‘Is it for you? Are you sick?’
‘God, no. I’m fit as a Mallee bull. I just thought Get Well Soon would be quicker for her to sew than Happy Birthday or Happy Anniversary. I’m getting her to send it to my cousin in Perth. She’s a hypochondriac. It’ll make a perfect Christmas present.’ There was the sound of another voice in the background. ‘Glenn’s coming. I better go. I’ll call you again as soon as I can. Don’t worry; I mean it. We’ll get you through this.’ With that, she was gone.
Angela stayed sitting at the kitchen table, the phone in her hand. She didn’t want to put it back on the hook in case someone else who’d received her Christmas email decided to ring her. She was suddenly glad they had no mobile phone coverage out here. Glad they were so isolated.
She had a mental picture of their woolshed in ten days’ time. All their neighbours, all those familiar faces, staring at her, knowing all of her secrets.
She couldn’t bear it.
Brazen it out, Joan had advised. Do nothing. Say nothing.
How could she?
She had to do something. Most importantly, she needed to read the entire letter again, right now. Perhaps it wouldn’t be as terrible as it had sounded. And of course Joan was right. It was just a letter. Words on a screen. Perhaps it wouldn’t be necessary to say anything about it to Nick, to the girls, to Ig. It was Christmas, after all. People were so busy. And if anyone did happen to read it, perhaps they would think she was joking, that she’d joined some sort of creative writing class . . .
As she moved down the hall closer to the office, she heard talking. Talking and laughing. Nick was in there, skyping. Someone with an Irish accent. A female someone. Carol.
Angela couldn’t stop herself. She stayed in the shadows and eavesdropped. He sounded like a different Nick. The old Nick. The one she hadn’t seen or heard for months.
‘Carol, that’s great. You’ve made it all seem so real.’
‘It’s not me, it’s your family. I’ve just found their stories for you.’
‘But I’d never have found all of this detail without you. Those letters my great-grandfather —’
‘Great-great-grandfather.’
‘The political letters he wrote to the newspaper, how did you even know those archives existed?’
‘That’s my job. That’s why you pay me.’
‘You’re worth your weight in gold.’
‘Why, thank you, kind sir.’ A musical laugh. ‘I’ve also found a new lead. It’s still early days, but it looks like a journal belonging to one of your great-great-aunts could be in a small museum in Letterkenny, in Donegal. It’s not online yet. The only way I’ll be able to check for sure is if I go there, but that would add to your expenses, and so I needed to check first, before I —’
‘Of course. Please, go as soon as you can. Do you need me to transfer some money in advance?’
‘That would be helpful, if you don’t mind. I’ve done a rough calculation, petrol and accommodation expenses. I’ll need to stay overnight, unfortunately. It’s a five-hour drive from here. Such a shame you’re so far away. You could come too.’
‘I’ve been thinking the same thing. That I should make a kind of reconnaissance visit to Ireland, to help me plan the reunion. I’ve already had a look at possible flights in late January or February, just for ten days or so. Carol, this is a lot to ask, on top of everything else, but would you —’
‘Mum?’ It was Ig, in the hall beside her.
She looked down and put her finger to her lips.
‘What are you doing?’ he whispered.
‘I’m trying to hear what Dad is saying to the lady in Ireland,’ she whispered back.
Ig listened for a moment too. ‘That’s Carol. His girlfriend.’
‘His girlfriend?’
Ig nodded. ‘Lindy and I think he’s in love with her.’
From the office came another burst of laughter from Carol.
‘No, of course I won’t recommend a car hire company! I’ll drive you around myself. I’d be honoured. I’ll need to charge you a daily rate or my boss will kill me, but it will be as low as possible, I promise. You’re my number-one client, after all.’
Angela felt nauseous. Was Nick really talking about a spur-of-the-moment trip to Ireland? For ten days? On his own? Flying there on his own, at least. But meeting Carol once he got there. Travelling around with Carol . . .
Ig whispered again. ‘Mum, are you and Dad going to get divorced?’
‘Of course not.’ She said it as firmly as she could at low volume.
