My Sister’s Secret

by Tracy Buchanan

  Or like Aunt Hope?

  ‘You have to come in June when the snow melts if you want to dive,’ a deep Austrian voice says from behind me.

  I turn, surprised to see the very receptionist I was just thinking about standing with one foot propped up on a rock, a fishing rod slung over his shoulder. He’s wearing a striped blue jumper over jeans that are tucked into big brown boots. At the hotel he looked like a bewildered young man. Here, he looks like a rugged outdoorsy type, as Aunt Hope would say.

  ‘Bugger,’ I say. ‘I can’t believe what an idiot I’ve been.’

  The man smiles slightly.

  ‘You work at the hotel, don’t you?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes. And you are in room 313,’ he says. I raise an eyebrow and he blushes. ‘I have a very good memory.’

  ‘Not happened to see an etching on any of these trees, have you?’ I ask. ‘I’m guessing they’d be underwater in June?’

  The man frowns. ‘Etching? What is that?’

  ‘A carving made with a knife,’ I say, making the carving motion with my hand.

  He smiles. ‘Ah, yes. So-and-so loves so-and-so.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘There is a carving on one tree still in the lake up there,’ he says, pointing into the distance.

  I look in the direction he’s pointing. There’s just more lake and more trees. ‘What does it say?’

  ‘There are just two letters. N and C.’

  ‘Can you show me where it is?’

  He shrugs. ‘Sure. But you’ll have to get on my boat. The lake’s not deep but it’s easier that way. I’m Luki by the way.’

  I look him up and down. Does he look like the type to kidnap a tourist stupid enough to try to dive a shallow lake? Maybe. But I reckon I could overpower him.

  Ten minutes later, I’m sitting in a small wooden boat in shallow water with Luki the receptionist. It really is very beautiful here. Trees surround us, the autumn sun glints off the lake’s surface. Birds chirp in the branches above, the occasional splash in the distance suggesting some animal or another has jumped into what remains of the lake.

  ‘Sail ahoy!’ Luki says, grabbing an oar and scooping it into the water. Nope, he’s definitely not a mass murderer.

  The boat sets off, surprisingly smoothly.

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to be hiding behind that reception desk?’ I ask him.

  ‘I only work weekend night shifts. Are you from London?’

  I laugh. ‘Not everyone who lives in England comes from London. I live in a place called Busby-on-Sea.’ I’m surprised when I say that. I usually say I’m of no fixed abode when people ask. ‘What about you? Do you come from around here?’

  ‘Yes, just ten minutes’ walk from here. I come fishing every day for my people.’

  ‘Your people?’

  ‘Yes. My brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers.’

  ‘How can you have more than one mother and father?’

  He smiles down at me. ‘Why just one mother, one father? Where are the rules that tell us that?’

  ‘Erm, biological fact?’

  He smiles. ‘Just because it’s fact, does not make it right.’

  ‘Okay then,’ I say, humouring him.

  We sit in silence for a while and I take the chance to admire the park, the changing leaves on the trees, the hints of grass and smooth brown rocks blanketing the lake’s edges. A bench appears in the distance. On it is an old white-haired man with a walking stick, a contented smile on his face as he looks out at the green lake.

  ‘That’s underwater in the summer,’ Luki says, pointing to the bench.

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen the photos,’ I say. ‘There’s a wooden bridge that gets submerged too, right?’

  He nods. We go a little further before he slows the boat down.

  ‘There it is,’ he says, pointing to a tree shivering in the lake, branches naked and exposed. As we approach it, I realise the water is just a few feet above the base of the tree. I could just as easily have walked around the edges of the lake then waded in. Maybe Luki is a mass murderer after all.

  ‘So why do you want to see the etching?’ Luki asks as he pulls a rope up, leaning his long body across the gap between the boat and tree to tie it around the trunk.

  ‘Oh, just saw it in a photograph,’ I say, not wanting to get into it all.

  He looks at me sideways, frowning, then pulls the boat closer, the etching coming into view. Moss has grown over it, and it’s barely visible – faded by time. But anyone searching for it, like me, can see it’s there.

