Hello from the Gillespies

by Monica McInerney

  She wondered whether Angela realised that the only time she had ever mentioned Celia was this year? In the letter that had caused all the trouble, the one that Nick had accidentally sent out. In more than thirty years of writing about her family. Year after year, Celia had looked for even a passing mention of herself. It was never there. The written – the unwritten – proof of how little regard Angela had for her.

  It only took her a few minutes to write a note, attach it to the folder and make her way to Angela’s bedroom. She placed it on the bedside table. There’d be no missing it. If reading these letters didn’t spark Angela’s memory, then nothing would.

  She was back in front of the computer when Ig returned, holding a handful of dirty pieces of wool.

  ‘This was all I could find,’ he said.

  She took them. ‘Perfect, thank you.’

  ‘You didn’t even look at them.’

  ‘I have seen wool before, Ignatius.’ She pretended to log off from her already logged-off email account. ‘Ready for our walk?’

  Ig now wished his sisters hadn’t gone away. When Genevieve had asked him if he minded being left in charge for a few hours until Joan arrived, he’d been pretty happy. He and Angela had already talked about taking another walk. He’d thought Celia would stay behind, like she usually did. But then she invited herself. And when she’d sent him off to get wool, he’d had a feeling it was only because she wanted to do something in the office. Now she was bossing him around about where they should go for their walk, when he and Angela already knew where they wanted to go. The weather looked bad, Celia said. A summer storm was forecast. They needed to stay close to the station. No, they didn’t, in Ig’s opinion. He liked rain. Especially because he didn’t see it much. Also, storms were really good in summer, after it was hot, when they came with thunder and lightning, and sometimes there were even floods.

  He also wanted to get started on The Plan. His and Angela’s plan. They hadn’t told the others yet, but it was coming together. He had given Genevieve a shopping list today for the things he needed. He hoped she could read his writing okay.

  He was packing all the picnic stuff in his schoolbag when the phone rang. Angela never answered it. Celia was in her room. He’d have to get it. It was Joan.

  ‘Ig, I’m so sorry, I can’t get over today, I’ve come down with a stomach bug. You wouldn’t want me around, let me tell you. Can you all manage there without me?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Get better soon.’ He hung up.

  It rang again. It was Joan, laughing. ‘Nothing like getting straight to the point, Ig. You’re sure everything is okay there?’

  ‘Great,’ he said. He wanted to get going, not stand around all day talking.

  ‘Okay, then. I do like a man of few words. Say hi to everyone. I’ll be there tomorrow, I hope.’

  ‘See you,’ he said.

  He really was in charge now. He wished he could call down the hall, ‘Hurry up!’ to Celia, like Genevieve did to him sometimes. He looked out on to the verandah. Angela was waiting, sitting in the chair. They could always just sneak off, he supposed.

  Celia appeared. ‘I was right. These shoes are better for walking. I’m ready now.’

  The three of them walked around the property looking for birds, but it just wasn’t the same with Celia there. Usually he was the one who pointed out the birds to Angela, the corellas and the galahs and even a kookaburra now and then. He had also been waiting to show her a wedge-tailed eagle. They’d looked for one every day and hadn’t had any luck. Today, finally, he saw one. Just as he was about to point it out, Celia got there first. ‘Look, Angela! An eagle!’ she’d said. They all stopped, staring up at it. Celia went on and on about it, how they often came in pairs, how incredible their eyesight was, how high they flew. All the things Ig had wanted to tell Angela. He was really cross she was there now. She’d ruined everything. He wanted to go back to the homestead.

  ‘I feel sick,’ he said.

  Angela stopped. ‘Do you? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Joan rang before. She’s got a stomach bug. I might have it too. I need to go home.’

  ‘But we’ve just come out,’ Celia said.

  Angela put her hand on his forehead. Just like she used to when she was his mum. ‘You are a bit hot, Ig,’ she said.

  ‘I want to go home,’ he said again.

  Celia sighed.

