I glared at all three of them but was prevented from further comment by the ringing of my phone. In the nature of one irritation following another, it was Socrates.
‘Johanna? How are you? Look, I know this is short notice but I’m afraid I’m not going to make it to Belfast tomorrow: something urgent has come up and I’m going to have to stay in Dublin for the weekend. So, much as I’d like to, it doesn’t look as though I’ll be able to join you for lunch after all.’
‘I am very well, thank you Socrates,’ I responded. ‘I won’t ask you what has “come up” because it’s probably something I’d rather not know about, but I would just like to point out that you weren’t joining us – we were joining you. At your expense, or so I understood.’
‘Ah yes, well, why don’t you take Nuala and Seamus out somewhere nice and I’ll reimburse you?’
I did not reply. The chances of there being somewhere nice for Easter Sunday lunch that hadn’t been booked out weeks ago were slim; the chances of Socrates reimbursing me were even slimmer.
‘Johanna? Are you still there? Now, don’t be cross: you know I wouldn’t let you down if I could possibly avoid it.’ (I snorted.) ‘I’ll pick the twins up on Tuesday morning. You can tell them I’ve rented a dream cottage in Donegal.’
‘Donegal? Not Dublin?’
‘Change of plan,’ said Socrates. ‘I tell you what, why don’t you come with us? I’ve been thinking lately that it’s about time we both let bygones be bygones. What do you say?’
‘Which particular bygones did you have in mind, Socrates? Are we talking about tax evasion, fraud and dodgy business deals too numerous to mention? Or possibly the involvement of my unsuspecting family in your vintage wine scam? For which, in case you have forgotten, you still owe my brother Stefanus rather a lot of money. Or, let me see – what about the time you were supposed to be sitting at your ailing granny’s bedside when you were actually on a hunting trip and somehow ended up in jail? Where, with hindsight, I should have left you.’ I paused for breath. ‘Or are we just talking about your total failure ever to acknowledge or apologise for the endless trouble you caused?’
‘Johanna,’ my ex-husband sounded reproachful, ‘I don’t know why you always have to cast these things up. You need to learn to put them behind you – after all, we all make mistakes, and whatever little problems we may have had, they’re all in the past now.’
‘As are you, Socrates,’ I replied, and put down the phone with what I felt was commendable restraint.
Nuala and Seamus took the news with equanimity: long association with their father has accustomed them to frequent changes of plan, but it did occur to me to wonder why Socrates should suddenly have a yearning for my company.
‘Anyway,’ said Nuala, ‘Donegal might turn out to be better than Dublin. As long as it doesn’t rain the whole time, we should get some good pictures.’
The twins were in their final year at art college, and their work was closely concerned with their relationship. In earlier years they had won accolades for performance-painting, an activity that involved them standing, identically dressed, in front of two easels, while painting abstract portraits of each other. A later refinement, also much admired, dispensed with the clothing. Naively, I was relieved when they branched into photography and film.
At any rate, they were happy enough to spend Easter Sunday just with me, and in the end we had a surprisingly pleasant day. We had long conversations with Finn and Marta in London and Ellie in – I think – Peru. It poured with rain but the egg hunt was successfully conducted indoors, and I’d found some lamb in the freezer, which I roasted – and which Sticky Wicket somehow managed to end up sharing. The twins, for some reason, found him hilarious, and he did contribute some reasonably good wine; but when I felt that he had had quite enough lunch – not to mention coffee, chocolates and two glasses of plum brandy – I rose purposefully to my feet.
‘We mustn’t keep you any longer, Sticky Wicket,’ I said. ‘We’ve had more of you than we deserve already. Besides, I have family matters that I must discuss with my children. So thank you for sharing our day.’ And I steered him firmly out the door. Then I sat down on the sofa with my feet up, a twin on either side and Tiger Lily on my lap, and for the rest of the afternoon we watched old movies and polished off the remaining wine and chocolates in companionable silence.
The rain that had set in on Easter Sunday continued through the night and I woke with a feeling of foreboding. After all, it is never easy to introduce one’s adult children to a new love, and when the introduction has been planned as a picnic, inclement weather is not encouraging. Even less encouraging was the discovery that the ham intended for our lunch had been reduced overnight to a shadow of its former self. A couple of unwashed glasses and plates with crumbs and smears of mustard pointed to the twins having had a midnight snack, helped no doubt by Tiger Lily, who was asleep on a pile of clean laundry, her little tummy stretched tight as a drum and an expression of deep contentment on her face.
Still, there was a quiche in the fridge, as well as the remains of the lamb, and plenty of cheese and fruit: we might have to sit in the car staring out at the rain but we were unlikely to starve. And in a couple of hours’ time I would see Albert, from whom I had been apart for the last four days. My heart lifted – and lifted even further, I am sorry to say, when I remembered that my children would be off to Donegal the next day, leaving me free to entertain my darling in the manner to which I had so happily become accustomed.
