Angela was waiting at the gate as her daughters’ plane taxied in. A crowd formed just before the passengers began to appear.
She saw Genevieve and Victoria immediately, and was taken aback by the rush of love she felt. They hadn’t seen her yet. They were too busy talking to each other. Genevieve had to be jet-lagged after her long international flight, but she looked radiant. The blue dreadlocks were gone, replaced by a chic pixie cut, her dark hair glossy. She was so tall, willowy, dressed all in black. Beside her, yes, Victoria was slightly overweight, but she looked so pretty too, glowing, with her blonde curls and rosy cheeks. Why had Angela worried about the pair of them coming home again? They were her girls. Her two beautiful girls, who had just noticed her too.
She was nearly pushed over by the force of their hugs, one on either side. Squashed in the middle, she could see other passengers watching, smiling. She hugged one, then the other, the feeling so familiar, wanting to gather them both up in one big hug. It had never been possible, even when they were babies. They’d squirmed too much. They still had that same energy, the urge to keep busy, to talk, to laugh. They were moving now, dragging their hand luggage, pulling her along with them down to the baggage hall, talking nonstop, about the flight, how they couldn’t wait to get home to Errigal again, was she embarrassed at them, two of them coming home to lick their wounds, two unemployed, publicly humiliated thirty-two-year-olds; it was a scandal, wasn’t it?
They scarcely drew breath. As always, one started sentences, the other finished them. They switched back and forth between calling her Mum, Mama, Mother, Angela. They’d always had dozens of names for her.
In the car park, they stowed their luggage, then clambered into the back seat. Victoria had been back several times recently, but this was Genevieve’s first visit home since she’d left for America. She’d always been too busy to come back, even for a brief holiday. ‘It’s been more than two years, can you believe it?’ Genevieve was saying to Victoria.
‘You should have spread scurrilous gossip and got sacked months ago if you missed your homeland so much,’ Victoria said to her.
‘You should have slept with your boss and —’ Genevieve stopped abruptly. ‘You should have let your maniac radio host off the leash months ago and come home more often yourself.’
Angela pretended she hadn’t noticed the slip.
They were soon on the highway. The familiar towns passed by. There was no let-up in their chatter. She’d thought they might doze, that Genevieve might succumb to jet lag in the dark comfort of the car. If anything, she was the more talkative. She told story after story from the film and TV world. ‘All brakes are off now,’ she said. ‘I’ve already been sacked. What can they do, kill me?’ She made them both laugh with tales of affairs, of stars misbehaving, director antics; all the gossip she’d collected over the past two years.
The American accent Angela had heard during their phone and Skype conversations was already disappearing. Genevieve sounded like she’d been in Sydney, not New York, for the past two years, apart from the occasional use of ‘y’all’, picked up from a Texan friend. It was clear Victoria was already teasing that out of her.
They passed through the final small towns – Jamestown, Orroroo, Carrieton, Cradock, Hawker – then turned off the main highway onto their dirt road. There was now just open space. The girls quietened, still talking but in softer voices. Fifteen minutes from home, as Angela drove around the familiar bends, over familiar creek crossings, they came to life again.
‘Quick, fill us in on everyone,’ they asked her. ‘Dad. Celia, Lindy. Ig. All the headlines.’
Angela gave brief details. They asked about the latest reaction to the news of the mining lease. About the guest list for the party. About Joan.
Everyone was standing in front of the house as the car pulled in. The twins leapt out and ran over for hugs. Even Celia got one. Angela stood back, watching, smiling. Her whole family, together again. Her big girls back home, safe and sound after all their adventures.
She didn’t allow herself to dwell on the fact that during the entire four-hour journey, they hadn’t asked her one question about herself.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The party was now only four days away. The twins had been back for five days. The entire house was in chaos. Joan had practically moved in, appearing each morning before nine and staying until late, supervising the cooking. A tall, strong woman, with grey hair kept short for practical reasons, she arrived each day dressed in work clothes: an old shirt of her husband’s, patched trousers of her own. She stepped out of her car with her apron already tied on.
