The Lost Sister

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PROLOGUE

21 Heron Cove

Broadmeadow

Dublin

Ireland

Urope

The World

15 April 1985

Dear Mammy,

This is Cathy. Mrs Mulvaney said to rite you a letter. Is it stupit to rite to dead people? Mrs Mulvaney said it will stop me being sad. When I sleep anjels will come and read my letter. Is that true? Are you a anjel with wings? Is Daddy a anjel to? I hope you are in heven not hell. I saw a picture of hell. It is worse than a vulkayno. Is heven far away? Mrs Mulvaney said it is not. Mr Mulvaney flys in the window at night to see her when she is in bed. I dont know what to rite. She said rite the cat sat on the mat the cat sat on the mat and the words will come good. Nero dose not chase cats now. He is fat and old and sleeps with Becks and puts hairs all over the dubay. It is 3 months since you and Daddy are dead. Our house is sad like rain that wont go away. I like Kevins house best. We play Chuki Egg on his XZ Spectum and Mrs Mulvaney make us fish fingers and chips. Lauren is home from hospotal. The doctor cut the plaster off her legs. All her brooses are gone. She looks nice again. She dont talk to me or Becks or Julie She only talks when shes sleeping and wakes me up. The doctor gave her pills to make her smile but she just stare stare stare at the wall and dont make a face even when Becks komes the notts in her hair. Gramps says Becks is our Mummy and Daddy now. If we are bold the woman with the blak case will take us away. She come lots to our house and rites things down. 2 can play that game Becks said and she has a black book now. She rites when the woman rites and they stare stare stare at each other but not like Lauren. Lauren is just the same as a zombi in a film.

We went to the grave today. Becks gave us seeds to plant. She said stop crying stop crying you are doing my head in. I see you and Daddy all the time. Then I look again and I see red dots that’s all.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX to you and Daddy

Cathy

DEPARTURES

Chapter One

Havenswalk, New Zealand–October 2008

She will ring her sisters this morning. Now, right now, while the day is still under her control. Right now, Cathy repeats to herself, before Hannah arrives for work. Right now before her son starts demanding, ‘Have you done it yet…why not…why not?’

Once yesterday, and twice the day before, she tried to ring but lost her nerve, hung up before the line connected. Today she will tap out the digits, the correct prefix, wait for the ringtone. But what then? Should she make small talk, apologise, accuse, beg, rant or sob? Should she opt for nonchalance? Whoa there, Rebecca. How’s it going, Julie? How do you do, Lauren? Remember me? It’s Cathy, your long-lost sister calling from New Zealand…yes…I know it’s over fifteen years since we spoke but time passes…and you know how it is…what can I say…?

Half-formed sentences and muddled apologies run through her mind as she walks across the lawn towards the grapefruit trees. The grapefruit is ripe and falls easily into her hands. When the basket is full, she lingers for a moment by the shore. She loves this time of morning. The pause between stillness and motion. The mist has cleared and the rising sun is pinned bright as a brooch against the throat of the mountain.

In Ireland, the dark evenings have settled. Leaves are bronze and falling. Children in masks are knocking on doors and dogs are howling.

She remembers the dog, Nero. A squiggle in a sack before Rebecca rescued him from the sludge of a low-tide estuary. When the bangers exploded, Nero heard them seconds before everyone else. A low growling in his throat, followed by a crescendo of petrified barking. Rebecca was the only one who could calm him. Halloween killed him in the end–heart failure–and Rebecca brushed his dead black coat until it gleamed and it was time to bury him at the bottom of the garden. A year later roses were growing there, bold and defiant as a bloodstain. These stingray memories, the sudden darting pain, they undo her.

She shakes herself loose from the past and returns to the kitchen, takes bread from the oven and places the loaves on a wire tray. The smell wafts through the open window, a more potent summons to eat than bells or alarm clocks. No sign of movement from the chalets so far. In the distance she hears the roar of a motorbike. Hannah emerges from a screen of trees and veers around the bend in the avenue, body and bike moulded. She enters the kitchen and shakes her black hair loose from the helmet, sheds her leathers.

