‘I’ll sing a cheerful song, then. Just for you.’
And his arm tightened on her shoulder and he pulled her to a halt.
‘Look,’ he said, in a low voice. ‘The bird of all birds that I love the best. That in the churchyard builds its nest. And hops lightly over my Kathleen O’Moore.’
‘You said cheerful,’ April reminded him.
But Oran had dropped down to one knee and was holding out his hand to the robin, which had already hopped closer, watching them, head cocked, more curious than wary. Its delicate legs looked too thin to hold its round body, fluffed up even bigger in the cold. Its breast was not truly red, more of a dark orange, but it flashed like a flame against the dull brown of the muddy path.
April crouched down beside him, slowly, so as not to startle the little bird.
‘Be patient,’ she whispered, ‘and it might come to you.’
‘I’m always patient,’ he whispered back. ‘Though evidence might point to a more impulsive nature, I can wait as long as it takes.’
The robin hopped closer still, sideways so it could keep a close watch on them. April leaned against Oran’s shoulder. Her cheek grazed the rough wool of his peacoat, and she breathed in the smell of earth that lingered on his gloves and boots. The loudest sound was their own breathing, accompanied only by the lowing of neighbouring cattle and the undertone of faraway civilisation.
And there it was. On his outstretched finger, black eyes bright. And then it was gone, darting away into the trees.
Oran blew it a kiss as it disappeared.
‘Nature never disappoints,’ he said. ‘If you’re humble and willing.’
April hooked her arm in his. ‘A cheerful song now, please.’
‘Surely,’ he said.
There was a pause.
‘Right, I’ve got one. I — no, maybe not …’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘It’ll come to me, I swear!’
Oran raised his face to the sky, as if praying for divine inspiration.
‘How about if only one person dies?’ he said.
‘No dying,’ said April.
‘Languishes a bit?’
‘No languishing.’
‘Can it have soldiers in it?’
‘Do they die?’
‘Well, they’re typically at war.’
‘No soldiers.’
‘Let me think on it some more,’ said Oran.
‘No problem.’ April squeezed his arm. ‘But I will hold you to your promise.’
‘That’s more encouraging to me than you may know,’ said Oran. ‘I now look forward with great eagerness to the next promise I will make to you.’
CHAPTER 46
December
Empyrean was lit up like the fairytale castle it ought to have been. Spotlights made its white paint glow, stretched out its slate turrets so that they merged into the blue-black starry sky. The lawn was edged with rows of twinkling lights like miniature galaxies suspended in the dark. Fires in tall cast-iron braziers lit the entrance to the marquee, which held the buffet, bar, tables and dance floor. More braziers and tables were stationed on the open part of the lawn, for those who might prefer to be out in the crisp, still winter air, though no one was outside except some dedicated smokers, as the temperature was well below freezing. Deborah’s idea to fly the Julliard String Quartet over from New York had been vetoed by her siblings, so a man with a goatee had been hired instead to feed music into a sound system. Currently, Nigel Kennedy was playing ‘The Lark Ascending’. Irene’s husband, Rodney, had already complained to Edward that it was a nice tune but you couldn’t dance to it. Edward suggested he talk to the small-bearded DJ about some Glenn Miller, and possibly Elvis, if the night looked to be tending in that direction.
‘I thought Rodney would be more of a military-band man,’ April said. ‘With that moustache.’
‘There’s a dual personality in all of us,’ Edward replied. ‘Though it’s possible he jives solely to embarrass Irene.’