By the time we set off the rain had also lifted and from the top of the Holywood Hills we could see the Mournes quite clearly, so we stuck to our original plan, which was to drive straight to Newcastle and on down the coast.
We stopped briefly at Dundrum, where there is a wonderful ruined castle up on a hill overlooking Dundrum Bay, and where the twins climbed to the top of the thirteenth-century keep and took a great many photos at considerable risk to life and limb. And we stopped again just long enough for Albert to buy ice creams, having been tipped off by me that the way to my youngest children’s hearts lay directly through their stomachs. In fact, Nuala and Seamus, who had begun by treating him with wary politeness, very soon relaxed, and Albert wooed them shamelessly: he asked them endless questions about their art, their lives, their memories of Africa; he stopped the car whenever there was something they wanted to photograph; and he was very careful to behave towards me with impeccable propriety.
I knew that Newcastle was a popular resort at the foot of the Mourne Mountains: apart from the beauty of its setting, it is home to the Royal County Down Golf Club as well as being famous for its forest parks and walking trails. So it was no surprise that, despite the rain, the town was packed with holidaymakers. We decided not to stop, instead continuing on down the coastal road, through the fishing villages of Annalong and Kilkeel, until, a few miles south-east of Rostrevor, we saw the sign to the Kilfeaghan Dolmen.
The dolmen is behind a farm: a path led us through the farmyard and down to an enormous capstone supported by partly hidden pillars. As if to reward us for our perseverance, the day had suddenly cleared, and in the spring sunshine the view from the southern slopes of the Mournes and out over Carlingford Lough was spectacular. But we didn’t stay long: hunger drove us back to the car and on up a winding track to a small car park, which was miraculously empty, save for two cars whose occupants were probably hiking further up the mountain. And on the other side of a little stream, we found a perfect picnic site.
I produced the quiche and lamb, the cheese and fruit, but it was Albert who outdid himself, with a whole roast chicken (from a well-known store, I was relieved to see – Albert’s cooking skills were still a largely unknown quantity) and, from a cooler-bag, a bottle of champagne and chocolates.
‘Good man!’ said Seamus, as we held out our glasses to be filled; then he raised his own to us. ‘Here’s to champagne picnics!’
‘To Mum and Albert,’ echoed Nuala. ‘And to many more picnics!’
/> ‘To Nuala and Seamus,’ I responded. Toasts are a tradition in our family. ‘To health and happiness!’
‘And to Johanna,’ concluded Albert, ‘who brings such happiness to us all.’
The twins exchanged glances, while I tried not to look unsuitably besotted and busied myself instead with handing out food; but I did feel so brim-full of happiness that it was hard not to think of it as seeping out into everything around me. And who can blame me? It was a beautiful spring day on the slopes of the Mournes, beside me were two of my children, and I was both loved and in love. Who could have asked for more?
There were abandoned dwellings up there in the hills: after lunch, Nuala and Seamus took a great many photographs of these sad and picturesque ruins while Albert and I just wandered. We met one or two returning hikers but mostly we had the place to ourselves.
‘Well done,’ I said to Albert, as we watched Nuala below us taking shots of her brother’s head emerging from crumbling window frames. ‘You’ve got on with them like a house on fire.’
‘It’s been a pleasure,’ said Albert. ‘They’re delightful. And very knowledgeable about film.’
They had discovered this mutual interest over lunch, and as we were all fans of art-house movies, a long and enjoyable conversation had ensued. Socrates, I remembered, had been a great movie-lover too, but he had preferred westerns, and – unsurprisingly – the sort of action movie where the charming and irresponsible hero gets away with murder.
‘You’ll miss them when they’re gone,’ Albert continued.
‘Yes.’ I squeezed his hand. ‘It’s been lovely having them around, but their father is collecting them in the morning so by teatime I shall be badly in need of consolation.’
‘In that case,’ said Albert, ‘I’ll be round by four o’clock.’
I might have known that Socrates would be late. He finally arrived at a quarter to four, and by the time I got Seamus and Nuala and their baggage out of the flat, Albert’s gleaming head was just emerging from his car. Inevitably, Sticky Wicket had also materialised.
‘Socrates – Albert – Sidney,’ I said. I could see Albert bracing himself, and Socrates raising an eyebrow in a way I knew all too well, but we van Heerdens pride ourselves on our ability to deal with awkward situations, so I didn’t give them any longer to size each other up.
‘Sticky Wicket, be so kind as to take Albert inside and talk to him about cricket while I say goodbye to my children,’ I commanded. Then I shoved Socrates firmly in the small of his back and propelled him and the twins down the path and out through the front gate. As I kissed my children and waved them off I reflected that the land-cruiser being driven by my ex-husband was a great deal newer and smarter than any car that I was ever likely to own; on the other hand it was a comfort to know that their transport, if not their father, was both reliable and safe.
Then I went back inside to rescue Albert from Sticky Wicket, and to resume my interrupted private life.