  So it seems Niall did this etching in every place he photographed…each submerged forest on my dead aunt’s map. Why? Did he know Aunt Faith too? Did he visit the lake with Mum? Why did she never tell me?

  I don’t like that thought.

  I guess I’ll find out tomorrow.

  I stand at the entrance to the temporary exhibition that’s been set up in a room to the side of the hotel’s reception. I can see glimpses of the submerged trees featured in Niall’s photographs, strangely at odds with the wooden panelled walls of the hotel, bone-dry and stiff when the wood featured in Niall Lane’s photographs seem to ebb and flow before my eyes.

  I stay where I am a moment as people stroll in. I feel awkward in the only suit I own, navy blue, too small, scratchy, especially as people start to float in in jeans and long skirts. Oh well, I’m not here to impress, am I?

  I take a deep breath. Here goes nothing. I step inside and more photos come into view. They’re printed on massive canvasses, just six of them, two on each of the walls facing the entrance. For a moment, I forget why I’m here, I just drink them all in: the lonely majesty of the sunken trees, the misty depths of water, the way he’s somehow managed to capture the sensation of time slowing down when beneath the surface.

  Then there are the carvings, some barely discernible but all there.

  I pick up one of Niall Lane’s leaflets, which are lying on the side. The man’s talented, I’ll give him that.

  A woman of about fifty approaches, tall, blonde, graceful. The kind of woman I always think of as the polar opposite of me.

  ‘Welcome,’ she says with an Austrian accent. She surveys the photographs, a serene smile on her face. ‘Exquisite, aren’t they?’

  ‘Quite something,’ I reply, hoping I’m not going to be drawn into a discussion about art. I wouldn’t have a clue. ‘When’s Niall Lane arriving?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, he’s not coming. Were you hoping to meet him?’

  ‘I was,’ I say, trying to hide my disappointment. I didn’t really think this through, did I? Just assumed he’d be here. I bet Aunt Hope will be happy when she finds out.

  ‘He was at the Vienna exhibition but not this one. He had another assignment to go to.’ She tilts her head, examining my face. ‘Do you know Niall?’

  ‘He was a friend of my mum’s,’ I say.

  ‘Well then, I must insist on showing you around. My name is Viktoria.’

  ‘I’m Willow. So do you know Niall Lane well?’

  ‘I’ve known Niall many years, I work in tourism for the lake. We use his photos in our promotional materials. Please, come.’

  I let her take me around the exhibition, explaining where each photograph was taken. They feature six of the most beautiful submerged forests in the world – Romania, the US, Ghana, Kazakhstan and then Periyar Lake in India, and Green Lake, here in Austria. All of them are on Faith’s map…and all have my mum’s initials etched into their bark along with Niall Lane’s own.

  ‘This is my favourite, apart from his Green Lake photographs, of course,’ Viktoria says as we stop in front of one photograph. The small information card below it explains it was taken in Kazakhstan at a lake called Lake Kaindy. The photo is taken from the bottom up, three trees dripping with green leaves looming above in the misty green water. On one is a faint trace of an etching. ‘Niall sent me this on a small canvas as a gift when I married,’ she said. ‘We still have it taking pride of pl
ace in our hallway twenty-eight years later.’

  ‘This was taken twenty-eight years ago?’

  She looks down at her notes. ‘Yes, nineteen eighty-eight. I believe the Charity he named the collection after was with him when he made his carvings. She died less than ten years later. This is why the carvings are so very special to him.’

  1988. That was the year before I was born. Mum was with Dad then.

  ‘Niall will be in Kazakhstan next month actually,’ she continues.

  ‘And now?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ She smiles. ‘Niall likes to disappear every now and again. A real nomad.’

  I try to muster the enthusiasm to smile back. ‘Thanks so much for showing me around, Viktoria.’

  ‘No problem. Shall I tell him you popped by?’

  I think about it. ‘Yes. Say Charity’s daughter said hi.’ Then I leave without watching her expression, unable to help the small smile appearing on my face.

  I fiddle with the lip of my beer bottle, staring miserably at the leaflet I took from the exhibition.