At the top table Sunny was camouflaged within a forest of family. Sons and daughters, sons- and daughters-in-law, grandchildren, great-grandchildren — all blond apart from Connie’s lot. Stathis, Connie’s husband, was, as Sunny had said, extraordinarily handsome but also quietly terrifying. If Stathis were an animal, April decided, he would be a tiger — languid and lethal. Deborah’s husband, Angus, on the other hand, would be a Highland cow — large, ginger and placid. Uncomplaining, he let sundry grandchildren climb all over him. Freya, the youngest of Sunny’s daughters, had come alone and in denim overalls, much to Deborah’s disgust. Deborah herself was radiant in blue velvet and diamonds that, as Oran had remarked earlier, could choke an ox. Charlie and his wife, whose name April had instantly forgotten, sat meekly off to one side, drinking water and wincing whenever a child shrieked nearby, every twenty seconds by April’s count. Bertie, on the other hand, had defied expectations and proved a lively guest, as was his Singaporean wife, who, unannounced, would burst into operatic song, her top note putting the hired glassware at risk. Henry and Xandy, both, for different reasons, unmarried, sat engrossed in a conversation about the Ebola virus. April had caught ten seconds of it and walked away, in need of a drink. Henry was bespectacled and scholarly looking. Xandy’s face had the deep lines and perma-tan of someone who’s spent the best part of his life exposed to the harsher elements. Both clearly had no clue that they were, after Stathis, the best-looking men in the place.
‘Xandy,’ said April to Edward. ‘Rugged and outdoorsy.’
‘I’d noticed,’ said Edward.
‘And?’
Edward made a face. ‘Does it not feel a bit — incestuous?’
‘You’re not related to Sunny in any way.’
‘Somehow, it doesn’t feel like that.’
‘Making excuses for inaction?’
‘Almost certainly,’ said Edward. ‘Old habits die hard.’
April looked around for Oran, and found him next to Sunny’s daughter Freya.
‘Oran has drawn the short straw there.’ Edward followed her gaze. ‘She’s rather hard work, that one. Earnest and humourless and full of nutritional theories that make you immediately crave a foodstuff made exclusively from alcohol, high fructose corn syrup and lard.’
‘It seems strange to me,’ said April, ‘that Sunny would have produced children quite different to her in personality. You’d think character traits as strong as hers would carve a straight line through multiple generations.’
‘Evidence would suggest otherwise,’ said Edward. ‘Happy, kind adults come from the roughest backgrounds, couples of average intelligence produce prodigies, children who were well nurtured by loving, principled parents grow up bitter and twisted. Our parents and our upbringing have an influence, certainly, but I believe ultimately it’s we who decide who we become.’
If April had not drunk two glasses of champagne, she would not have asked the next question. But she had, so she did.
‘Who do you think Oran’s grandfather was? James or Rowan?’
Edward’s eyebrows rose.
‘Who says I have a view?’
‘Of course you have one. You hate not being the smartest person in the room.’
‘You know me so well,’ said Edward. ‘Well then, let me put a question of genetics to you. Oran’s mother had blonde hair and brown eyes. Lily, her mother, was a blue-eyed blonde, and so was—’
‘James! God, yes, of course!’ said April. ‘And Rowan must have had brown eyes because he was so dark. But can we be certain that he and Lily would have produced a brown-eyed child?’
Edward gave her a look. ‘Were you not awake during Biology 101?’
April cuffed him on the shoulder.
‘Blonde hair is a recessive gene,’ she said. ‘How do you explain that then?’
‘Who knows what lurks deep inside us,’ said Edward. ‘My money is on Rowan as the father, but I’ll second Oran on one count — that some mysteries are better left unknown.’
&nbs
p; April stood up and straightened her dress, a fuchsia sheath with a split that had seemed manageable when she was standing quite still in the changing room, but which she was now conscious of with every step.
‘I’m going to rescue Oran,’ she said to Edward. ‘Why don’t you get off your inactive backside and insinuate yourself into that other conversation?’
Edward stretched his arms above his head, as if he’d just woken.
‘I have a better idea,’ he said. ‘You rescue Oran and I’ll insinuate myself into that other conversation.’
‘I’d suggest you change the topic,’ April warned him. ‘I’m not sure anyone carries smelling salts these days.’
April did not need to interrupt Oran and Freya because Deborah had already come between them with a tray of hors d’oeuvres.
‘What are they?’ said Freya, nose wrinkled.
‘God, I don’t know,’ said Deborah. ‘Some sort of cheesy bite?’
‘No dairy for me,’ said Freya.
‘No dairy?’ said Deborah. ‘You’ve spent eighteen months on an Irish farm and refused to consume one of their largest primary products, the backbone of their agricultural economy? It’s a wonder they didn’t drown you in a peat bog.’
