Hello from the Gillespies

by Monica McInerney

  ‘It shows itself gradually,’ Victoria said.

  Celia took a delicate sip of tea. ‘I look forward to seeing it.’

  Nick’s departure was now just one day away. He announced he was going to Port Augusta to get last-minute items of warm clothing, as well as some Australian souvenirs for Carol.

  Lindy took the opportunity to take over the computer. Since they’d come home, she was in there whenever possible. If she wasn’t updating her cushions website or checking for new orders, she was skyping Richard in Melbourne. She’d only been talking to him for five minutes that afternoon when she came running up the hall to share the news.

  ‘Richard wants to come and visit!’

  ‘While Dad’s away?’ Genevieve asked.

  ‘Dad won’t mind, will he?’

  ‘Richard knows all about Mum, doesn’t he?’ Victoria asked. ‘He’ll be able to cope with it?’

  ‘Of course he will. And of course he knows. He and I talk about everything, all the time. Last night he skyped me just as I was about to skype him. It’s like we’ve got some kind of spiritual connection.’

  ‘Wow,’ Genevieve said. ‘Though I’d call it more of an internet connection than a spiritual one.’

  ‘You’re just jealous,’ Lindy said. ‘Because I’ve got a boyfriend and you haven’t.’ She flounced out, back to the computer again.

  Victoria put her hand on Genevieve’s arm. ‘Don’t. Just let it go. Let her go.’

  ‘How can I? All this happening with Mum, and it’s as if Lindy hasn’t even noticed.’

  ‘We’re all coping in our own way. We all need a distraction. Maybe Richard’s her distraction.’

  ‘And maybe getting annoyed with Lindy is mine,’ Genevieve said.

  Genevieve waited until she’d heard Lindy finish her Skype call. She tried to remember Victoria’s advice. Be kind. Be understanding.

  She joined Lindy in the office. ‘How are you going, Lindy? About Mum? Are you okay?’

  ‘Fine,’ Lindy said. ‘Why? Has something happened to her today?’

  Genevieve dug her nails into her hands. ‘It’s just we’re all finding it a bit hard. Her being her, but not her. I wanted to make sure you’re going fine with it.’

  Lindy seemed puzzled to be asked. ‘Well, sure. Everything’s happening like Ruth said it would, isn’t it? We just have to go along with it. Stay patient and positive. Keep busy ourselves. So that’s what I’m doing. That’s okay, isn’t it?’

  Genevieve wasn’t sure if she wanted to slap her sister, or hug her. ‘Sure, Lindy. That’s great.’

  Nick hadn’t gone to Port Augusta to get clothes and souvenirs. He’d gone to see his psychologist once more before his trip. He told Jim all that had happened since his last visit. It took some time.

  ‘Confabulation?’ Jim said. ‘It’s a fascinating condition. And Angela’s in very good hands. I’ve heard of Ruth myself. I’m also sure she’s right: your trip to Ireland is for the best, not just for the reunion but for you and for Angela. How has your relationship with her been affected?’

  ‘There isn’t one. It’s like she’s a stranger, a temporary guest on the station. We say good morning, good evening, we talk about the weather.’

  ‘Even so, do you feel any connection to her? Does she still feel like your wife?’

  Nick gave that some thought. ‘Yes. She keeps reminding me of the old Angela. The Angela from years ago, I mean, not the Angela she was before the accident. She’s relaxed. Happier. She laughs a lot. She goes for long walks. Reads. Watches TV.’

  ‘The old Angela didn’t?’

  ‘She was always too busy. She’d been getting bad headaches too. For months.’

  ‘Has there been any physical contact between the two of you?’

  Nick shook his head. ‘There wasn’t even before the accident. Not for a long time, anyway.’

  ‘Let me rephrase that. Do you still feel attracted to her? More or less than you did with the old Angela?’

  ‘The old Angela was beautiful. The new Angela looks the same.’

  ‘You still find her attractive?’

  He nodded.

  ‘That’s a good sign. How are you feeling?’