  ‘Why so miserable?’ I swivel around on my bar stool to see Luki the receptionist adjusting the cuffs of his white shirt. He looks weird in his work suit now.

  ‘I think my mum loved someone other than my dad,’ I mumble.

  He shrugs. ‘People can love who they wish, however many people they wish.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘Let me guess. You don’t believe in monogamy.’

  He waves his hand about. ‘Silly society rules.’

  ‘Everything is silly society rules to you.’ I look him up and down. ‘Not so keen to break them here, are you?’

  ‘I have to earn money. If we don’t, we starve. Anyway,’ he says, taking the stool next to me, blue eyes exploring my face, ‘I saw you in the exhibition earlier.’

  I sigh. ‘Yes. My mum is the C in the carving.’

  Luki raises an eyebrow. ‘Interesting. One of my mothers knows the photographer well.’

  I turn to him. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. He stayed with her when he took the photos.’

  ‘When was that?’

  He shrugs. ‘Before I was born. Come to dinner tomorrow night. She will talk to you.’

  I frown. ‘Are you trying to kidnap me?’

  He laughs. ‘You’re very funny. Will you come?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  He gets up and eyes the two empty bottles by my hand. ‘Don’t get too drunk.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I plan to do.’

  He smiles. ‘Very funny,’ he says as he walks away.

  I peer back towards the room filled with Niall Lane’s photos. The one of Kazakhstan is in view, taunting me. Was my mum out there with Niall Lane? Aunt Hope told me once in a rare moment of openness that Mum and Dad got together a couple of years before I was born. How could she have been in Kazakhstan? Did that mean Mum had an affair with Niall Lane?

  No. My parents had the perfect relationship. My memories of them together are nothing but smiles, Dad twirling Mum around in the garden as she laughed up at him, Mum bringing Dad cups of tea as he worked in his office, softly kissing his cheek. If they were apart overnight, she’d fling herself into his arms when he returned. Were these the actions of someone who was having an affair with her ex?

  But then what do I really know about my parents? I was just seven when they died.

  I turn the leaflet over and look at the photo of Niall Lane’s face.

  My blood seems to turn to ice.

  He has blue eyes like mine. Dark hair too. He loves diving, taking risks…and he was with Mum a year before I was born.

  Could he be my father?

  ‘God, no,’ I whisper, putting my hand to my mouth. The beer I’ve been drinking churns its way up as the world seems to tilt on its axis. I quickly grab my mobile phone and call my aunt, heart clamouring against my chest. When she picks up, there’s the clatter of cutlery in the background. I imagine her in that messy old kitchen, phone pressed between her cheek and her thin shoulder as she does a terrible job of washing up.

  ‘So, did you meet Niall Lane then?’ she asks.

  ‘No. He isn’t here.’

  ‘Good.’

  I look at the photo again. Her aversion to my meeting Niall Lane makes even more sense if she thinks he might be my father. And now I think about it, maybe he purposely invited me to his exhibition in Brighton because he knows too.

  Maybe, after all these years, he wants to come clean…and Aunt Hope knows it.

  ‘Did Mum go to Kazakhstan with him the year before I was born?’ I ask.

  She’s quiet for a few moments. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Is there a chance—’ I hesitate. This is huge. I almost don’t want to know. I see my dad and his sparkling green eyes. I remember the way he used to hold me so close, call me his ‘special girl’. I want him to be my dad, not this stranger. But I must know. ‘Could Niall Lane be my father?’

  It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud and I expect Aunt Hope to laugh. But instead she stays quiet.

  ‘Aunt Hope,’ I say, aware of the tremble in my voice. ‘Please tell me.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Aunt Hope says in a resigned voice. ‘Your parents had a little falling out back then. Your mother disappeared for a week or so. That’s all I know.’

  The memory of Dad holding me begins to fade. I feel sick. ‘A “little falling out”? What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re getting hysterical. Take deep breaths. One, two…’

  ‘Oh my God! Oh my God.’ I look up at the ceiling. Is this really happening? ‘Why didn’t you say?’

  ‘I didn’t know myself, Willow. Why rake up old dirt? You loved your father.’

  ‘If he was my father.’