There had been a very happy reunion between her and Genevieve on her first morning.
‘You look wonderful, Joan,’ Genevieve said, hugging her close. ‘Even if you have been cutting your own hair again. And don’t tell me you haven’t. I’m a professional, I know these things.’
‘What was I supposed to do? You were gone for more than two years. I’d have been like Rapunzel if I waited for you to come home again.’
‘I’m back now. As soon as your poor hair grows enough for me to cut it, call me.’
‘Oh, I’m too boring after all your film stars and actors,’ Joan said, smiling. She’d always loved Genevieve’s cheekiness. ‘You look like a film star yourself with that haircut. As skinny as one, too. Though I was dying to see the blue dreadlocks.’
‘You know about the dreadlocks? I only had them for a month. You are a diligent godmother.’
Angela shot her a glance. Joan had only read about the dreadlocks in her Christmas letter.
Joan didn’t miss a beat. ‘I had you under surveillance the whole time you were away, didn’t you know that? A young innocent like you, in a big city like New York. I’ve been worried sick.’
‘I wondered who those men in the trench coats following me were. I thought they were just my usual lovelorn stalkers.’
As soon as Genevieve had left the room, Joan and Angela had a whispered conversation. Joan thought it was a big mistake that Angela still hadn’t told the girls and Ig about the letter. Angela promised she’d tell them before the party. She just had to choose the right time. Joan didn’t think delaying it was a good idea, but she’d agreed to keep quiet in the meantime.
‘I’m starting to wish I’d hired caterers,’ Angela said now, looking up from the oven where she’d just placed another fifty sausage rolls to bake.
Joan was rolling pastry. ‘Of course you couldn’t hire caterers. People are already gossiping about you Gillespies swimming in money now. Money and diamonds. You’d better serve badly cooked food and cheap wine at this party or you’ll be in even more trouble.’
‘In trouble? With who? The neighbours?’ Genevieve asked, wandering in. All four children were doing a lot of wandering through the kitchen, picking up just-cooked sausage rolls on the way past. ‘Mum, do people hate us because of that mining lease?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t been in town much recently.’ Angela had deliberately stayed away, travelling in only for Ig’s check-ups at the hospital, coming home straight afterwards.
‘So will there be strapping young miners strolling the land soon, a smorgasbord of possible husbands for Victoria, Lindy and me? Now that we don’t have any strapping young shearers or stockmen to ogle?’
‘Don’t hold your breath,’ Joan said.
‘Joan, please. We have to get husbands somehow. Unless you want us to live here for the rest of our days, Mum?’
‘Join an online agency, would you?’ Angela said. ‘As quick as you can.’
Genevieve laughed, stole a sausage roll and left the room.
‘Has there been much talk about us lately?’ Angela asked Joan once they were alone.
‘Of course. Between your letter and the news of that lease, you’re topic number one around here. It’s everything from people wondering how much you’ve been paid, to how Nick pulled it off. Jealousy from some. Admiration from others. Lots of unspoken fear about what it
means for the future. It’s not every day there’s the possibility of a diamond mine appearing in our backyards, Ange. People have to react to it.’
‘What do you think?’
‘What I thought when you first asked me that question three months ago. Do you think Nick had any choice?’
‘I don’t know. He still won’t talk about it. About anything.’ She crossed the room and shut the door, in case any of the children were listening. ‘It was bad enough between us before he heard about the letter. It’s even worse now.’
‘You just need to stay patient, Ange. Let him come to terms with it all in his own time, in his own way. His father was the same. And his grandfather, apparently.’
‘I thought we were different though. He always took care of the financial side of the station, but we used to talk about everything else. Not any more. I can’t stop going over and over everything that’s happened over the past few years, wondering what I could have done differently, how I could have helped him to fix it —’
‘Ange, you can’t change the past. None of us can. All any of us have is the future. So we just have to get on with it. Make the best of things. Onwards and upwards, and all that.’
As she reached for a new packet of pastry, Angela wished it were that simple.