  He told the truth. ‘I’m sad. I miss her. I’m scared she won’t come back. That this is it. And that I wasn’t a good husband to her before the accident. That if she has any memories of me, they’re —’ He stopped, his voice faltering. After a moment, he continued. ‘That they’re not good ones. That it’s over between us. That when she comes back she won’t love me any more.’

  Jim waited quietly until Nick had stopped talking. ‘Do you still love her?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Then hold on to that. Go away, have some time to yourself, away from Angela, away from your family. And in the meantime —’

  ‘Please don’t say be patient. Or positive.’

  Jim smiled. ‘I was actually going to say bon voyage.’

  At seven a.m. the next day, Genevieve and Nick were in Hawker, waiting for the bus to Adelaide. They knew some of the people who were also waiting. They’d had brief conversations, but they were practised now at not saying much about Angela without appearing rude. Yes, she was coming along well. Yes, they were very lucky, it could have been so much more serious. Yes, it was great that Nick’s trip was still going ahead.

  ‘You’re sure you’ve got everything?’ Genevieve asked him once they were on their own again.

  ‘Passport, ticket, euros. Yes, thanks.’

  ‘And Carol’s definitely meeting you at Dublin airport? I haven’t heard you talking to her lately.’

  ‘She’s been away. But everything’s organised.’

  ‘You won’t have an affair with her, will you, Dad?’

  ‘For the last time, Genevieve, I am not and will not be having an affair with —’

  Genevieve put her arm through his. ‘I’m teasing. I promise. You know it’s my job in the family to annoy you.’

  He smiled. ‘You’re very good at your job.’

  The bus pulled up. The other passengers moved forward. The driver got out and started to load the lugggage.

  ‘I’m proud of you, you know,’ Genevieve said suddenly.

  ‘Another joke?’

  ‘I’m serious, Dad. I’m really proud. I know things are hard for everyone at the moment, but I think it’s a big deal that you’re doing this trip. I love that you’re still doing it. And I love you, by the way. Even if I cleverly hide it sometimes.’

  He hugged her. A proper hug. ‘I love you too. Even when you’re doing your best to drive me mad.’

  ‘Me? Surely not. Send us postcards, won’t you?’ she said.

  ‘I’ll be back home before you get them.’

  ‘Send one anyway. And remember, Ig wants a book about Irish birds.’

  ‘What should I bring you?’

  ‘A leprechaun doll. And some rosary beads. I’m joking. I don’t need anything. Just come back safely. And take care over there.’

  ‘And you take care of everyone here.’ He hugged her again. ‘Especially your mum.’

  ‘I will, I promise.’ Genevieve waited there, waving, until the bus went out of sight.

  Back on Errigal, Angela was in her room. She was holding a digital camera, practising how to use it. Ig had brought it in to her that morning. It belonged to his mum, he said. She hadn’t used it in ages. Maybe Angela would like to give it a go?

  She’d sat out on the verandah with it for a while, taking some shots, but the older lady, Celia, had come and sat beside her and started asking her dozens of questions. How old was she? Where had she grown up? What was her husband’s name? What was her job? Before long, one of the girls had come out and interrupted. They often seemed to do that. Angela didn’t mind. She’d caught Celia looking at her in an odd way once or twice. It made her feel uncomfortable.

  The camera was easy to use. Out on the verandah, she practised some more. She could look at her photos immediately too. No waiting for them to be
developed. She could take hundreds to show Will and Lexie when they arrived.

  They’d be here soon. She’d have to ask Genevieve or perhaps Victoria to drive her to the airport to get them. Genevieve had taken Nick to the airport today. Or to somewhere to catch a bus to the airport. She hadn’t heard all the details. She’d been outside as they were leaving, leaning against the fence, looking out over the paddocks, marvelling again at how often the colours changed out here. He had come up to her and said goodbye.

  He had looked at her and for a moment, she’d had the strangest urge to put her arms around him. To hold him tight. She’d almost been able to imagine the feel of his body . . .

