by Mandy Hager
FOR THE NEXT TWO days, I seem to spend most of my time helping Mum plan Dad’s funeral. But even with our best efforts — preparing food ourselves, only one notice in the paper, choosing the cheapest coffin in town — my savings barely stretch.
I head to school and hunt down Ms Romano, desperate now to follow up her lead about next year.
‘Tara! I didn’t realise you were back.’ She’s studying me carefully, trying to read my face.
I tell her about Dad and once she’s given her condolences I get to the point. ‘About the scholarship—’
She raises a hand. ‘Stop right there! John’s contacted one of the university’s big art donors …’ She’s grinning like a loon. ‘Now he can’t guarantee it, but it looks as if he may be able to wangle you a grant to cover living costs. Then all you’ll have to do is bag Scholarship and you’re home and hosed.’
I haven’t cried since Dad died but now my eyes well up. ‘You really think it’s possible?’
Ms R wraps her arm around my shoulders. ‘I’d bet my reputation on it!’ She pats my arm. ‘Just don’t go forgetting your poor old art teacher when you’re raking in the dosh!’
On the day of Dad’s funeral I arrive at the chapel early and arrange a wreath of flowers on his coffin. There’ll be no church service; both Mum and I agree on this. Instead, the funeral director will say a few brief words and then I’ll do a reading, followed by something from Mum. We don’t expect a crowd and are surprised and pleased when some of Dad’s old mates and Mum’s colleagues turn up. And I’m gobsmacked when, at the last moment, Max rolls in.
I rush over to hug him. ‘How did you know?’
‘Johannes emailed me.’ He takes my hand and raises it to his lips. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss. A very sad time for you, my dear.’
‘I have so much to tell you,’ I say, but ‘Danny Boy’ rings out and there’s no more time to speak. I help him into the chapel, then go to sit with Mum. Brendon’s up front too, on the other side of her. It doesn’t exactly make me happy but, after a heated conversation yesterday, I finally caved. I’m trying to be pleased for her. We may be building bridges but there’s still a way to go.
After the undertaker welcomes everyone and does a poor sketch of Dad’s past life, it’s time to do my reading. I move up to the microphone and clear my throat. ‘This was Dad’s favourite poem,’ I say. ‘He taught it to Van and me when we were small. It’s a fighting poem, an angry poem, a poem loved by a man who left his family and country to give us all a better life.’ I pause and close my eyes. Draw forth the words. ‘Weary men, what reap ye …’ I recite it right through without a glitch. Am about to return to my seat when I meet Max’s eye.
I feel Mum watching too. Gulp down more air. ‘Today I’d also like to say goodbye to my big sister, Vanessa McClusky. She’ll be forever missed. May she rest in peace.’ I can’t say more. Max nods his head, as if to say well done. In the middle of all this emptiness, his approval fills me up.
I wait as Mum comes forward and grips the lectern. ‘Actually, our Tara’s right. It’s time to bid them both farewell. They’ll be forever in our hearts.’ It’s all she can manage. It’s enough.
When I’ve helped her back to her seat, I reach over and take her hand. ‘Thank you,’ I say. I catch her gaze and hold it. ‘I love you, Mum.’ She crushes my palm to her chest, too upset to speak. I can wait. If she can get the help she needs, I reckon maybe we’ll get through.
Outside after the service, Max wheels himself over to me, then reaches into his pocket. He holds out a sheet of paper. ‘I have a message from a rather lovesick boy!’ I take it from him. It’s a printout of an email with a colour photo at the message’s end.
Hey you, it says. I’m glad you got back in time. I’m really sorry I’m not there. Just wanted you to know I’m thinking of you and I’ve booked my tickets to come home as soon as I’m finished here. In the meantime here’s a promise: when I’m back, I’ll hand-deliver you the completed version of this box. I thought maybe it would be good for some of your mementos of Van.
I study the photograph more closely. It’s a half-finished box, the lid decorated in yellow and gold marquetry, each tiny petal-shaped sliver of wood building to form a sunflower. And right in the middle of its carved black head, he’s inlaid my name in glowing mother-of-pearl. I think I could well grow to love this boy.
I blink away tears to read the rest. Wait for me. The moment I touch down I’ll be banging on your door. Jx
I feel Max’s satisfied gaze upon me. ‘He’s a real credit to you,’ I say, trying like hell not to blub. Not now. First I have to survive the rest of this. ‘I hope you don’t mind sharing him.’
‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure.’ He scrabbles for my hand. Raises it to his lips and kisses my fingertips. ‘I feel truly blessed.’
MIDNIGHT FINDS ME WIDE awake, imagining myself in Johannes’ arms. To drive away the gnawing want, I tiptoe into the sun porch and squeeze fresh oils onto my palette. The sharpness of their smell excites me. It’s been far too long.
I’m going to reinterpret Vincent’s Wheatfield with Crows. This painting will be the last. I’m moving on to something new, probably Klimt. After I’ve under-painted the canvas I rough in Vincent’s three divergent paths to form a crossroads. I stand there now: can travel back to where I’ve been, sideways to nowhere in particular, or take the risk and chase his flock of crows to far-flung worlds. Except, of course, I’m not painting his crows, oh no. They’re butterflies for Van. Did you really think I’d forget you so quickly? But, though they fly my chosen route, I needn’t follow them if I don’t want to. It is enough to know they’re there, to travel with me when I feel alone.
Dear Vincent,
So here we are, about to say goodbye. Like you, I tried on black for size but colour just kept breaking through.
Your words have kept me company; your paintings brought me warmth. You’ve proved to me that any uniqueness we create lives on — so long as someone chooses to sustain it in their hearts. I’ll always love you, just as I’ll always love Van. You two are my yin and yang. My Vin and Van. You’ve saved my life. Helped me to find the path among the weeds.
As my work is, so am I. I won’t forget.
Forever yours
Miss T
Author’s Note
I ONCE LOST SOMEONE I loved very much to suicide. And have friends who’ve suffered this totally devastating loss as well. It causes a hurt in people’s lives that never fully goes away. Suicide doesn’t just destroy one life; it’s a tidal wave that sweeps up everyone in its path.
There’s nothing remotely glamorous, mysterious, logical or inevitable about killing oneself. It’s a brutal and cruel end for everyone — and the damage permeates for years and years. No one wins from it. Why cut a life short when circumstances can change from one instant to the next? We never know what’s round the corner — that’s part of the great possibility of life.
I understand the suicidal desire to escape problems; to take the pain away. I’ve been to that dark place. But I’m so incredibly grateful now that, at the last minute, I asked for help. The pain I so desperately wanted to escape from eventually eased — not overnight, but in tiny forward-moving steps. It’s possible. It’s not the easy choice. But it’s the right one.
By the time that doomed thinking was gone for good, I’d grown and changed, and life has continued to get better and better ever since. If I’d given in to suicide’s call, I never would’ve seen my children grow to wonderful adults, my name on a book cover, or the Van Gogh paintings in the Musée d’Orsay! I never would’ve married a good, kind man, or felt the joy as my son got married beneath an arch of trees down in our garden just last year.
Life is so precious, even if it doesn’t seem so at the time. And help can come in the most surprising forms: people you don’t expect; someone you might not even know.
If such thoughts are in your head, take a big deep breath and ask for help RIGHT NOW. And, if necessary, ask a
gain, until you find someone who hears and offers a helping hand. Don’t be seduced by death — those thoughts are skewed. And do the same if you have grave concerns for a family member or a friend: sound the alarm and find someone to help them right away. Even if they make you promise not to tell, it’s better that they’re angry with you for a short time than dead forever.
Your life is precious. Even if it doesn’t feel like it right now, there is always hope.
If you don’t have someone who you trust to act quickly and effectively, telephone your national emergency number, talk to your school counsellor, go to your doctor or the nearest hospital, or contact one of the many support agencies. For both New Zealand and overseas, try checking out the agencies at the front of your local telephone book or look online.
In New Zealand, for instance, you can call: Emergency services (111); Healthline (0800 611 116); Depression Helpline (0800 111 757); Suicide Prevention Helpline (0508 828 865 or 0508 TAUTOKO); Lifeline (0800 543 354); Youthline (0800 376 633 or free text 234).
Choose life. Kia kaha.
References
Quotes from the letters of Vincent Van Gogh are courtesy of:
Chapter One: Vincent Van Gogh to Theo Van Gogh, Etten, c. 21 December 1881, Van Gogh’s Letters, WebExhibits, http://www.webexhibits.org/vangogh/letter/10/164.htm?qp=art.material. Most translations into English by Van Gogh’s sister Johanna Van Gogh- Bonger. Additional translations by Robert Harrison and others. Made available under Creative Commons.