Freya shrugged. ‘Lactose disagrees with me.’
‘Lactose,’ said Deborah, ‘can join the queue.’
‘Girls!’ warned a voice from the head of the table.
‘And don’t forget,’ said Deborah. ‘Family photo at midnight. Everyone out on the lawn by ten to.’
‘It’s minus five degrees out there,’ said Freya. ‘Do you really want the Day family preserved for all eternity puckered and blue with cold?’
‘Put some lippy on, too,’ said her sister, undeterred. ‘You look like the ghost of Killiecrankie.’
Deborah bustled off, leaving a disgruntled sibling and a mist of Chanel. April put her hand on Oran’s shoulder.
‘Time to offer our best wishes to the birthday girl,’ she said. ‘So far, we’ve barely had a chance to say hello.’
‘Thank God you came,’ said Oran, as they wound their way towards Sunny. ‘If I’d had one more minute on the evils of refined carbohydrates, I would have tipped the nearest bottle of Krug over my head and set fire to myself.’
Sunny looked absurdly fresh, April thought, for a ninety-year-old woman at close to midnight, who’d been surrounded by at least one million family members for three days straight. Perhaps that was the reason. Family rejuvenated Sunny like the onset of spring. She was glowing with the joy of it all.
‘My dears.’
Sunny opened her arms to welcome them and accept their kisses.
‘How are you faring?’ she said. ‘Is the evening treating you both well?’
‘Much improved since April saved me from self-immolation,’ said Oran.
‘You both look wonderful,’ said Sunny. ‘That dress is most elegant and that dinner suit very smart indeed.’
‘Edward offered me his second best,’ said Oran. ‘But being that he’s some inches taller, I looked like Charlie Chaplin. So he kindly rented me one instead, in return for assembling his Scandinavian bookshelves, which were the very devil, I tell you. Minimalist, my arse. A blue whale eats fewer krill in a year than I had pieces to slot together.’
‘And thank you for your gift,’ said Sunny. ‘I shall put it on the sideboard with my other treasures.’
Oran had fixed and polished up the box they’d found — a Georgian tea caddy it was, he’d told April, mahogany with ebony beading and the original brass fittings. Could be Chippendale, he’d said. Definitely worth a bob or two. We’ll give it to Sunny, April had said, closing the door on any argument.
Holst’s The Planets came to a sudden halt, halfway through ‘Jupiter’. The sound system launched into Jerry Lee Lewis’s ‘Great Balls of Fire’.
‘Rodney’s patience is at an end,’ said April. ‘Nice segue, though.’
‘Oh, Lor,’ said Sunny. ‘He’s jiving with Dilly. I should really insist that all the children be made to look away.’
Oran held out his hand to April. ‘Care to?’
April glanced at Sunny, feeling it would be impolite to leave so soon.
But Sunny shooed them with the back of her hand. ‘Off with you! Dance like young people ought to — before old age turns you into a pumpkin.’
‘No lifting, though,’ said April as Oran led her to the dance floor. ‘This dress is split too high already. I don’t know what I was thinking when I bought it.’
‘Would you care to know my thoughts on the subject?’ said Oran.
‘No,’ said April.
Oran was a good dancer, much better than April, but he made her feel as if she was a match for him, and soon she had her head back, laughing, as he spun her around the floor to Jerry Lee, Little Richard and Chuck Berry. But after ‘Johnny Be Good’, the rock and roll was replaced by the more refined beat of a Strauss waltz.
‘Someone must have overridden Rodney,’ said April, catching her breath. ‘Probably Irene.’ She fanned her face. ‘Lawks. I’m as red as a boiled beet.’
‘Let’s get some air,’ said Oran, and before she could protest he took her hand and led her out of the marquee onto the lawn.
‘Yes, that worked.’ April rubbed her bare arms and shivered. ‘Good thinking.’
‘Come and huddle under the brazier with me,’ said Oran.
April held back. ‘Huddle?’
‘Or freeze,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Your choice.’
April huddled. They stood in silence, breath clouding the air, lights twinkling around them like stars.
