREE STRIPS OF 8MM CINÉ FILM
Shot by Timou Lindstrom in a Gothenburg park, in 1990, showing Claudette Wells moving from left to right across the frame, wearing a light blue dress. Cut from a longer reel and kept by Wells; the finished and edited film is presumed lost. This is considered to be the first-ever footage by Lindstrom of Wells in existence.
LOT 8
LOT 9
WELLS’S SHOOTING SCRIPT FOR OUT TO THE ISLAND
(original name: Ut Till ön). Numerous signs of wear, some damage to front and back pages. Front page bears the initials ‘CW’ in graphite pencil. Notations, corrections and doodles throughout in Wells’s handwriting: fountain-pen ink, ballpoint, red pencil. On the back page is the following exchange, written at some point in the shooting, between Wells [CW] and Lindstrom [TL]:
[TL] – Is she for real?
[CW] – It would appear so.
[TL] – The pot plant is better actor than she is.
[CW] – Harsh. Pot plant particularly splendid. Hard act to follow.
[TL] – Want to slip away?
[CW] – Won’t we be missed?
[TL] – I’m the director. I can do whatever I want.
[ CW] – Is your ego coming with us or are you leaving him here?
[ TL] – Why would I leave him?
[ CW] – On account of his unusually large size.
[ TL] – I will agree to leave him only if you leave behind your sarcasm.
[ CW] – To keep him company?
[ TL] – Somebody has to.
[ CW] – Deal. See you round the back in ten.
LOT 9
LOT 10
VINTAGE DRESS
Navy crêpe with silk polka-dot detailing and red grosgrain trim. Worn by Wells to the London première of Out to the Island. Small tear in hem; topmost button is missing. Included in lot is photograph of Wells, at première, alongside her mother, Pascaline Lefevre, and her brother, Lucas Wells
LOT 10
LOT 11
THREE MAGAZINES
Featuring interviews with Ms Wells, dating from 1991.Copies are signed by Ms Wells across her photograph.
LOT 11
LOT 12
LONDON UNDERGROUND POSTER FOR OUT TO THE ISLAND
Shows some wear at corners and damage on left-hand side. Written on the back is the following:
Dearest C, Look who it is!
Astrid and I stole this last night: we got chased by a VERY angry man in an orange jacket. How does it feel to be looking down from the walls of Leicester Square station?? Tx.
Included in lot is original cardboard tube in which Lindstrom sent the poster to Wells, at her mother’s address in Paris.
[not pictured]
LOT 13
TWO POSTCARDS
From Lindstrom to Wells, sent from New York to Paris. Postcard one, dated November 1991, of a photograph of Gloria Swanson by Edward Steichen. Text reads:
C – OK, I admit it. The idea of you working with another director DOES bother me. I’m an idiot like that. But you must do this other film. Ignore my crazy possessive nonsense and say yes. Just make sure you’re free in time to do my next film. Deal? Tx
Postcard two, dated March 1992, of Lady in a Blue Dress by Pablo Picasso. Text reads:
C – script currently looks and feels like this. Small, fragmented pieces that REFUSE to match up. Yet. Astrid says it’s a good sign but I’m not so sure. All YOUR scenes are finished, however, and ready for you.
Tx
LOT 13
LOT 14
AUDIO CASSETTE MIXTAPE
Made for Wells by Lindstrom, dated December 1991. Signs of wear to box; small crack on front. Tracklist in Lindstrom’s handwriting in green ballpoint.
LOT 14
LOT 15
PAPERWORK
Pertaining to Wells’s second film, Lors de la Clôture de la Journée (1992, dir: Robert Dinage), in which she played the girlfriend of an amnesiac. Included in lot is contract, signed by Wells, shooting script, letters between Wells’s London agent, Artemis Crane, her American agent, Paul Rackman, and the director. All pertain to contractual matters. Some coffee stains and wear to corners.
[not pictured]
LOT 16
VINTAGE LEATHER DOCUMENT CASE
Belonging to Wells. Fraying to corners, surface scratches, some fading to rear. Contains half-used pad of blank paper and various tickets: a return journey from Paris Gare de Lyon to Chambéry-Challes-les-Eaux, dated 13.12.91, an entrance ticket to the Louvre, dated 10.12.91, an entrance ticket to Musées Nationaux, undated, a Paris Métro ticket for ‘section urbaine’, stamped 15.12.91.
LOT 16
LOT 17
CORRESPONDENCE BY FAX BETWEEN LINDSTROM AND WELLS
Numbering 16 sheets in all. Pages have been folded together, corners and outer pages show signs of wear and fading. Included in lot is a folder with a fleur-de-lis design. Small tear in back, some ink stains, fraying to ribbon.
Note to collectors: the lot pertains to correspondence collected and saved by Wells so communications from Wells to Lindstrom are on cartridge paper; communications from Lindstrom to Wells are on fax paper. Some are typed, others handwritten
.
LOT 17
[Lindstrom to Wells] 17/02/92
Dearest C,
I did not make Pia cry. Did she tell you I did?? It was all Paul’s doing and he’s your agent so, in a way, YOU made her cry.
When are you coming out to New York? We need you. Why are you hiding away in Paris? What is so great about Paris, anyway? (Astrid, who’s reading over my shoulder, says, ‘Apart from the beauty, the food, the architecture, the history, the art, the cinema, your terrifying mother, the style, the language, the skyline, the river …’ OK, that’s all Astrid is getting to say here.)
So, here is something. I want YOU to help me write the script. I really do. What you did on the last one was invaluable. And, please, drop this SHIT about getting a job. You have a job. Remember?
Tx
[Wells to Lindstrom] 17/02/92
T,
My mother, who picked up your fax, requests to know what exactly about her is so terrifying. We await your reply.
Cx
[Lindstrom to Wells] 18/02/92
C,
What’s terrifying about your mother? EVERYTHING. Script collapsed in the middle. It reminds me of cakes my grandmother used to make. Don’t know what to do. WHEN CAN YOU COME?
Tx
[Wells to Lindstrom] 19/02/92
T,
Cakes: if it hasn’t risen, it’s a sign you haven’t stirred it enough. Do you think it’s the same for scripts?
Cx
[Wells to Lindstrom] 21/02/92
T – sorry to send this by fax. I tried calling you but couldn’t get through. I was just on the phone with Paul and he said he thought Astrid has left. Is everything all right? What happened? Are you OK?
Cx
[Lindstrom to Wells] 21/02/92
C – in a meeting (dull) so can’t call (annoying).
Yes, Astrid gone. Back to Gothenburg.
What happened? YOU, of course.
Txxxxxxxxxxx
[Wells to Lindstrom] 21/02/92
T, I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry. Cx
This Must Be the Place Page 9