Chapter Two: Vincent Van Gogh to Theo Van Gogh, Cuesmes, July 1880, http://www.webexhibits.org/vangogh/letter/8/133.htm
Chapter Three: Vincent Van Gogh to Theo Van Gogh, Paris, January 1876, Vincent Van Gogh: The Letters, Letter 067, Van Gogh Museum/Huygens ING. Rights permitted by Van Gogh Museum Enterprises BV, Amsterdam via http://vangoghletters.org/vg/letters.html
Chapter Four: Vincent Van Gogh to Theo Van Gogh, Cuesmes, July 1880, http://www.webexhibits.org/vangogh/letter/8/133.htm
Chapter Five: Vincent Van Gogh to Theo Van Gogh, Cuesmes, June 1880, Vincent Van Gogh: The Letters, Letter 155, Van Gogh Museum/Huygens ING. Rights permitted by Van Gogh Museum Enterprises BV, Amsterdam via http://vangoghletters.org/vg/letters.html
Chapter Six: Vincent Van Gogh to Theo Van Gogh, Cuesmes, July 1880, http://www.webexhibits.org/vangogh/letter/8/133.htm
Chapter Seven: Vincent Van Gogh to Theo Van Gogh, Cuesmes, June 1880, Vincent Van Gogh: The Letters, Letter 155, Van Gogh Museum/Huygens ING. Rights permitted by Van Gogh Museum Enterprises BV, Amsterdam via http://vangoghletters.org/vg/letters.html
Chapter Eight: Vincent Van Gogh to Theo Van Gogh, Amsterdam, 30 May 1877, http://www.webexhibits.org/vangogh/letter/6/098.htm?qp=attitude.death
Chapter Nine: Vincent Van Gogh to Theo Van Gogh, Cuesmes, June 1880, Vincent Van Gogh: The Letters, Letter 155, Van Gogh Museum/Huygens ING. Rights permitted by Van Gogh Museum Enterprises BV, Amsterdam via http://vangoghletters.org/vg/letters.html
Chapter Ten: Vincent Van Gogh to Theo Van Gogh, The Hague, 11 March 1883, http://www.webexhibits.org/vangogh/letter/12/274.htm?qp=art.material
Chapter Eleven: Vincent Van Gogh to Theo Van Gogh, Saint-Rémy, 19 September 1889, http://www.webexhibits.org/vangogh/letter/20/607.htm?qp=health. gastrointestinal
Chapter Twelve: Vincent Van Gogh to Theo Van Gogh, Etten, 1881, Vincent Van Gogh: The Letters, Letter 186, Van Gogh Museum/Huygens ING. Rights permitted by Van Gogh Museum Enterprises BV, Amsterdam via http://vangoghletters.org/vg/letters/let186/letter.html; Vincent Van Gogh to Emile Bernard, Arles, c. 18 June 1888, http://www.webexhibits.org/vangogh/letter/18/B07.htm?qp=food-and-drink.diet; Vincent to Theo, Saint-Rémy, 6 July 1889, http://www.webexhibits.org/vangogh/letter/20/603.htm
Chapter Thirteen: Vincent Van Gogh to Emile Bernard, Arles, 1888, http://www.webexhibits.org/vangogh/letter/18/B11.htm?qp=business.co-op
Chapter Fourteen: Vincent Van Gogh to Anthon van Rappard, Nuenen, 1884, http://www.webexhibits.org/vangogh/letter/14/R41.htm
Chapter Fifteen: Vincent Van Gogh to Theo Van Gogh, Arles, 1888, http://www.webexhibits.org/vangogh/letter/18/523.htm?qp=business.co-op
Chapter Sixteen: Vincent Van Gogh to Theo Van Gogh, Etten, 1881, Vincent Van Gogh: The Letters, Letter 180, Van Gogh Museum/Huygens ING. Rights permitted by Van Gogh Museum Enterprises BV, Amsterdam via http://vangoghletters.org/vg/letters/let180/letter.html
Chapter Seventeen: Vincent Van Gogh to Theo Van Gogh, The Hague, 1883, http://www.webexhibits.org/vangogh/letter/12/276.htm?qp=feelings.love; Vincent to Theo, Arles, c. 17 September 1888, http://www.webexhibits.org/vangogh/letter/18/538.htm; Vincent to Theo, The Hague, 1883, http://www.webexhibits.org/vangogh/letter/12/312.htm?qp=fear.shyness
Acknowledgements
GRATEFUL THANKS TO Jenny Hellen and the team at Random House New Zealand; Jane Parkin and Tracey Lowndes for their incredibly expert editing; the Van Gogh Museum; research support from Whitireia; Peter and Dianne Beatson for their generosity in awarding me the 2012 Beatson Fellowship; Helen Los; Julia Wells; Liz Love; Ann Neville; Nicky, Debbie and Belinda Hager; and my wonderful first readers, Rose Lawson and Brian Laird. Your support means the world to me.