‘However, you’ll be pleased to know your instincts were bang on,’ said Oran. ‘I do have an ulterior motive. My natural cowardice has held me back thus far, but there’s no squirming out of it now.’
From his jacket pocket, he drew a crumpled skein of green and white. Held it above April’s head.
‘I’ve never been one for subtlety,’ he said. ‘Feel free to say no.’
‘If I say yes,’ said April, after a moment, ‘it will be a friendly one, no more.’
‘Good enough,’ said Oran, and he kissed her, sweetly, softly and not for long.
‘Disappointed?’ said April.
‘Never. It’s a gift,’ he said. ‘As is my ability to be patient. I can wait, you know, as long as it takes.’
From inside the marquee, April heard Deborah’s voice, clear as a bell. ‘Ten minutes to midnight! Photo time! Raus, raus!’
‘In ten minutes and two more weeks, it will be a new year,’ said April.
‘And so we go on,’ said Oran.
EPILOGUE
February
The phone was ringing. In the red phone box that stood all alone at the crossroads. April had heard the brr-brr as she approached, walking briskly up the lane, but had not recognised it for what it was until she was right by the door.
She checked around her, listened. No one. No sound but the insistent buzz-saw jangle, like an amplified cricket.
Why not? April pushed open the door. Lifted the receiver. Said hello.
No response, but someone there nonetheless. April heard rustling, of cloth or grass, a rapid inhale and exhale of breath, and the muffled thud of feet hitting the ground at speed, earth by the sound of it, not pavement. Someone was running, their phone probably in a pocket, bouncing around, hitting key or coins, dialling numbers at random. Dialling a phone box in the middle of nowhere.
Were they chasing something or someone? Being chased? Or simply running for the joy of it? The breathing sounded purposeful, controlled. Not laboured. Not afraid.
‘Hello,’ April said again, but they did not hear her. She listened until it became clear that the phantom dialler intended to keep running, until their breath or their legs gave out, she supposed, or they finally caught what they were chasing.
April hung up the phone. Braced for re-entry into the chilly wind, the whip-end of winter. It helped to know that the Aga — dark green �
�� in the new cottage would be heating the kitchen most comfortably and that a cup of tea would be waiting for her, brewed by a flatmate who had not been as willing as she to go walking in the cold. Knotting her scarf tighter, April set out on the path back home, while all around her, in the shelter of earth and stem and bulb, green life waited for its spell.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
On national radio, I claimed this book’s gestation period was as long as an elephant’s, but Wikipedia tells me it was closer to that of a Bactrian camel or Grant’s zebra. Never mind, it was long enough, which is why I decided to write my first ever set of acknowledgements. Myself, I tend to skip these in other people’s books unless I can see, from a quick skim-read, a name I recognise. Feel free to do likewise.
My thanks and much gratitude go to my publisher, Harriet Allan, who saw enough of value in my crappy first draft to ask me to do another; to Rebecca Lal, my ever-patient and amusing copy-editor; and to my literary agent, Gaia Banks from Sheil Land Associates, who pulled me out of several funks with bracing British cheer.
Many thanks also to two Helens: Helen Lehndorf, who let me nick a couple of lines from her beautiful poem ‘Spell for Cold Weather’, and Helen Rickerby, who published said poem along with others equally as beautiful and arresting in The Comforter (Seraph Press, 2011).
I had fun at Arty Bees, Pegasus Books and the Wellington City Library digging out obscure and fascinating research material. I bought a copy of The Popular Encyclopaedia of Gardening for $15 at a roadside stall in Ohope Beach eleven years ago, which proves that your grandmother was right and you never know when things might come in handy. For anyone who likes to fact-check, I shifted the date and timing of the total eclipse of the sun. The real one occurred on 29 June 1927 in the early morning, but Sunny’s description of it does tally with eyewitness accounts. The winter of 1947 was one of the most severe in British history — between 22 January and 17 March snow fell every day, somewhere in the UK. The El-range of appliances, invented by Earl H. Richardson, a meter reader at a Los Angeles power company, pre-dates Empyrean by a decade or so, but I couldn’t resist including the El-Eggo, even though I’m not entirely sure what you might have done with one.
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