Hello from the Gillespies

by Monica McInerney

  ‘Are you taking sides?’

  ‘Of course not. But it’s their business, not ours, Genevieve. We have to give them the time and space to work it out themselves.’

  ‘What time and space? We’re all back here, filling every available space, and we’re running out of time. Dad’s about to head off to Ireland and I think we need to get them fixed up before he goes or we might never see him again.’

  ‘Now you’re getting carried away. It’s a research trip.’

  ‘You’re just not as worldly or suspicious as I am. I definitely think we should do something before he leaves. Try to remind them both of how good things used to be between them. You know what they used to be like, how close they were, how we used to tease them about it. They talked all the time, for starters. Laughed a lot together. And you know how he looked at her, as if she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. And the way they’d hold hands when we were all watching TV, and they thought none of us was looking.’

  ‘Until you’d pretend to vomit about it?’

  ‘I was a teenager; it was embarrassing. But not just that. What about all those little traditions they have, like the annual photo they take, and the thing they do with the birthday card? And the way they go over to the chapel together for private talks? And Dad’s so proud of her with the station-stay business. He told me, but maybe he didn’t tell her. Maybe he should have. Maybe if we could somehow remind them of all the good times, that would help.’

  ‘I think you’ve been working in TV for too long. What are you suggesting? We go through the photo albums, put together a flashback montage of the highlights of their marriage? With a soundtrack of weepy music? We were kids for most of it, or away at boarding school. We’d have to make up half the stories.’

  ‘No, we wouldn’t.’ Genevieve was now smiling. ‘We have the perfect source, right here.’

  ‘Who? Joan, you mean?’

  ‘Better than Joan. Have you forgotten something, my dear Victoria? The little matter of thirty-three letters in a file in the office?’

  ‘Mum’s Christmas letters?’

  ‘Exactly. I knew they’d be good for something one day.’

  ‘What were you thinking? Getting them all bound into a book? Have we got time?’

  ‘No, I’ve had an even better idea, thanks to Horrible Jane. If the Lawsons can do it, then why can’t we?’

  ‘Act them all out? Thirty-three years’ worth? That would take days.’

  ‘I don’t mean acting out every word. And we might skip this year’s letter, don’t you think? I thought we could read through them and pick out the mentions of Mum and Dad. Some edited highlights of their lives together. Ig and Lindy can help too. We could turn it into a kind of a play, stage it as our Boxing Day entertainment.’

  Victoria was laughing. ‘You’re mad. With costumes and every­thing?’

  Genevieve grinned. ‘Why not? I’ll do hair and make-up. You can be in charge of the musical soundtrack. If a trip down memory lane staged by their four beloved children doesn’t get the two of them smooching again, I don’t know what will.’

  ‘Have we got time?’

  ‘We’ll make time. What else have we got to do out here? Hunt kangaroos?’

  ‘What are you two laughing about?’ It was Lindy, at the woolshed door. ‘I could hear you from the verandah. We need to get going. I’ve just seen the shopping list. It’s going to take us hours.’

  Genevieve put her finger to her mouth. ‘Hush, dear Rosalind. We’re hatching top-secret plans.’

  ‘You are? About what? Getting Victoria and Fred Lawson back together?’

  Victoria went red.

  Genevieve didn’t miss a beat. ‘No, that’s New Year’s secret plan. This is our Christmas plan. Codename: Save Mum and Dad’s Mar­riage.’

  Lindy’s eyes widened. ‘Really? What are you going to do?’

  ‘Go and get Ig and we’ll tell you all about it.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  They discussed it all the way to Port Augusta and back. Once they were home again, the Christmas shopping done, they got to work. Genevieve appointed herself stage director. Victoria was in charge of music and voiceovers. They’d realised there was no chance of anyone having time to learn lines. They decided on a different approach. Ig would play the part of Nick. Lindy would play the part of Angela. Victoria would read their lines from the side, out of sight, while Genevieve managed the music and props and costumes.