  ‘Come on then, Ig,’ Angela said. ‘The weather’s changing anyway. It might be for the best.’

  Back home, Celia took up her usual position in the living room. Ig knew that if his sisters were here, they would offer to make her a cup of tea. He supposed he’d better do it. He was happy when she said no. He thought Angela might go into her room for a lie-down. She often did after their walk, but then this had only been a short one. She didn’t. She was outside again with her camera. Taking photos of the sky. It was filling up with big black clouds now. There was definitely going to be a storm.

  He joined her, not saying anything, just following her around.

  ‘I never get tired of this,’ she said to him. ‘All that space and sky. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’

  He nodded. He remembered going up to one of the lookout points on the station with his dad once, just before a storm. That had been pretty amazing, up high enough to see the clouds actually coming across the Chace Range at them. They had just got home in time before all the thunder started, then the lightning, then the rain for nearly an hour, solid. The creeks on the station had flooded that day. They’d lost their power for a few hours too. Ig had loved every minute of it.

  Celia called out from the back door. ‘I’m going to watch a film. Angela, would you like to watch it with me? Ignatius?’

  ‘No,’ Ig said.

  ‘No, thank you, Celia,’ Angela corrected him.

  ‘No, thank you, Celia,’ he said. His mum always liked to correct his manners like that too.

  He had the idea after Celia went back inside and shut the door. He and Angela could go to the lookout now. She would like it there. She could take even better photos of the storm too. He didn’t want to go in and tell Celia what they were doing, but he knew he wasn’t allowed to go anywhere without letting someone know where he was.

  He went inside. The living room door was shut, but he could still hear the TV blaring.

  Gone to the lookout with Angela, he wrote on a scrap of paper. He left it in the middle of the kitchen table, picked up the car keys from the hook by the door and went out to Angela again.

  ‘I’ve got a great surprise,’ he said. ‘Come with me.’

  She followed him to the shed. He pointed at the car and handed her the keys. ‘Here, you drive.’

  She laughed. ‘Where to?’

  ‘The lookout,’ Ig said. ‘It isn’t far. There’s never any other cars.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Ig.’

  ‘Okay. I will.’

  She laughed again. ‘Ig, you’re ten years old.’

  ‘Nearly eleven. And I’ve been driving since I was nine. It’s only five minutes away. I’m a good driver.’

  She looked at him for a moment and then she smiled. ‘Oh, why not,’ she said. ‘Come on, then.’

  They got in. He pulled the driver’s seat in as close to the wheel as he could. He had to stretch to reach the pedals and it took him two attempts to start the engine, but he did it. Moments later, they were on the dirt road.

  That part was easy. Driving up the narrow track to the top of the lookout wasn’t quite so easy but he managed it.

  He was right. Angela loved it up there. She kept taking photos; not of birds, though. They had all disappeared, hiding from the storm, Ig figured. She was taking photos of the sky again, the huge clouds that were now heading towards them, getting closer and closer.

  They were still up there, on the other side of the lookout from their car, when the storm hit. It was very sudden. There was sunlight one minute and then it went dark, and there was a crash of thunder and it started t
o rain. They both made a run for the car. Even so, they got soaked. This time Angela got in the driver’s seat.

  ‘I don’t think we should drive in that, Ig. Let’s just wait til it passes. What do you think?’

  He nodded.

  The rain battered down on the roof of the car. It sounded like the thunder was just outside. There was a flash of lightning. It looked like it was very close. What if the lightning did hit the car? It would explode and they would be burnt alive. He couldn’t help himself. He started to cry.

  Angela turned to him straightaway. ‘Oh, Ig, don’t worry. It’s just a storm. We’ll be fine.’

  There was another huge crash of thunder. A flash of light. So close.

  ‘Mum!’ he cried out, burrowing across the seat to her.

  She pulled back from him. ‘Did you just call me Mum?’

  He stared at her. ‘I didn’t mean to,’ he said.