‘I’m bored,’ Genevieve announced soon after, flopping on to the well-worn sofa in the living room.
‘Only boring people get bored,’ Lindy said, not looking up from her sewing. She was redoing the cross-stitch border on the Get Well Soon cushion. She hadn’t been happy with her first attempt. She was now running out of time. If she didn’t get it in the post to Perth the next day, she’d miss the customer’s operation. As it was she was going to have to pay for premium post. Her profit was now down to two dollars for a week’s work.
‘Are you daring to call me boring?’ Genevieve said.
‘I didn’t make up that saying. It’s one from school.’
‘And school is where it should stay.’ Genevieve sighed. ‘It’s not just boring. It feels weird here too, don’t you think? No sheep, no stockmen. It’s like some post-apocalyptic film setting. The only sheep station in the world without any sheep.’
‘They didn’t all just disappear overnight, Genevieve. If you’d bothered to come home any time in the past two years, you wouldn’t be so shocked now.’
Genevieve shifted position again, ignoring the dig and swinging her long legs onto the other arm of the chair. ‘It’s hard to believe, isn’t it? All these years and we had no idea there were diamonds lurking in the ground beneath us. I wish they’d hurry up and find them. I was hoping to have a sparkling necklace to wear at the party.’
Lindy rolled her eyes. ‘God, Genevieve. Didn’t you pay any attention when Dad told us? He’s signed an exploration lease, not a mining lease. They’re pretty sure the diamonds are there, but they could be hundreds of kilometres down. It could be years before they start digging, and even then it might not be worthwhile financially to try to bring them to the surface.’
‘Thank you, Lindy, for that potted history of the mining process. Next time, can you get a blackboard and do me some diagrams? Forget diamonds, let’s talk cushions. Have you had any more orders yet?’
‘I don’t know. Once Dad’s off the computer I’ll check.’
‘Am I imagining it or is Dad addicted to that computer?’ Genevieve said.
‘To that computer, his history books, the family tree —’
‘And to Carol,’ Ig said, from his spot on the floor. ‘He’s in love with Carol.’
‘I know, Ig; you keep telling me about this great love affair. You’re very relaxed for a child who’s about to go through his parents’ divorce. As if Mum and Dad will ever split up. I’ve never known a couple so in love. It’s sickening. Scarring, too. How can I ever measure up to their example? No wonder I’m still single. And me, such a catch.’
‘Didn’t you meet anyone in New York?’ Lindy asked.
‘Of course I did. Thousands of men. Battalions. I was like catnip to the eligible young blades of New York. I turned them all down. You know how choosy I am.’ She turned back to her brother. ‘Enough about me for a few minutes. Where’s Celia, Ig?’
‘Having a lie-down,’ Ig said.
‘Thank you. That’s everyone accounted for. Now, Ig, can I count how long it takes for you to go and get my phone? It’s by my bed.’
‘I’m ten. That doesn’t work any more.’
‘I’ll let you climb the ladder to do the decorations in the woolshed later.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise. Ig, please, get my phone. I’m too jet-lagged.’
‘You’ve been home for days.’
‘It was a very long flight. So who wants to hear some more about my exciting life in America?’
‘I’ll get your phone,’ Ig said, leaving the room.
Victoria came in. ‘Finished. What do you think?’ She moved her head from side to side, showing off her newly plucked eyebrows.
‘Perfect arch, perfect brow,’ Genevieve said. ‘Lovely.’
‘I can’t find it,’ Ig called from Genevieve’s bedroom.
‘Try under the bed, Ig,’ Genevieve called back. ‘Victoria, why are you doing your eyebrows when you’re going there to talk about a radio job?’
‘You’re about to do my hair too. Because I need this job. Because I’m trying to look as impressive as my CV sounds.’
‘I still can’t believe it,’ Lindy said. ‘You get sacked and before you even get home someone approaches you about a job. It’s not fair.’
‘You’ve got a job,’ Genevieve said. ‘One in a personalised sweatshop, but it’s still a job.’
‘Knowing my luck, the person who’s having this operation will die on the operating table and never get to see his or her cushion.’
