Dear Vincent (13 page)

I read it again. And again. I’m caught between elation and abandonment. It’s all very well for him to tell me not to disappear, but what’s he up and done? I would’ve warned him I don’t have access to a computer or mobile phone, but it’s like admitting you have AIDS. Even teachers expect it now. I’ve made do with the school computers since Mum’s laptop died three years ago.

So …
He likes me!
In all that hectic rush he took the time to write! This is enough for now; there’s no point stewing that he’s gone when I’ll soon be off myself.
He likes me!
I think he really does. I lay his letter on the bedside table and snuggle down with Spinoza.

THE NEXT MORNING
,
WITHOUT
Johannes to distract me, I spring into action. Better to be busy than let loneliness creep back in. I contact Aunt Shanaye again from a payphone down the street. She says they’ll meet me at the airport if I let them know the time and day.

The travel agent books my flights so I’ll arrive a few days before Van’s anniversary. I’ll leave right after I’ve worked my two weeks’ notice — and I’m taking the full
three weeks. Why not? I doubt I’ll ever have the chance to go again.

At first I spend most of my free time on the library internet — I kid myself I’m researching Belfast, but really I’m checking for messages from Johannes. I’ve set up a Facebook page and posted all my travel details, but I don’t hear a thing. So much for liking me. Looks like he doesn’t give a damn.

I know I should be feeling excited about the trip, but as the days drag on it’s hard to care about it or anything else. I spend the hours I’m not at work — or pointlessly checking Facebook — hiding out in Max’s house. During the mornings I sprawl on the couch in my pyjamas and watch crap TV. I don’t bother to shop; live solely on potato chips and dip. At night I prowl the house, sometimes painting, sometimes holding angry conversations in my head. With Mum and Dad. With Vincent. Van. Every little snide remark or insult I’ve accumulated in my life whirs through my brain. I’m selfish, sneaky, an ungrateful bitch. Untouchable. Unlovable. I put Dad back in hospital. I’ve ruined Mum’s life. My sister didn’t think I was worth living for … What I realise, as I sit here, hour after hour, all alone — in this beautiful silent house I can’t ever aspire to — is it would be easier to die. Pain over. Job done.
I get you, Van. I hear your call.

Not even Max can pull me out — not that I get the chance to see him much. There’s an international philosophy symposium in town and most days he gets picked up and taken there; our evening catch-ups now consist of him telling me his day’s highlights while I nod and smile by rote. When he asks about me, I keep my
feelings to myself. The last thing I want is for Johannes to hear about my stupid pining second-hand. But it’s clear he’s deserted his grandfather too. Max hasn’t heard a peep from him.

The day before I’m due to leave I force myself to do some packing then go over to the hospital to say goodbye to Dad. I don’t see Mum until I’m almost at his door. I freeze. Back up. Lurk further down the corridor, just close enough to watch her without giving myself away.

She’s trimming his fingernails and talking to him under her breath. There’s a gentleness about the way she lifts each of his rigid fingers. She wields the scissors with care and when she’s done she brushes up the trimmings and drops them in the bin. After she’s massaged balm into his hands, she moves down to repeat the process on his feet. It’s so intimate it’s hard to watch, and I’m ashamed of the jealousy that’s burning inside.

One of the ward nurses stops beside me, her gaze tracking my own. ‘She’s here at least three times a day. To see him like this must break her heart.’

Mum glances up, alerted by her voice. Her body stiffens and she clenches her jaw. I press my nails into my palms, take a deep breath, and launch into the room. Maybe it’s better that she’s here. At least this way all my farewells are public and said at once.

‘I’ve come to say goodbye. I’m flying out tomorrow afternoon.’

‘So soon?’

‘Is there anything you’d like me to pass on to Royan and Shanaye?’

She shakes her head. ‘Be careful,’ she says, which surprises me, until she adds: ‘And don’t do anything to
cause us shame.’ Always the dig.

‘Will you please let me know if Dad gets any worse? I’ll come straight home.’

She shrugs. ‘The good Lord will take him whenever he sees fit. He’ll not work to your schedule just because you ask.’