  Ig was put in charge of smuggling his mother’s letters out of the office. He did it with ease, bringing them over to their meeting place in the woolshed. As they began to read them, their reactions ranged from embarrassment to amazement to hilarity. They read about Angela’s earliest days on the station, the first years of her marriage. There were many descriptions of Nick, how hard he worked, what a great husband he was. His ‘manly manliness’, as Genevieve dubbed it, after reading for the tenth time about how fit he was, how strong, how kind, how handsome. ‘We should send these letters straight off to Mills & Boon,’ she said after reading a particularly effusive description of Nick helping to fight fires on a neighbour’s property. ‘“Nick Gillespie, the He-Man of the Outback.”’

  They divided up the letters among them, taking turns reading bits aloud. At first, they were more interested in hearing about themselves. They found the descriptions of their own arrivals – the twins, then Lindy, then out of the blue, all those years later, Ig. He got Genevieve to read that section aloud twice, smiling to himself as Angela described what a wonderful surprise he was, what a beautiful baby he had been, how Nick had nearly cried when he first saw his newborn son. They heard stories about their school days, tales of station life, about all of them helping out with the sheep mustering, going out with Nick to check the windmills, the bores, the dams. Helping out in the woolshed at shearing time. Days out at the Hawker races. There were stories of their family holidays, usually by the seaside in Adelaide. Funny things each of them had said over the years. Detailed reviews of the concerts the three girls had often staged for their parents during school holidays.

  Finally Genevieve announced they had to start skipping their own bits, and concentrate on any mentions of their parents. They soon had an abundance of material. When Nick wasn’t being manly, he was being romantic, it seemed. They read about the rose bush he’d planted for Angela on their first anniversary. How he brought her a cup of tea in bed every morning.

  They also read about the origins of Nick and Angela’s birthday card tradition, now in its thirty-third year. In the first year they were married, Nick asked Angela what she wanted for her birthday. She said she already had everything. Nick said she must want something. She joked that all she really needed was five dollars to buy herself some sweets. (Except they call them lollies over here! she’d written.) Then, on the morning of her birthday, he presented her with exactly that – a card addressed to My darling Angela, with a five-dollar note inside. For some sweets for my sweetheart, he’d added. Four months later, a week before his birthday, she asked him what he wanted. He told her that he already had everything he wanted. So on the morning of his birthday, she gave him the same card back, with the same five-dollar note inside, simply crossing out her name and writing his, My darling Nick. Year after year, they did the same thing. Growing up, the three girls had always loved the presentation of it, taking turns to hand-deliver the now yellowing envelope to their mother or father, laughing as each of them pretended to be surprised and touched. ‘It’s just what I wanted, Nick, thank you!’ Angela would say. ‘You’re so thoughtful, Angela,’ Nick would say, kissing her as the children shrieked in pretend embarrassment. The card looked so old-fashioned now, the inside crowded with all the crossed-out names. The five-dollar note was out of date too, in the long-discontinued design. Did they still keep it up? Genevieve wondered. She hadn’t been home for either of her parents’ birthdays in years.

  By the time they finished reading through the letters, they had more than enough material. Now a
ll they had to do was start rehearsals.

  Later that same day, keeping to another tradition, they decorated the Errigal Christmas tree. Not their indoor artificial tree. That had been up and decorated for days. The gum tree in front of the homestead. Ig was chief decorator, even with his arm in the sling. He spent three hours clambering one-handed up and down the ladder, hanging the lights and decorations on the branches he could reach. It unfortunately meant only the lower third of the tree was decorated, but they all agreed it looked beautiful.

  Usually it was Ig’s job as the youngest to turn on the lights too. To everyone’s surprise, he asked Celia to do it this year.

  ‘You’re the oldest,’ he said solemnly. ‘And I’ve got plenty more years ahead of me.’

  They all couldn’t help but notice she went pink-cheeked.

  ‘Thank you very much, Ignatius,’ she said, the slightest tremor in her voice. ‘I’d be honoured.’

  That night, Angela remembered she’d promised to email Joan some recipes for leftover turkey. She had deliberately stayed away from the computer. She’d read enough emails about her Christmas letter, and she’d have been hard-pressed to get any time on the computer in any case. Nick was spending hours on it, closely followed by Lindy, then the others. Even Celia had asked to use it, something about wanting to send emails to set up her next book-club meeting.