  It was so odd. Perhaps it was just as well he’d gone to Ireland. And Will really had better get here soon.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Thirty-six hours of travel. Nick had counted them down. The bus from Hawker. Flights from Adelaide to Melbourne. Melbourne to Dubai. Dubai to Dublin. Hours waiting in what felt like overheated, overlit, overcrowded shopping centres rather than airports. More hours sitting in a cramped seat, too close to a complete stranger, with nothing to do but eat or watch movies on a screen the size of an envelope. More than once he’d felt the panic rising. He was trapped in this metal tube up in the sky, thousands of kilometres from his wife, his family, from Errigal. He had to get out of there. He couldn’t get out of there.

  But now here he was. In Ireland. In Dublin.

  It was six o’clock in the morning. He was in the immigration queue behind dozens of others, his passport ready. Outside, Carol would be waiting for him. She’d be holding up a sign with his name on it, she’d told him. They were going to get moving straightaway, driving across to Mayo that day. The itinerary was tight, with so much to see and do in eight days. But she was confident they’d manage it.

  He moved forward a place. Then another. Finally, he was called forward. He handed over his passport, waiting for the warm Irish welcome, the witty comment. Nothing. It was stamped and handed back to him, the next person beckoned forward.

  He’d just stepped out into the baggage hall when he heard a buzzing noise. The buzzing turned into a tune. ‘Danny Boy’. Genevieve or Ig must have changed the ringtone on his phone.

  ‘Dad, are you there yet?’ It was all four kids, on loudspeaker.

  ‘How was the plane?’ ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘What films did you watch?’ ‘What’s Carol like?’

  ‘I’m not outside yet. I’m waiting for my bag. How’s Angela?’

  He heard Genevieve shush the others. ‘She’s fine. No change. We’re all fine. Just checking you’re okay and that the phone is working.’

  ‘I’m fine too,’ he said. He briefly told them about the flights, the food, the films. His bag appeared. ‘I better go.’ He was about to say, ‘Give your mum my love,’ when he stopped himself.

  ‘Say hi to Carol from us,’ Genevieve called before she hung up.

  Nick had expected only a few people outside waiting with signs. There were more than thirty, many with large banners decorated in ribbons and paint, welcoming home emigrants. He saw reunions between parents and children, meetings with grandchildren. Chauffeurs in suits held up iPads bearing names, instead of handwritten signs. Carol had said she’d be right there waiting too. She must have been delayed. He double-checked, re-reading the names on the signs and iPads. No, nothing for Nick Gillespie. He checked his phone. No message. She had his number. His phone was working. She was probably driving. Trying to park the car. The plane might have been early. He’d just have to wait.

  Thirty minutes later he was still waiting.

  An hour later he was still waiting.

  He’d rung the mobile number she had given him several times. No answer. It was too early for anyone to be at her office, but he rang there all the same. No answer, no voicemail either.

  Ninety minutes after the plane had landed, he was still waiting. He couldn’t get an answer on any of her numbers. He pulled out a printout of the last email he’d sent her. She had the right arrival time, the right date. They had last spoken just before she went on holiday. She had been bright and cheerful as ever, all organised and ready to go, she’d assured him. He’d sent through the latest payment, and the additional fee to cover their travel expenses. The final fee would be paid at the end of this week.

  So where was she?

  There was no point sitting in the airport any longer. He was starting to feel light-headed from lack of sleep. Even if there had been a hire car outside waiting for him, he knew he was in no condition to drive across the country to Mayo on his own.

  He saw the tourist information desk. Fifteen minutes later, he was on his way to the taxi rank, with the name and address of a city-centre hotel.

  It was freezing outside. The sky was grey. There was steady rain. The taxi driver smelt of cigarette smoke. He grunted when Nick gave the name of the hotel: the Gresham in O’Connell Street. As they drove, Nick waited for the witty chat, the stories. There was nothing. The driver turned up the radio. It was a pop station. The DJ sounded more American than Irish.

  Nick hadn’t expected green fields, whitewashed cottages and stone walls here in Dublin. But in the early-morning winter light, the suburbs in from the airport seemed grey and bleak. They got stuck in a traffic jam, in the middle of the morning rush hour. He looked out at rows of shops, at pubs, all with the Irish names he’d expected. Kavanagh. Fagan. Kennedy.