Of course she can’t just say ‘yes’. Not when she can tweak my guilt. ‘Goodbye then.’ I shuffle towards her, hoping if I hug her she won’t push away. Surely she must know I’m scared, flying round the world alone to see my sister’s grave? I wrap my arms around her. Feel her tense.

She pats my back three times, then shrugs me off. ‘Do as they tell you, Tara. And don’t go out alone.’
That’s it then. The best she can do.

I think of Van’s final plea:
Please don’t stop loving me.
But I’m too sad for anger. This really is goodbye. I won’t be coming home to her. I see that now. I kiss Dad’s dry forehead, trying not to gag at his stale breath, and stand a moment longer by his bed, in case she has some last regret. She doesn’t speak or move.
Okay. That’s it.
‘Bye then.’

I walk out quickly, part of me hoping she’ll call out, but when the doors close on the lift I know it’s over. I feel strangely calm. I think I’ve always known, deep down, that it would end like this.

I head off to work and when it’s time to say my goodbyes to Max he breaks out the plum port. He’s so pleased for me that my resentment at his distraction ebbs away.

‘Bon voyage,’ he says. ‘I hope you don’t mind but I have a small something for you.’ He reaches into the
cupboard by his bed and produces a gift-wrapped box. ‘I thought it might come in handy while you’re away.’

‘You shouldn’t have—’

‘Too late, I did!’

I carefully peel off the paper. It’s a brand-new digital camera. ‘Oh, Max! I can’t accept this. You know we’re not allowed to take gifts from residents.’

He waves my words away. ‘I’m only here temporarily, and I’m giving it to you as my tenant and friend. It’s so you can bring the sights and memories back,’ he says. ‘That way you can share them with a sentimental old man.’

I fling my arms around his neck. ‘Dear Max. Thank you. You have to promise me that you’ll take care.’

He pecks me on each cheek, continental style. ‘And, you, my dear, must promise me that you will guard your heart. What you’re embarking on will be your hardest challenge yet. I know: I’ve walked a similar road. You must make sure that if you need help you ask for it.’

‘I wish you could come.’

He chuckles. ‘I’m sure there are far too many jokes about legless men in Ireland already!’ He takes my hand. ‘Our friend Spinoza — the philosopher, not the cat! — said that to understand is to be free … Whatever you learn, Tara, you must use it to release you, not to further drag you down.’

‘I promise you, release is what I’m aiming for.’

‘Just be yourself. That’s more than good enough.’ He sighs. ‘I must admit, between you and Johannes disappearing, I feel quite bereft.’

‘I can email if you’d like?’ He’s the Theo to my Vincent. I can’t quite desert him yet.

‘Excellent idea.’ He points over to the dresser. ‘Take one of my cards. It has my email address and mobile. If you need to speak to someone at any time, ring collect.’

I plant a goodbye kiss on his bristly cheek. ‘Whatever happens, I want you to know I love you, Max.’ I’ve no regrets that this pops out. It’s absolutely true.

‘Ahhh — that’s what an old man likes to hear … if only I was sixty years younger!’ He picks up my hand and kisses it. Holds it briefly to his cheek, then kisses my fingers again. A brisk goodbye kiss. ‘Now, before I make a bigger fool of myself, do me the favour, Ms McClusky, and help get this poor old cripple off to bed.’

When he’s all tucked up, I find it hard to walk away. I want to mark the moment somehow. I think about stories of women standing on the wharves, singing their loved ones off to war.

And so I stand in his doorway and sing to Max: ‘So Long, Farewell’, from the ball scene in
The Sound of Music.
We part from each other with beaming von Trapp smiles.

WHEN THE PLANE STARTS
its slow descent towards Heathrow, I’m finally thankful for my window seat. Below me a whole new world is forming: closely linked towns and villages sprinkled among a patchwork of cultivated fields. It’s like an Aboriginal painter’s Dreamtime atlas, mapping the colours of the earth, the winding waterways, the pitch and fall of the terrain. I so long to paint it, I take out Max’s camera and press it to the window, taking photos as placeholders for the paintings stirring in my head.