  Nick was out on the far side of the property, checking the solar pumps. He’d taken Ig with him. Ig had never been interested in the sheep, but he did like the technical equipment. The three girls and Celia were in the living room watching a Christmas carols program on TV. She took the opportunity.

  She quickly found the recipes online and emailed them to Joan. She decided to print out copies for herself. It looked like the kids had gone overboard with their Christmas food shopping. They’d be eating variations of turkey for days ahead. It was as she was picking up the pages from the printer that she saw it.

  Her Christmas letter, tucked under a pile of Nick’s papers.

  It was the copy she had given him just over a fortnight ago. It was creased, as if it had been read, folded and re-read many times. There was also writing on it. Nick’s writing. Beside the section about her fantasy life. About Will.

  Her heart started to beat faster. They were notes about architects in London. Different ones with the name of William, with question marks beside them, some of them crossed out.

  He had been trying to track down Will. Why?

  She knew the answer. Because his wife of thirty-three years had announced in the most public, humiliating way that she daydreamed about being married to another man. What husband wouldn’t want to know about that other man?

  She shut the office door. She didn’t know how long she’d have the room to herself.

  She didn’t google Will. She didn’t want to know about his life. She’d never wanted to know. Her fantasy life with him had been nothing more than a distraction, a refuge. The last thing she wanted to do was confuse it with real facts. Instead, she looked up the browser search history. She already knew from Joan that Genevieve had been in here googling Will, the day they heard about the letter. But that had been two weeks ago.

  The findings came up. Over the past week, someone had spent what looked like hours trying to find details about an architect in London called Will.

  Not someone. Nick.

  She knew then why he couldn’t talk to her. Not because she’d written about the mining lease, or their family. It was what she’d written about her fantasy life. It must have hurt him so badly. As if she really had had an affair.

  She heard the four-wheel drive pull into the yard, heard two doors slam. She pressed the keys swiftly, clearing the history, shutting down the computer, leaving the office as quickly as she could. She was in the lounge room with the others by the time Nick and Ig came in.

  She watched as he stood beside Ig, his hand ruffling his son’s hair. He smiled at a cheeky comment from Genevieve, answered a question from Victoria, even took a look at Lindy’s latest cushion. He’d always been a good father. A great father.

  She was the only one he couldn’t talk to any more. And who could blame him?

  She excused herself and walked outside, across the paddocks, over to the chapel, with only the moonlight to show her the way. She sat there, crying, until she had no tears left.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Christmas Day dawned hot and bright. By nine a.m. it was already thirty degrees. The Gillespies followed their usual tradition, going into Hawker for Mass, then straight back home afterward to open their presents on the front verandah. It was always one of the coolest spots in the homestead.

  As a family, they’d long kept a limit on how much they spent on presents. This year, in light of Ig being only ten, and all three sisters on financially shaky ground, the budget had been set to a record low. A maximum of five dollars each. Even so, they all declared they were genuinely delighted with their gifts. They ranged from cans of baked beans (Ig’s presents to all three of his sisters), vouchers for cushions (Lindy to each member of her family), bags of mixed lollies (Victoria to everyone) and vouchers for haircuts (Genevieve to everyone). Celia gave them books. Secondhand ones. She always had done.

  Their parents had been declared exempt from the limit. They gave Ig computer games, books, some new clothes. The three girls each received perfume and vouchers. Genevieve kept a close eye on her parents as they exchanged their presents. A shirt, a book and some aftershave from her mother to her father. A silk scarf, a book and some perfume from their father to their mother. Nothing new there. That’s what they’d always given each other for Christmas. But their thank-yous were as polite as if they were strangers.

  After the present-giving, the four children took over the kitchen. They’d spent hours there during the previous few days. When they weren’t in the kitchen, they’d been in the woolshed. Helping Ig to build an indoor cubby, they’d told their parents. Rehearsing their secret Boxing Day performance was the real reason.