Chapter 9
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
I’ve just had a call from Nuala and Seamus: apparently they aren’t coming back to Belfast tomorrow after all. Socrates has business in Scotland so it’s easier for them to go straight to the ferry with their father and get a lift with him to Glasgow. It seems I have inherited Tiger Lily!
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Does this mean that you are free tomorrow night?
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
We might be – if Tiger Lily has no other plans.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Tell her I’ll bring prawns – and a bottle of champagne to celebrate. I have some good news, darling.
Until tomorrow xxx
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Frederika, why aren’t you ever at home? I have been trying to Skype you all day – I have wonderful news: Albert has spoken to an estate agent at last and his house will be on the market by the end of this month!! I am so happy and excited at the thought that before long we will have our own place, together – I have to keep pinching myself to make sure
I’m not dreaming! Oh Freddy, I can’t wait for you to meet him. I know that you are going to love him too. Ring me soon. I am dying to talk.
Big hugs and kisses,
Johanna xx
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Hello Snoekie. Sorry, I was at the Kalk Bay Moon Circle. Quite mind-blowing: some extraordinary connections and unexpected channels of communication. Our most recent recruit, Thandi Magunda, has turned out to be quite exceptionally sensitive. I do have to tell you though that Crystal Coetzee had a rather worrying message from the other side: an intimation of some sort of disaster, possibly in Ireland. Still, it’s probably nothing to do with you and Albert.
Sleep tight, darling, and I’ll talk to you tomorrow.
Freddy xxx
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected];
[email protected]
Hi little brother and sister, I like the photos. Glad you had such a good Easter and that our mother’s boyfriend met with your approval – although it sounds to me as though he bribed you with food and drink. I don’t know when I’m coming home: Carlos wants to go to Brazil but there’s a possibility of a job in Chile. I’ll try to get back for Mum’s birthday. How’s the film going? Does anyone wear clothes
in it? Be good.
Ellie xox
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Well, Crystal Coetzee turned out to be right – possibly for the first time in her life. Albert’s house plans have been put on hold because his daughter Rosie is turning twenty-one in June and both houses are going to be needed to put up all the American and Canadian relatives who are coming over for the party. Apparently B&Bs won’t do and For Sale signs in the garden will cast gloom – although nothing like the gloom that has been cast on me! And we can’t go to Paris either because there is an Icelandic volcano about to spread volcanic ash everywhere and/or terrorist threats and imminent air strikes: take your pick. I haven’t had the heart to mention South Africa again either. To be honest Freddy, I suspect that Albert might have a fear of flying … either that or cold feet! Still, to make up for all this disappointment we are going to the west of Ireland, somewhere I have never been, to a place called Achill Island, and we are going next weekend – so if there are any more intimations of doom, I don’t want to hear about them!
Johanna xx
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Dear Finn,
Thanks for your advice about Chile but I think we’re going to Brazil after all. We’re looking into buses and trains at the moment. But if I can find a cheap flight I’ll try to come home for Mum’s birthday – and I am worried about her: she’s gone off with this Albert to some island off Mayo and she barely knows him. I mean, he could be Jack the Ripper. Love to Marta and Pipsqueak.
Ellie xox
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Hi Mum,
I know it’s still a long way off but Marta and I were wondering if you’d like to come to us for Christmas this year? Ellie and the Eco-Warrior will probably be rowing up the Amazon in a recycled cardboard boat and I’m not sure what the other two are planning but it would be nice to have any or all of you here with us for a change – and especially you. Ellie says you are having a break in Galway – hope you’re enjoying yourself and I’ll give you a ring next week.
Love from all three of us,
Finn
From: [email protected]
T
o: [email protected]
Stop worrying about your mother, darling – she seems to be having the time of her life, and if anyone deserves it, she does. I’m very curious about the boyfriend though, so I might go and see her in June. Ireland has such mystery. And let me know if you do go to Chile: I have a wonderful friend there. She used to be a banker too – we met in Kathmandu. I must say your Carlos is very handsome – is he an Aries? Look after yourself, sweetie, and do come and see me soon.
Big hug and kiss from your favourite aunt,
Freddy xx
Chapter 10
Achill Island is a place of magic, of sea cliffs and wheeling birds. There are tiny beaches where amethysts wash ashore, and a deserted village on the hillside. Achill lies off the coast of County Mayo, and on this western edge of Ireland the evenings are long and light; and every seven years – or so they say – the magical island of Hy Brasil can be seen on the horizon. We didn’t see Hy Brasil but we found a small, family-owned hotel where we ate like kings and where we fell asleep at night under old-fashioned quilts in a room with sloping eaves and with the sound of the Atlantic in our ears. We spent four days there in early May, and when we left the island, and drove back over the causeway to the mainland, a little chip of my heart was left behind forever.
I came back to Belfast to find the garden in full spring bloom and Tiger Lily, who had been staying upstairs with Sticky Wicket, noticeably fatter. Back at work, nothing much had changed, apart from the addition of some boxes of chipped porcelain, a small painting of a particularly gloomy Madonna and an extra layer of dust.
The Traveller's Guide to Love Page 5