  There was more thunder. The rain sounded like stones on the car roof now. The sky kept filling with flashes of light. He’d never been so scared. He was going to be in big trouble too when Genevieve found out he’d taken the car. And that he’d called Angela Mum. He started to cry again. She pulled him closer.

  ‘It’s okay, Ig. We’ll be fine. The tyres are rubber. They’ll keep us safe.’

  He didn’t say anything. He just held on tightly to her.

  An hour later, they were parking the muddy car back in the shed. The worst of the storm had passed. Ig was happy again now. Angela had driven back. The roads had started to get slippery; they had even skidded a little bit a couple of times, but she had held the car steady.

  ‘You’d think I’d been doing this for years, wouldn’t you?’ she’d said to him.

  She had. Ig didn’t say anything. He’d also decided not to tell the others about any of this. Especially the calling-her-Mum bit.

  Celia hadn’t even noticed they were gone, Ig realised, as they came inside. She had the volume on the TV turned up so high they could hear it even over the sound of the rain on the tin roof.

  ‘Okay, kiddo,’ Angela said. ‘Have a shower and get into some dry clothes.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said.

  He smiled to himself as he went into the bathroom. He’d always liked it when she called him kiddo.

  Genevieve, Victoria and Lindy weren’t home until after dark. They were full of talk about the storm. They’d had to wait at two of the creek crossings for the levels to go down enough for them to pass through. What Genevieve called ‘idiot tourists’ had kept driving across in their hired four-wheel drives, filming themselves whooping and shouting as the water reached past their tyres.

  ‘That’d be great on YouTube, wouldn’t it?’ she said. ‘“Here’s what we looked like just before we drowned.”’

  ‘Any news here?’ Victoria asked Ig. ‘What did you get up to while we were gone?’

  ‘Not much,’ Ig said.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  If Nick had ever imagined a London architect’s office – not that he’d ever had cause to before today – it wouldn’t have looked like this. He’d expected a glossy, sleek building, floor-to-ceiling windows, minimal furniture. Intimidating staff. Classical music. He double-checked the address. Upper Street, Islington. It was the right place. The right name on the door too. WSA. Will Somers Architects.

  It was on the first floor, above a drycleaners in the middle of a row of clothing and gift shops. The taxi driver from Paddington Station had told him Islington was a pretty exclusive kind of suburb these days. There was also a Tube strike on, apparently, which was why the roads were so crowded. Sitting in the back of the taxi, Nick could hardly believe he was here, in London. In a black cab. That he’d just travelled from Cork to Heathrow. From the airport to Paddington. He’d gone straight to the Islington Hilton, where his room had been ready. It was incredible, he thought again. His daughter able to organise all these travel arrangements from a sheep station in outback South Australia.

  Genevieve had emailed him the night before, after they’d spoken the second time. When he’d told her what he’d decided to do, she insisted on taking care of all his bookings. Her email was businesslike.

  All organised, Dad. Your flight details attached. Get the Heathrow Express (ticket also attached), then a taxi from Paddington Station to Islington. You’re booked into the Islington Hilton. It’s on the same street as Will’s office. I rang and made you an appointment with Will. I didn’t go into detail about who you are, I just gave him your name. I’ve been thinking about other things Mum has said to us. Ig says she’s talked a lot to him about her old house. Can you go there too, to Forest Hill? There’s also a museum nearby called the Horniman. Ig said she talked about that to him too. There’s an old walrus there apparently. Loads of birds. They matter to her in some way. I’ll email you directions. Could you please get lots of photos of it all, and of yourself there too? So we can show them to her when you get back? We all think this is a great idea of yours to go there. Love from everyone. G xxxx

  His appointment with Will was for one p.m. Still an hour away. He walked the length of Upper Street and back. Past restaurants, clothes shops, cafes, gift shops, an Irish pub.

  In the taxi on the way to Islington, he’d seen places he recognised from films, books. Baker Street, a statue of Sherlock Holmes out front. Once again, he thought how different this trip would have been if Angela had been beside him. This was her home city and he was here without her.