  Christmas lunch was a big success. They served a choice of prawn cocktail or Parma ham and melon for starters. Roast turkey and all the trimmings for main course. Plum pudding and fruit salad for dessert, with a cheese plate for after. Victoria had taken charge of that part of the menu, serving a perfectly ripe Brie, a tangy cheddar and her favourite, the creamy Tasmanian blue cheese, all served with chilled grapes, quince paste and crisp biscuits. Dieting was definitely more of a new-year thing, she’d decided. They ate outside, judging it was still cooler on the verandah than in the dining room. After lunch they all dozed. That night, they played board games. Even Nick and Celia joined in.

  ‘We’ve almost been like a normal family today, haven’t we?’ Genevieve said.

  It was even hotter on Boxing Day. Nearly thirty degrees by eight a.m. After an early, already sweaty meeting, they changed the plans for their performance. They’d do it before lunch instead of in the heat of the afternoon.

  By quarter to eleven, everything was ready. A stage of sorts was set up on the front verandah, made from the same pallets they’d used at the woolshed party. The stereo speakers were out of sight, Victoria’s music soundtrack cued and ready. Genevieve had her costumes and hair styling equipment arranged on a table, also out of sight. Ig started to complain of stomach pains, but Genevieve reassured him it was just stage fright.

  ‘Once you’re up under that spotlight, you’ll forget all about them,’ she said.

  Lindy was sent inside to fetch her parents and Celia. She led them out onto the verandah like a theatre usher, pointing to the three chairs lined up in front of the small stage, all of it reminiscent of their childhood concerts. Just as they were about to start, Celia called Lindy over. She was looking quite pale, even in the heat.

  ‘Would you please get me a glass of water? I’m feeling a bit clammy.’

  ‘Could I have one too?’ her mother asked.

  ‘Me too, please,’ their father said.

  The performance was de
layed while Lindy got the drinks. Meanwhile, it was getting hotter. Everyone was now wearing a sheen of sweat. Ig, dressed in his Nick costume, had gone even paler than Celia. The sooner they finished and got inside into the cool again, the better, Genevieve decided as she quickly helped Lindy to climb into her Angela costume – one of their mother’s old dresses, and a matted black wig they’d found in the dress-up box in the cellar. It was actually part of a long-gone witch’s costume, but they hoped their mother wouldn’t mind.

  Genevieve nodded to Victoria, who was also looking quite clammy now. She seemed to be holding her stomach. Genevieve was starting to feel the beginnings of cramps herself. She’d never realised stage fright was so contagious.

  At Genevieve’s nod, Victoria projected her voice. ‘Welcome, one and all, to this year’s Gillespie Players performance, “A Trip Down Memory Lane”. Subtitle, “A Long and Glorious Marriage”. The time, thirty-four years ago. The place, a pub in Sydney.’

  Genevieve gave Lindy the thumbs up. Lindy stepped on to the stage. The borrowed dress was too tight on her. Her black wig was already slipping sideways. She was holding a glass in one hand, a tea towel in the other. They’d decided they’d do their own lines for this first part of it, before Victoria took over the narration.

  ‘Hi, everyone,’ Lindy said, in her attempt at a London accent. ‘My name’s Angela Richardson. I’m from London. I sure love it in this beautiful country of yours.’ She sounded more Texan than English.

  Genevieve peeked out. Her mother looked like she was either trying not to smile, or trying not to be sick. She’d gone a funny colour. Beside her, Celia wasn’t even smiling. She seemed to be doing a lot of swallowing. At least her father was watching, even if he was bathed in sweat too.

  Genevieve nodded at Ig, who stepped out from behind the verandah pillar onto the stage. He was dressed in a pair of his own dark jeans, but wearing one of Nick’s white shirts, the sleeves rolled up over his elbows the way Nick always wore them. The shirt was many sizes too big. On his head he was wearing one of Nick’s old station hats, an akubra, also far too big. His face was barely visible underneath. Genevieve hissed at him. He pushed it up, walked over and stood beside Lindy and gave her what could only be described as a leering smile.