‘That’s the spirit, Lindy. I hope you’re sewing all those positive vibes into the cushion.’
Ig returned, holding Genevieve’s phone.
‘At last,’ she said, taking it. ‘Thank you, small and loyal servant.’
Ig flopped onto the floor and turned on the TV.
‘No volume, Ig.’
‘How can I hear?’
‘Read their lips. You manage to hear Robbie all right, don’t you?’
He muttered but turned down the volume.
Genevieve held up her phone and groaned. ‘Still no signal. How did I ever live out here in the back of beyond? It’s primitive, isn’t it? Thank God for the computer and satellite technology or we’d be completely cut off from the outside world.’
‘You could always get in the car and go to Hawker,’ Lindy said. ‘You can get a signal there.’
‘It’s too hot. I’m too jet-lagged. I’ll just read all my old messages instead.’ She scrolled through them, while Lindy kept sewing and Victoria put on her make-up using the big mirror over the fireplace. Ig picked up the remote and slowly increased the volume.
‘I saw that, Ig,’ Genevieve said without looking up. ‘Down, boy, down. Lindy, did you hear the Ryans want me to do a bulk haircutting session on their station? All seven of them.’
‘You’ve got work too? That’s really not fair.’
‘You should have got a degree in something useful, not just arts, if you wanted to be like us.’
‘I’ve done lots of jobs since I left uni.’
‘You certainly have.’
‘Don’t tease me. It was bad enough from Horrible Jane.’
Genevieve looked up then. ‘You’ve seen Horrible Jane lately? Oh no. Is she back home?’
‘Not yet, but she will be. She’s coming to the party.’
‘No way! Who invited her?’
‘Mum. She invited all the Lawsons. They’re coming too. I saw their RSVPs.’
‘All of them?’ Genevieve said. ‘Even Fred?’
‘I don’t know about Fred. He’s still in Canada, isn’t he?’
Victoria didn’t say anything.
‘Forget about the rest o
f them for now,’ Genevieve said, shooting her twin a glance. ‘Where did you see Horrible Jane, Lindy?’
‘In Melbourne. It was hideous. Ig, I’m telling a story but you’re not allowed to tell Mum. She’ll only get cross with me. You can listen but then you have to forget it, okay?’
‘I won’t even listen,’ he said. He put his hands over his ears. Over one ear, at least.
Lindy told Victoria and Genevieve about meeting Richard in the bar. Kissing Richard. At first, they teased her. As she told them about Horrible Jane and the Lawsons mocking their mother’s Christmas letters, they became serious.
‘How dare they?’ Genevieve said. ‘That’s it. I’m putting thumbtacks on their road so they get flat tyres and miss the party.’
‘Is Mum still sending those letters out?’ Victoria said. ‘I haven’t read one in years.’
‘She’s still at it,’ Lindy said. ‘At least this year’s was so boring the Lawsons won’t be able to laugh at us. It basically said “Happy Christmas, everyone. Isn’t it hot?” and that was it.’
‘You actually read it this year?’
‘Only after she showed me a printout. I don’t even know if she emails it to me any more.’
‘I still get them, but I never read them. If you want to tell lies about how perfect your family is, what’s wrong with Facebook?’ Genevieve scrolled through her phone. ‘Hold on, this year’s might still be in my Trash folder. Yep, here it is.’
‘Can I stop not listening now?’ Ig asked.
‘Sure, Ig,’ Victoria said. ‘Genevieve, which lipstick should I wear? Pink or this red one?’
Genevieve was looking at her phone and frowning. ‘Lindy, did you say Mum’s Christmas letter was short? And boring?’
‘Really short, really boring, thank God.’
‘Then what’s this?’
‘What’s what?’
‘This email I got from her on 1 December. Her “Hello from the Gillespies!” one. Ig, turn the TV off, would you?’
‘Turn it off yourself. Stop bossing me around.’
‘Please, Ig. You can have some of the alcoholic punch at the party if you do.’
Hello from the Gillespies Page 14