The flight has been gruelling: too many hours hemmed into this corner seat, apologising every time I blunder to the loo. I feel cramped, uncomfortable and stressed. There are too many strangers, and I’ve barely slept. But now that I’m finally on the same side of the world as Van, the old torpor has disappeared. I feel
as though I’m being pulled towards something I don’t know how to name.

We wend our way up a river that must be the Thames, and London opens up below us. And there — oh yes! — a castle, though I’ve no idea which one. My eyes sting. I still can’t believe I’ve travelled around the planet. I never thought I’d get the chance to see such things. Below me now the city unfolds. A city filled with millions more people than the total population back home.

Spires, bridges, high-rises and terraced blocks give way to uniform grey ugliness. The airport is the size of a small town. Great arms spill off the body of the terminal, each spawning winged suckerfish — their umbilical walkways delivering a constant stream of human beings. It’s so surreal. Dalí would be impressed.

On land, I walk long windowless corridors and shun the moving walkways. It’s heaven to move. Next my passport’s stamped and I’m spat out into a foreign country. I’ve only twenty minutes to check in for my Aer Lingus flight. But where?

When I finally stagger aboard, I’ve run the equivalent of a marathon and it’s well over twenty-four hours since I first left home. I close my eyes and listen to the Irish accents all around me. I’ve been quite calm, but now a thousand butterflies dog-fight inside my chest.

We fly across the Irish sea, the wind whipping white tops off the waves below. There’s a ferry thrusting through the swell, sea birds trailing in its wake. Ahead I spot the first ghostly grey hints of land.
I’m coming, Van!
Five years too late, but anything that brings me closer has to help. I can’t go on living with this aching void.

As we begin our descent into Belfast my tension
builds. What if I don’t recognise them, or they don’t know me? My hair’s greasy and lank, my clothes sweaty. And what the hell will I do if they don’t turn up?

After a sideways bunny-hop, the plane bumps down on Mum and Dad’s native soil. I trail the other passengers, expecting to go through immigration but, instead, I wander through the doors into a milling crowd. It’s human soup: surround sound, people swimming before my eyes. I scan the hall, hoping for a sign, then edge my way to luggage claim. I may as well have landed on Mars.

‘Jaysus! You must be our Tara!’ A small wiry woman throws her arms around me and hugs so tightly it’s impossible to breathe.

Behind her stands a younger, fatter, balder version of Dad.
Uncle Royan
. He wipes his eyes and wrestles me off Aunt Shanaye. ‘Welcome, Tara, darlin’! It’s a treat. Indeed it is.’ He kisses me, then holds me at
arm’s-length.
‘By god, it’s a shock though, lass. A real shock.’

Aunt Shanaye is overcome by tears. ‘I’m sorry. So sorry …’ She fumbles in her pocket and unearths a neatly ironed handkerchief, presses it against her face. Her shoulders heave as Uncle Royan steps over to comfort her.

‘Pull yourself together, love! Poor Tara here will think you’re a right gobdaw.’

She slaps him playfully. Sniffs back the last of her tears. ‘I’ll give you gobdaw!’ She turns to me, her face pleating into a smile. ‘You must be bushed, are you? Let’s get you home.’

She hooks her arm through mine and leads me through the crowd, while Uncle Royan totes my suitcase. We
climb into an old Volkswagon van, all three of us across the front so I’m wedged in between. They start to fire questions, wanting the latest on Dad, Mum’s job, the flight across. They speak so fast, with such thick accents, it’s hard to follow — meantime, they’re struggling just as much trying to decipher mine. All the while Shanaye clutches my hand. At times she sighs. Twice I see her fight back further tears.

We drive through fairly open countryside, the paddocks ringed by low shrub hedges, then skirt row upon row of terraced houses. It’s so different from home: the stone so grim and sober. It’s claustrophobic. The skyline of the city rises in the distance but around us now is scrubby open space. It slowly dawns on me that it’s a cemetery that goes on for miles. I may have come here to discover where Van’s buried but this is all too soon, too in-your-face.

Finally, we turn away at a big roundabout.

‘Falls Road,’ Uncle Royan says. ‘This is where we live.’

‘It’s got a lot of history,’ Shanaye chips in. ‘These days we have to fight off tourists … it’s funny what people choose to see.’