  The hotel looked expensive, five storeys high with a granite façade and flags flying out front. But what choice did he have? He hadn’t researched hotels in Dublin. He’d only expected to have one day here, when he’d finished touring other parts of the country. He paid the taxi with an unfamiliar bank note and carried his luggage in. He booked one of the cheapest rooms, trying to do the calculation from euro to Australian dollars. His room was in the back of the hotel, overlooking a car park. The rain was still pouring down. He had to turn on the bedroom light. If he hadn’t seen the clock downstairs telling him it was ten a.m., he would have thought it was still before dawn.

  If only Angela were here. He’d had the same thought on the plane. At each airport. At each step of the journey.

  He meant to lie down and close his eyes for just a few minutes. He woke with a start three hours later. His phone had beeped. A text message. It must be from Carol, at last.

  It was from his network provider, welcoming him to Ireland.

  He took out his itinerary again. He rang the numbers he had for Carol again. No answer.

  He had the address of her office. He’d go there. Maybe there was a problem with her phone. He got directions from the hotel receptionist. It was close by, she said. Right on the river.

  He found the building, three storeys, red brick. It was dilapidated-looking. Three steps led up to the front door, a row of buttons on the side. He looked for her company name. It wasn’t there. He pressed the top button. No answer. The next button. It took him five buttons to get any reply. He started to explain, talking into the intercom. The person at the other end didn’t speak, just buzzed open the door.

  The hallway was cold. The walls had peeling paint. There was a box of brochures on the ground, with a pile of letters on top. He quickly leafed through them. Nothing for Carol’s company. He checked the box. The brochures were for an Irish cabaret night in a hotel further along the river.

  He knocked on the nearest door. No answer. He went up the stairs. There were two doors. He knocked on both. One room was occupied. A man in his thirties, with a beard, heavy-rimmed glasses. No, he told Nick, he didn’t know Carol. But he was new there. It was a short-term office rental set-up. ‘You could try upstairs,’ he said.

  There were three doors upstairs. He tried all of them. The first opened as he knocked on it. An empty room, just a battered desk and a few discarded power leads on the floor. The window didn’t look over the river, but onto an alleyway. He looked down. Litter blew along the ground. The second office was being used as a storeroom. The thi
rd office was occupied. A young woman, Indian, he thought, working at a computer. No, she said, she didn’t know anyone here called Carol. She’d been in the building for eight months. Was he sure he had the name right? The right address?

  Nick showed her one of Carol’s emails. Yes, the woman confirmed, it was definitely this address. But this was just a short-term rental place, she said, as the man downstairs had said. Tenants came and went all the time.

  There were no more rooms to try. If Carol had ever been here, she wasn’t any longer.

  He stopped for a coffee and a sandwich on O’Connell Street. He had an urge to call home, to talk to – who? The only person he wanted to talk to about this was Angela. The one person he couldn’t talk to about this was Angela.

  On the way back to his hotel, he passed an internet cafe. Five minutes later, he was at a terminal. He keyed in the website address of Carol’s company. It wouldn’t load. He retyped it. Still nothing. How long was it since he’d gone to this site? Months, he realised. He and Carol had always communicated by Skype or email. He’d had no need to visit her website again after the first time.

  He rang her number again. No answer. About to log out, he sent a quick email home and then went outside into the cold and the rain.

  There was no denying it. He knew what had happened. He’d fallen for an internet scam. He had been targeted by someone with an Irish accent, wit and charm, who had strung him along, step by step, euro by euro. Until the last minute. The last week, more accurately. The last time he’d sent her money.

  But he still wanted to convince himself he was wrong. He had her bank account details. He’d track her down through that. If it was a Dublin-based bank account, he just needed to go to the head office, explain what had happened. Surely they’d be duty-bound to give him some information?

  He checked the email. It wasn’t a Dublin bank account. It was a UK one. On Jersey, the island. An offshore tax haven.

  He went to the police instead.

  Two hours later, he was on his way back to his hotel. He’d met a sympathetic policeman in the city-centre station. Not a policeman: a guard, he’d learned they were called here. A young man, in his late twenties. He listened as Nick explained the situation. He rang the numbers on the email from Carol. He googled the website.