Copyright
The assistance of Creative New Zealand is gratefully acknowledged
by the publisher.
A RANDOM HOUSE BOOK published by Random House New Zealand
18 Poland Road, Glenfield, Auckland, New Zealand
For more information about our titles go to www.randomhouse.co.nz
A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library
of New Zealand
Random House New Zealand is part of the Random House Group
New York London Sydney Auckland Delhi Johannesburg
First published 2013
© 2013 Mandy Hager
The moral rights of the author have been asserted
ISBN 978 1 77553 327 6
eISBN 978 1 77553 328 3
This book is copyright. Except for the purposes of fair reviewing no part
of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by
any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording
or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission
in writing from the publisher.
Design: Carla Sy
Cover photograph: Getty EPL: 155372089
Gogh, Vincent van (1853-1890): The Starry Night, 1889. New York,
Museum of Modern Art (MoMA). Oil on canvas, 29x36 OE. (73,7x92,1 cm).
Acquired through the Lillie P. Bliss Bequest. Acc. n.:472.1941© 2013.
Digital image, The Museum of Modern Art, New York/Scala, Florence.
Printed in Australia by Griffin Press an Accredited ISO AS/NZS 14001:2004
Environmental Management System printer.
The paper this book is printed on is certified against the Forest Stewardship
Council® Standards. Griffin Press holds FSC chain of custody certification
SGS-COC-005088. FSC promotes environmentally responsible, socially
beneficial and economically viable management of the world’s forests.
Other books by Mandy Hager
Ash McCarthy thought he finally had it made: away from home and all its claustrophobic responsibilities, he’s revelling in the freedom of student hostel life.
But things take a devastating turn when two police officers knock on his door. Their life-changing news forces him to return home to his Down Syndrome brother Mikey, and impels him into a shady world of political intrigue, corruption, terrorism and lies … so many lies.
As if this isn’t bad enough, the whole country is imploding, as the world’s two greatest super-powers start a fight that leaves New Zealand ‘piggy-in-the-middle’ of their deadly games. While trying to protect Mikey, along with strangers Travis and Jiao, his fight to uncover the truth turns into a nightmare race to save their lives and stop the destruction of all the principles he holds dear
.
The Nature of Ash is a fast-paced thriller that also explores love and loss, assumptions and prejudices, truth and fiction, and the many faces of ‘family’.
The Nature of Ash has been shortlisted for the 2013 New Zealand Post Children’s Book Awards.
The Crossing is the first book in the stunning Blood of the Lamb young adult trilogy that follows the fate of Maryam and her unlikely companions — Joseph and Ruth. This is fast, suspenseful drama underpinned by a powerful and moving story about love and loss.
The people of Onewere, a small island in the Pacific, know that they are special — chosen to survive the deadly event that consumed the Earth. Now, from the rotting cruise ship Star of the Sea, the elite control the population — manipulating old texts to set themselves up as living ‘gods’. But what the people of Onewere don’t know is this: the leaders will stop at nothing to meet their own blood-thirsty needs …
When Maryam crosses from child to woman, she must leave everything she has ever known and make a crossing of another kind. But life inside the ship is not as she had dreamed, and she is faced with the unthinkable: obey the leaders and very likely die, or turn her back on every belief she once held dear.
‘Like 1984 for teenagers — direct, passionate and powerful’ — Margaret Mahy
Winner of the New Zealand Post Children’s Book Award for Young Adult Fiction 2010.