We’re in the thick of housing now and I’m struggling to imagine what it must be like to live in such a dour place.

‘We’re lucky,’ Shanaye says. ‘We live near the park. The littlins are always up there kicking round a ball.’ She points to our left. Inside a barbed-wire-topped fence lie asphalt courts in an arid sea of patchy grass.

At last the van pulls up outside the last gate in a row of four two-storey terraces.

‘Welcome!’ Uncle Royan says as we clamber out. He leads me along the footpath to where the blank side wall fronts a side street called Beechmount Ave. There’s a huge mural painted there: a columned building dwarfed by a uniformed man wielding a gun. It’s topped by an inscription —
Éirí Amach na Cásca
— and the date: 1916. A memorial plaque lists nine men’s names and sports several coats of arms.

‘In memory of the 1916 Easter Rising,’ he says, ‘when Irish rebels seized the Dublin Post Office and proclaimed a republic free from British rule.’

‘Until the British shelled the place,’ Shanaye adds. ‘Sixteen of the rebels executed, the rest chucked into jail.’

It’s too much to take in. Tiredness has left me dizzy and disorientated. They show me into the house through a shabby green door. Inside it’s only one room wide, the passageway and staircase taking up the rest. The front room’s been extended by a bay window and the furniture’s not changed in the five years since my photo of Van. We pass a bathroom to reach the kitchen-diner, which opens out to a narrow garden at the back. I collapse onto a dining chair, watching mutely as Shanaye produces home-made scones and brews a cup of tea.

Once we’re all at the table, eyeing each other, Shanaye turns to Royan. ‘You’d better meet the littlins before they come in from school. We can’t have them shocked.’

‘Do I look
that
bad?’

Shanaye snorts out an embarrassed laugh. ‘Lord love you! Not in the least!’ Her face is all sharp angles, skin stretched between the bony triangle of cheeks and chin. ‘It’s just you’re so much like our Van. We don’t want the kiddies thinking they’ve seen a ghost.’

‘And like your mammy too,’ Royan says. ‘It’s gobsmacking. When you walked through those airport doors you could’ve blown me over with a kiss. It took me back well over twenty years.’

Shanaye nods. ‘So it did.’ There seems so much baggage weighing down those words the conversation stalls.

‘Now you’ll be wanting to freshen up, I dare say,’ Shanaye says at last. ‘Then maybe have a wee lay down before the littlins get home?’

‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘That would be great.’

She shows me the bathroom, then takes me upstairs. ‘You’ll be bunking in with our wee Helen,’ she says. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

The bedroom is a noxious shade of lolly pink with purple trim. It’s small and dark, with bunk beds taking up one side. Nets full of toys hang from the ceiling, and pictures of Disney characters adorn the walls

‘Is this where Van slept too?’

‘Indeed it is. Though at that time we kept Helen in with us. She was only a snapper then, so Van had it to herself.’ She points to the top bunk, where a neatly folded towel and face cloth have been placed. ‘Will you be all right up there?’

‘It’s fine.’

When she leaves I plonk down on the lower bunk and drop my head into my hands. I don’t know what the hell I expected, but it wasn’t this. I take my toilet bag out of my case and head down for a shower. Surely
that
, at least, can’t be too different from home.

As I reach the bottom of the stairs, I freeze. Down in the kitchen, Aunt Shanaye is sobbing. I sneak forward. She’s enfolded in Uncle Royan’s arms. He pats her back,
rocking her from side to side as if she were a child.

‘Hush now, Shannie, it’ll do no good.’ His gaze drifts up and suddenly he’s netted me. His eyes are watering too.

I jerk backwards. In that short glance he beamed more love and sympathy than I’ve ever felt from Dad. I flee to the bathroom. Fortunately, Shanaye is right: hot water’s what I need. Back in the little pink room, I try to sleep. From the top bunk the ceiling’s only just a little higher than the full reach of my arm. I close my eyes and picture my universe of iridescent stars back at home. I should’ve ripped them from the ceiling the night I left. I miss their constant glow.

It’s not long before the clamour of kids’ voices floats upstairs; my unknown cousins must’ve returned from school. I’m terrified to go back down, not sure I can cope with four more faces looking at me like I’ve risen from the grave.