  After his walk, there was just time to go back to the hotel and change into a fresh shirt. He didn’t need to re-read Angela’s letter. He already knew what he wanted to ask Will.

  He pressed the buzzer beside the door right on one p.m. He thought of the Will she had written about, so successful, so sought-after. The Will who lived in the big London house, who —

  A man’s voice sounded from the intercom. Nick had expected a secretary or receptionist. He gave his name.

  ‘Come on up,’ the voice answered.

  The stairs were narrow. The walls needed painting. Nick could smell food cooking, something with spices – from a nearby restaurant kitchen, he guessed. One flight of stairs, and then another door with the same WSA logo painted on it. He pushed it open.

  There was paper everywhere. Cardboard tubes, with architectural drawings sticking out, leaning against walls. Two desks close together, one covered in folders and more paper. The other with an old computer on it. Behind that a man in his mid-fifties, standing up, talking on the phone. He looked over, held up a finger to say he’d be with him soon.

  Nick took a seat.

  He imagined Genevieve firing questions at him. ‘But what did he look like, Dad?’

  He was shorter than Nick. Five ten maybe. He was wearing a suit, the jacket unbuttoned. It was hard to tell what colour hair he’d had, because there wasn’t much left of it. Brown? Dark brown?

  Genevieve’s questions kept coming. ‘But was he handsome? Thin? Fat? Come on, Dad!’

  Handsome? No. He looked kind of – what was the word? Puffy. Red-faced. But also pale. Blotchy. That was it. He was blotchy. Like a man who spent too much time indoors. Or a man who drank too much.

  Was that what Nick looked like these days? No. He’d been the same weight for years. He was still fit. Tanned too. And he still had his own hair.

  Was he actually comparing himself to this man? Yes, he was.

  Will seemed to be having an argument with his caller. Something about an attic extension, the staircase being faulty. He kept switching between being soothing and being defensive. ‘I’ll be over tomorrow. Yes, I know I recommended those builders. I’ve never had any complaints about them before. Two p.m. Right. Bye.’ He put down the phone and rolled his eyes. ‘Sorry about that.’ He held out his hand. Nick took it.

  ‘Nick Gillespie,’ Nick said.

  ‘Will Somers. How can I help you, Mr Gillespie?’

  It was half past eleven on Errigal. Everyone was in bed. Angela was awake, reading a magazine. It was still raining ou
tside, but it was a soft, steady fall now, not the tumultuous downpour of before.

  She heard a sound at the door. A tiny knock. ‘Come in,’ she said.

  It was Ig.

  ‘I can’t sleep,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, Ig, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘But it’s very late. You should try.’

  ‘Will you come and tuck me in?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She followed him down the hall to his room. It was the first time she’d been in here since she’d come to stay on Errigal. He clambered back into his bed. She tucked the covers in tightly around him. ‘There you go. Snug as a bug.’

  He smiled at her, and shut his eyes.

  Back in her room again, she took a seat on the side of her bed. Why had that felt so familiar? Why did this seem to keep happening to her? Doing something and feeling like she’d done it before. Not just tucking Ig in, but also the line about being snug as a bug. Other moments. In the woolshed earlier, when she was taking photographs, she’d had a flash of memory of a party. But there hadn’t been a party since she was here. Had they told her about one? Perhaps that was it. She was hearing so many stories from the family all the time, they were getting mixed up in her own mind.

  It would be different when Will and Lexie were here. They’d be off doing trips on their own. She wouldn’t be spending so much time with the Gillespies.

  Angela took off her slippers again and got into bed. As she reached for her book, she saw something on the bedside table. She hadn’t noticed it before. It was a thick folder with lots of paper inside it. A note was attached to the front. I think you will find this most illuminating.

  The note was unsigned. She opened the folder. It looked like a letter. Lots of letters.

  She put on her glasses and started to read.

  Nick had tried three times to explain to Will who he was and why he was there. Each time they were interrupted by the phone ringing. Will apologised. ‘My secretary’s only part-time. Day off today, as you can see.’

  ‘Could you take the phone off the hook?’