‘Mum?’ It was Ig again, still in a whisper. ‘Can I please have some curtains?’
She was still trying to listen in. ‘Sorry, Ig, what?’
‘Some curtains. For my cubby. Please.’
As she heard more laughter from Carol, Angela was glad of the distraction. She steered Ig back down the hallway, trying to sound normal.
‘Another cubby, Ig? How many is that this year?’
Ig counted under his breath. ‘Ten. But Robbie thinks this one will be the best.’
She found some old curtains in the linen cupboard. He inspected them closely before nodding.
‘So, how is Robbie these days?’ Angela asked casually as he headed for the back door.
‘Good, thanks.’
‘Is it nice to have him back again?’
‘Yep.’
‘Great. Well, tell him I said hi.’
‘Tell him yourself.’
‘He’s here now?’
Ig nodded, then stood, waiting.
Angela cleared her throat. ‘Hi, Robbie.’
There was silence.
‘He says hi to you too. Thanks, Mum. See you later.’
Angela was on her way back to Nick in the office when Lindy rushed in from the verandah. She was holding the cushion cover. ‘Mum, look!’
‘You’ve finished already?’ Angela took it. There was one letter in the centre of the cover. The G of Get Well Soon.
Lindy was beaming. ‘It looks brilliant, doesn’t it?’
‘It sure does,’ Angela said.
Nick appeared. ‘The reunion’s on. I’ve decided to definitely go ahead with one.’
‘In Ireland?’ Lindy said. ‘Cool! Are you still thinking October next year? Can we all come?’
Angela looked back and forth at them. ‘You know about the reunion too?’ she asked Lindy.
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I’ve been working out on the verandah. I’ve overheard Dad and Carol talking about it. Or should I say flirting about it.’ She laughed. ‘Joking, Dad. That’s great news. Well done. Sorry, you’ll have to excuse me. I’ve got loads of work to do.’ Lindy slipped past them both, cushion in hand.
Angela tried to sound breezy. ‘Carol’s helping you organise a reunion now? I thought she was just a genealogist.’
‘Carol seems to do everything. When she heard I’d already been in touch with Gillespies around the world, she even suggested where to hold the reunion. I was thinking of either Donegal or Mayo, where the two original Gillespie cousins came from. She had a better idea. Hold it in Cobh.’
‘Cove?’
‘It’s in County Cork. Pronounced Cove, spelt C-o-b-h. It’s where most of the emigrants sailed from; their final connection with Ireland. I’ve been researching it for the past few days. It’s a beautiful port town. So much history there, even an emigration museum. The perfect place for a reunion.’
Angela waited for him to mention his reconnaissance trip to Ireland. He didn’t. She found a bright smile from somewhere. ‘That’s great news.’
Tell him about the letter, an inner voice said. Now. But she couldn’t. Not until she’d re-read it. This was her chance. ‘Would you mind if I used the computer for a minute?’
He hesitated. ‘That’s fine. Of course. How long do you need?’
‘Ten minutes. Less, probably.’
‘Fine. Sure. I need a break, in any case. Can I make you a coffee?’
‘No, thanks. I’m
fine.’
They were talking to each other like work colleagues. Not husband and wife.
Ig’s words flashed into her mind. That’s Carol. His girlfriend. Lindy and I think he’s in love with her. They were wrong. Of course they were wrong. In any case, she had something more urgent than Carol to worry about now. More urgent than Carol, the party, the twins, Lindy, Ig and even Nick . . .
She was at the computer logging into her email account when Nick reappeared. He leaned across her, taking the mouse.
‘Sorry, I meant to close that last email. Carol’s sent me through some new links.’ He pressed some keys and the email disappeared. But not before Angela saw the final two lines.
Love Carol
xxxx
Her heart thumped. ‘Love and kisses from Carol? That’s very informal of her, isn’t it?’
‘You know what they say about the Irish – charm to burn.’
Her brakes were off now. ‘The kids call her your girlfriend.’
‘So I gathered from Lindy. I’d call it overactive imaginations.’