There’s a scratching by the door and I roll over just in time to see a little hand snake in. Now comes a
turned-up
nose, a pigtailed head.

‘Come in,’ I say. I slip down from the bunk just as a little girl edges into the room. Her eyes are startling cornflower blue. Hair auburn, just like mine. Her gorgeous nose harbours more freckles than all of Vincent’s stars. ‘Hello. You must be Helen.’

She sticks her thumb into her mouth, head dropped to one side as she examines me. ‘You talk funny.’

I smile. Considering she says this through a thumb, she’s got a cheek. ‘You talk funny too.’

‘I don’t!’ She takes two steps towards me. Removes the thumb. ‘Mammy says you made her cry.’

‘I didn’t mean to. I just reminded her of someone
who had died.’ She’s so tiny she looks far less than five.

‘Our Van.’ She says it like they talk about Van every day. ‘Did you know her too?’

I squat down and hold out my hand. She slips hers into mine. ‘She was my big sister.’

‘And now she’s dead.’ She says it so matter-of-factly, all I can do is nod. Helen points to her hanging toys. ‘You can play with them if you want. Mammy says I have to share.’

‘Thank you, Cousin Helen. That’s very kind.’

‘You’re Malcolm,’ she says.

Where did
that
come from? ‘No, I’m Tara.’

She eyes me critically. ‘I know, silly. But Daddy said that when someone says thank you we should say
You’re Malcolm
back.’

‘Ah … I think Daddy means
You’re Welcome
.’

‘Cop on! That’s what I said.’

I bite back a grin. ‘Can you take me down to meet the others?’

‘Do I have to?’ She rolls her eyes. ‘They’re
boys
.’
Five going on fifty
. When I laugh she reaches for my hand. ‘Come on. Mammy’s made scones.’

She leads me back downstairs and presents me to her brothers like I’m a bug inside a jar. ‘Here she is! She’s got my hair.’

They look me up and down. I recognise the twins, Connor and Frankie, from photographs. Helen informs me they’re ten and mean to her. Billy, she says, is eight, and he’s mostly okay.

Billy is the male version of Helen, a pixie boy with mischief in his eyes. ‘Did you bring presents?’ he asks.

Shanaye pokes him with her finger. ‘Billy! Mind your
manners! What a thing to say.’

‘I did,’ I say. ‘I brought you some New Zealand books. Hang on, I’ll go and get them from upstairs.’

I fetch the books and then hand them out. I also bring the cardboard cylinder which holds the painting I did especially for Royan and Shanaye. ‘It’s very New Zealand,’ I say, wishing now I’d brought them something else instead.

Shanaye unrolls the canvas and gasps. ‘Oh my god! She always said you’d be top class!’ She lays it on the table and they all hunker over it.

Part of me feels really ashamed. I didn’t know what kind of picture they would like, so went for safe. It’s my version of the standard tourist painting: a white sand beach, pohutukawa trees bursting with their red starburst flowers, paua tinges in the lapping sea — all framed by flowering flax bushes, a tui in their midst. Ms R would cringe. But here, at least, it seems to be a hit.

‘You never painted this?’ Uncle Royan says.

I nod. Point to the squiggle in the corner that bears my name.

‘Fair play!’ he says. ‘It’ll be just grand in the front room.’

Helen corrals us all into the lounge, and they start a raucous all-out family debate over where it will look best. I can’t take my eyes off the mantelpiece, where a row of family photos sit in cheap cardboard frames. There’s one of Van, standing between Royan and Shanaye, a baby Helen in her arms. She’s smiling — the kind of open, happy smile she usually saved for me alone. A wave of emotion nearly knocks me off my feet.

Meanwhile, consensus has been reached: the picture
will be hung above the fireplace, which houses an ugly electric heater. As Shanaye takes down the
chocolate-box
landscape print already there, Frankie runs off to source pins. Then Uncle Royan does the honours, and I must admit it brings the room to life.

At five thirty on the dot we clear off the table and sit down for a meal. ‘We’re having chicken ’cause you’re a special visitor,’ Helen whispers. ‘
And
pudding with cream!’