On the buffet counter in the restaurant, Cathy arranges serving dishes of muesli, apples, prunes and apricots, nuts, seeds and the fruit, freshly picked. She lays a selection of cheeses on a blue-rimmed platter, stacks yoghurts in triangles, fills jugs with fruit juice and milk, sinks them in a crunch of ice, checks the buffet as keenly as an artist preparing to exhibit: a tweak here, a tweak there. The kitchen is loud with the clang of pots, the clunk of crockery, and Hannah singing one of her Maori songs that makes Cathy feel like swaying as she prepares the terrace for those who wish to eat outside.

‘Have you phoned them yet?’ Conor joins her on the terrace. His question is petulant, more like an accusation than an enquiry. He knows the answer. With breakfast preparations underway, his mother has a ready-made excuse.

‘Later,’ Cathy says. ‘The guests will be coming in for breakfast soon. I’ll do it afterwards.’

‘Not yet, they won’t.’ He opens parasols, arranges chairs around the tables. ‘You still have time.’

‘No—’

‘Yes. Do it now. Stop making excuses. You promised last night—’

‘I know what I promised…and I will.’

‘But if you leave it until later they’ll be asleep. What’s the sense in making promises if you’ve no intention of keeping them?’

She is familiar with his lip, the bee-sting pout already in position, the yearning curiosity in his eyes. He follows her to her office, yapping at her heels. She will phone her sisters and he will rake the leaves from the glow-worm trail, a job he has avoided doing for the past two weeks. He is dressed for the task, jeans and boots, a frayed sleeveless T-shirt printed with the face of an obscure rap singer he once admired.

‘Think about it,’ he says before she enters her office. ‘You’ve got the best end of the deal. I’ve only procrastinated for a fortnight. You’ve been doing it for over fifteen years.’ He likes to remind her of the time lapse, twist the guilt screw a little tighter. He looks back once, as if to challenge her indecisiveness, then disappears into the forest.

From the window, Cathy watches the first guest emerge from the Kea chalet and head towards the swimming pool. Two women walk across the lawn and sit on the bench that encircles the rata tree. Her hand trembles as she lifts the phone. Rebecca first. Grasp the bull by the horns, the nettle by its sting, the rose by its thorn. Her breath quickens as she dials her sister’s number. There should be crackles and clicks, hums, clangs and crossed wires, so many crossed wires, but the connection is instant, a clear double ring answered almost immediately.

‘Lambert Animal Sanctuary.’

‘Rebecca…’

The pause that follows is as startling as a missed heartbeat and, in that instant of recognition, Rebecca discovers that there is nothing, no barriers or soft landings, nothing to prevent the years rushing in and submerging her.

‘Rebecca…can you hear me?’

She struggles to answer but her mouth is dry and her heart, racing with relief that the long wait is over, but also with an inexplicable panic, tightens like a fist in her chest. She is filled also with an overwhelming need to weep, but tears will come later when she is alone and able to release this torrent of emotion. For now, she must remain in control. If she frightens Cathy away, there will be no explanations, no apologies, no opportunity for her sister to defend the indefensible.

‘Please say something, Rebecca. You’ve no idea how many times I dialled your number but I always lost my courage at the last moment and…oh God! I don’t know what to say…’ Cathy has acquired a slight New Zealand accent, the vowels compressed, the words precise but pleasant to the ear. She speaks too fast, spilling out excuses and apologies, as if she believes the torrent of words will prevent Rebecca hanging up on her.

‘You’re not the only one who’s stuck for words, Cathy. I can’t believe you finally decided to contact us.’

‘I’ve wanted to…so often.’ Cathy hesitates again then rushes on. ‘But, as time went on, it became harder and harder. Try and understand—’

‘Understand what? Why you never picked up the phone? Wrote a letter? Paid us a visit?’

‘I did keep in touch—’

‘Fifteen years! All the time waiting to hear from you. How could you disappear like that? Nothing except postcards…Christmas cards that never included your address. How can you possibly call that keeping in touch? One of us could have died and you’d never have known.’

‘Mel kept me informed about everything.’

‘You kept in touch with Melanie Barnes but not your own sisters?’

‘She was my only support at the time…the only person who understood.’

‘Understood what, Cathy?’