‘Should I be worried?’ Her casual tone sounded so fake. ‘Are you about to head off to Ireland to meet your new ladyfriend?’
‘Of course not. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Take your time.’
She watched him leave. Was this the moment she’d been waiting for? Was this her opportunity to go out to the kitchen, shut the door and say, ‘Nick, we have to talk’? About Ireland, about Carol, about their marriage? About her Christmas letter?
No. Not yet. She needed to re-read it first. Remind herself just how bad it was before she tried to fix it. She opened her email account and clicked straight on her Sent folder.
There it was. Her Christmas letter, right on top. Hello from the Gillespies! Sent on 1 December. She shut her eyes, feeling sick. She tried to recall that night, the shock and confusion of Ig’s accident, imagining herself somehow, accidentally pressing send, not delete. Right on midnight, according to this. She frowned. But she’d been in the hospital with Ig by then, nowhere near a computer. It only took her a moment to figure it out. The internet connection must have dropped out just as she’d sent it. It happened often. Once it was back up again, the email had transmitted. Right on midnight. Right on time.
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
She forced herself to read it. Phrase after phrase jumped out at her. Everything seems to have gone wrong for us. Fake TV world. Having an affair. Married radio announcer. A debt-ridden mess. A very weird little boy. Like a different man these days. Think he might be having an affair.
It got worse.
I think something is wrong with me. I wouldn’t have married Nick. I wouldn’t have my four children. I wouldn’t be living here on an outback sheep station. Gone back home to my childhood sweetheart Will. Married him. We’d have had one child. Just the one.
Her eyes filled with tears. What had she been thinking when she wrote this? It read as if she regretted them all, as if she wished away her entire life here in favour of a different one. As if she hated Australia and wished she was back living in London. And she didn’t. Did she?
No. She loved them. She did. She and Nick had had a good marriage. A great marriage, until the past year or so. And that fantasy life of hers? It was just that, wasn’t it? A kind of meditation for her. Respite. Everybody thought like that sometimes, didn’t they? Looked back over their lives and wondered What if? Pictured how their lives might have been if they’d made different choices?
Of course they did. Of course.
She just needed to somehow explain all of this to Nick, to her daughters, to Ig. And to the other one hundred people who had received this email and were —
‘Are you done?’
She jumped at the sound of Nick’s voice. ‘Just need a few more minutes,’ she called back.
As she sat there, she noticed something else. Her inbox was filling, email after email slowly downloading to her account. She had five new messages. Ten new messages. It stopped at thirty-seven new messages. All with the same subject line: Re: Hello from the Gillespies!
They were replies to her Christmas letter. She clicked on the first one. Read it. Clicked. Read. Clicked. Read. The emails were from all over Australia, across the world.
Thanks for the best letter ever! So glad we’re not the only family having ups and downs!
Happy Christmas to you all too. (Please send these monthly if you’re going to be this honest!)
Usually just delete these, glad something made me read it this time! Merry Christmas to you all too, if you get through it!
There were more specific responses:
OMG, Angela! Do you really think Victoria and that radio presenter were having an affair? I’m never listening to him again! That creep!! She should sell her story to the papers! Or I will if she won’t. (Joking, Angela! I’ll keep this between us, promise.)
Genevieve knows all the Hollywood gossip?? Can’t wait to hear it at the party!
Lindy’s back home again? That’s what I call a boomerang kid!
There were comments about Ig too:
Don’t worry about Ig, Angela. I work in a primary school and half the kids talk to themselves; it’s just a stage.
If I lived out in the middle of nowhere like you, I’d have a few imaginary friends too!!! (No offence!!)
My second cousin had an imaginary friend until he was fourteen. He became a paranoid schizophrenic. Not saying that will happen to Ig too, but thought you should know, in case you want to watch out for any other symptoms.
There were reactions about the mining lease, from people who hadn’t heard the news until now:
Angela, are you serious??? Have you any idea what a disaster that will be for all of us, for the whole Flinders Ranges?
Angela, is this a joke? You and Nick have sold out? I can’t believe it.