  I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror behind the bar, I’m sat hunched on my stool, arm wrapped around my tummy, phone to my ear.

  ‘Willow, are you there?’ my aunt asks.

  ‘I’m here.’ My head swims slightly. I can’t tell if it’s from the beer or the shock. ‘I think I need to lie down, take this all in.’

  ‘Come home,’ she says. ‘You shouldn’t be doing all this alone.’

  ‘I had no choice, did I? If you’d just told me the truth from the start…’ I let my voice trail off. What’s the point? It feels like we’ve had this argument a million times lately. ‘I’m going to bed.’

  ‘You’ll come back to the UK soon?’

  ‘Yes. Soon. I’ll call you when I know. Night.’ I hang up and lean back in my chair. Then I catch a glimpse of Luki on reception. If his ‘mother’ can shed some light on Niall Lane, then I need to go there tomorrow.

  I drag myself up from the stool, feeling the weight of my mother’s secrets on my shoulders.

  Luki lives in a huge brown and white chalet with a wooden veranda spread out around it. It looks like it needs some work; some of the wood is rotting, the walls are filthy. It’s set on a huge piece of land dotted with animal pens, goats and pigs grazing and snuffling. Neat vegetable gardens stretch across the land, overlooked by those icy mountains.

  ‘How many of you live here?’ I ask as we walk towards the house.

  ‘Just twenty-six right now.’

  I step over a creepy-looking doll, its smashed eye staring up at me. ‘So you’re a bit like a commune?’

  ‘We don’t define ourselves.’

  I smile. ‘No, I thought you wouldn’t.’

  We walk around the back of the house. A few people are strolling around in the late afternoon light, hugging each other in greeting, tending to the vegetables or animals. All of them have buzz cuts like Luki…even the women. I put my hand to my hair. A few inches shorter and I’d fit right in. They’re dressed pretty normally though, no hippy skirts or bare feet. A woman in her forties with startling green eyes spots Luki and runs towards him, pressing her lips against his. Then she skips off again.

  ‘One of my mothers,’ he explains.

  ‘Interesting way to kiss yo
ur mother.’

  He rolls his eyes. ‘See? Silly society rules. It’s just lips.’

  ‘If you say so. How many mothers have you got?’

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘And your real mother, as in the one who gave birth to you?’

  ‘Judy gave birth to me,’ Luki says.

  We step on to the veranda. In the corner is a woman breastfeeding a chubby baby, a thick fur blanket slung around them. She looks up at me and smiles. I wonder if she’s the baby’s biological mother.

  ‘Do you have lots of fathers too?’ I ask him.

  He nods. ‘Children born here don’t know who their biological fathers are.’

  I raise an eyebrow. But then, who am I to judge? Turns out I might not either. And haven’t I had more than one woman caring for me? First the mother who gave birth to me, then my aunt.

  I rub my temples. This is all giving me a headache. I hope they have beer.

  We step into the house. It looks like all the walls have been knocked down to create just one huge area with a fire pit in the middle, orange flames sparking off each other. A long table lines its centre and beyond, cushions are scattered all over a red felt floor, and there are some wooden benches too. On one of those benches sits a woman in her fifties with very pale skin and eyelashes. She’s dressed in jeans and a red turtleneck jumper…and, of course, the obligatory crew cut.

  ‘Darling Luki,’ the woman says in a British accent as she kisses Luki.

  ‘This is Willow,’ Luki says, introducing us.

  She smiles. I stay where I am for a moment, worried she might kiss me on the lips too. But instead, she gestures to the bright blue cushion. ‘Please sit, Willow,’ she says. ‘We’re happy to welcome you. I’ll make you a warm drink.’ She heads over to what looks like a cauldron and uses a ladle to pour a dark liquid into two chunky stone mugs. When she brings them over the strong scent of chocolate, cinnamon and spices make my mouth water. I take a sip and it tastes like a small slice of heaven.

  ‘My own recipe for heisse schokolade,’ she says. ‘Chocolate, cinnamon, vanilla and cayenne peppers with just a little hint of rum,’ she adds, pinching her fingers together to show a small measurement before letting her fingers move apart as Luki laughs.