Even as she was reading those, more arrived. She clicked on them too.
Hope you don’t mind, but have forwarded your email to friends and family. You make us seem normal!
Angela, very sorry to hear life is so tough at the moment. Thinking of you. Call me if you want to talk?
So I’m not the only one with a fantasy life!! Thank God!! I’m married to Brad Pitt in mine LOL!!!!!!
The final one was from the radio-station manager in Port Pirie, where Victoria had first started working in radio ten years earlier. Angela had forgotten Keith was even on her mailing list.
Great read, Angela, thanks. Have been wondering how Victoria was getting on. Awful situation in Sydney, she’s best out of it. Ask her to give me a call if she’s ever back in SA?
She jumped as Nick came in behind her, carrying a coffee. She hurriedly pressed a key. Instead of her email closing down, a YouTube video started playing. One of Nick’s. An online documentary about Irish emigration, a man on a waterfront talking into the camera, while sad music played in the background. She pressed some more keys. Finally, her email closed. This was how it must have happened on 1 December, she realised. Hitting the wrong key by mistake. Send instead of delete . . .
‘We might need to think about getting another computer,’ Nick said. ‘It’ll be like Grand Central Station in here once the twins are home, even temporarily.’
He knew about Victoria’s work situation, but Angela still hadn’t told him Genevieve’s news. Here was her chance. A moment to have a normal husband–wife conversation, be parents together . . .
She filled him in. She could see he was concerned.
‘So they’re both back for good?’
‘For a while at least.’
‘That’ll cause a stir around here.’
Not as big a stir as her letter. She had to tell him about it. Tell all of them. It couldn’t wait.
She cleared her throat. ‘I was thinking we should have a family meeting after dinner tonight. A proper catch-up. I could get the twins on Skype too. Just to talk over everything that’s going on. We’ve a busy few weeks ahead of us: the party, Celia arriving —’
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‘I can’t tonight, sorry. I’ve got a conference call with a few of the international Gillespie cousins, to talk about the reunion. It’s been difficult to arrange, with all the different time zones.’
‘Of course. That’s fine,’ Angela said. She’d tried. And failed. ‘We can leave it for now. Have the catch-up another night.’
She stood up, went to the door and stopped. No, it wasn’t fine. He had to know. Even if the others had to wait.
‘Nick?’
He couldn’t hear her. The YouTube video was playing too loudly. He was already back emailing Carol.
Angela left without speaking.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Twenty minutes later, Nick finished writing his email to Carol and pressed send. There was no going back now. He’d just confirmed it. The reunion was going ahead.
It was hard to believe. Six months ago, he’d thought life held nothing for him. That it was all over. Every night, while Angela slept beside him, he’d lain awake for hours, trying to quell a rising panic, or lift himself out of the feeling of despair. Each day, his mind went over and over the same defeated thoughts. He was a failure.
It was all he could think about, yet he couldn’t talk about it: to Angela, to his friends, to anyone. Until the sleeplessness got so bad, he went to his long-time doctor in Port Augusta to ask for sleeping tablets. Dr Mitchell asked him why.
‘Take your time,’ he said. ‘You’re my last patient for the day.’
That simple statement triggered something. Nick started talking. He told him everything. About the situation on the station. The money worries. The constant anxiety. The insomnia. The feeling of despair. The emptiness. What it was like to go from being constantly busy to having nothing to do.
Dr Mitchell summed it up in one word: depression.
‘You’re one of thousands, I’m sorry to say, Nick,’ he said. ‘You can’t go through what you’ve been through with the drought and not pay for it in some way. It can be as stressful having nothing to do as a lot to do. Humans need to be busy.’
‘How can I be busy?’ he’d said.
Year after year, as the effects of the drought continued, the work that had consumed every hour of his life had decreased. His full-time stockmen had to be let go. There wasn’t the work or the money to pay them. He’d also had to do what many neighbouring pastoralists had been forced to do: gradually sell off his stock so he could pay even some of his bills.
Hello from the Gillespies Page 8
