Dear Vincent (10 page)

‘What?’ I say. ‘I’m working.’

‘Your teacher rang.’ She says it like she thinks I’ll freak.

‘I know. I’ve sorted it.’ I make to leave.

‘Oh no you don’t.’ The steel reinforcing in her voice breaks through. ‘Outside for a moment. Now.’

Vonda’s loving this; she’s stopped her work to watch each volley like we’re slogging it out at Wimbledon. I storm through the doors to escape her glee.

As soon as we’re out in the car park, Mum’s away. ‘You know I could get the police onto you. Make them bring you home.’

‘I’m seventeen, Mum. You have no say. Besides, why bother? This way you’re free to spend time with lover boy.’

Her lips purse. ‘Leave it, will you? You have no idea—’

‘Well, I wouldn’t, would I? Nor does Dad.’

‘You leave your father out of this.’

‘
You
clearly have.’ The familiar band of pressure tightens around my chest.

‘Listen, Tara—’ she stops, her voice less strident when she goes on. ‘I didn’t come here to argue.’

‘No? That would be a first.’ I know I’m winding her up, but I don’t trust her motives any more.

‘Brendon suggested that you and he should meet.’ A tinge of pink breaks through her mask.

For a moment I’m completely stumped, panicky. By naming him she’s confirmed his status in her life. ‘Okay. Let’s make it at Dad’s bedside, shall we? That seems appropriate.’

‘For god’s sake, Tara—’ Her civility collapses, fingers
bunching into fists. ‘You think you’re so grown up, so high and mighty, arty-farty, la-de-da. I’ve worked my arse off to give you every opportunity … and have you thanked me? No. You think I don’t know you’re ashamed of me — and of your father. You and your sulky silences …’
Like she can bloody talk.

That’s it: the gloves are off now. ‘Did it not occur to you, Mummy dearest, I was grieving for my sister? You know, the one you couldn’t wait to scrap all signs of? The one who begged you to come home?’

‘You think I wanted to leave her there?’ She’s shouting now. Two seagulls eating rubbish off the asphalt are startled into flight. They reel away, their harsh squawks echoing hers. ‘I thought she’d be better off, what with your father and all.’

‘That’s bullshit, Mum. You’re such a bloody liar.’ Something presses into the small of my back and I jump about half a metre in the air. ‘Shit!’

I spring around and there is Max. ‘Tara, my dear.’ He sounds as if he’s talking me down from a ledge. My pulse starts to slow. He smiles at Mum. ‘Is this your mother?’ Propelling his wheelchair towards her, he offers his hand. ‘Of course it is. Mrs McClusky, I’d have known you anywhere. You and Tara could be twins. Max Stockhamer.’

‘
Professor
Max Stockhamer,’ I correct him.

Mum wipes her hand on her trackpants, then takes his.
Classy
. ‘Kathleen,’ she says.

‘It’s a great pleasure to meet the mother of such a beautiful and gifted young woman.’ He lowers his voice, all intimate. ‘She’s swept my grandson quite off his feet.’

My face burns. Poor Johannes would be mortified.
All I’ve been is a complete pain.

‘I’m sure.’ Mum scores a perfect ten for ironic delivery.

Max clears his throat. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt your catch-up, but I believe Tara’s needed inside.’

‘No worries. I’ll be off then.’ She takes a step towards me as if she’s going to hug me.
What a fake.

‘Bye then.’ I spin Max’s chair around. My blood pressure is almost back to normal when the doors swish shut behind us. ‘Thanks.’

He waits until we’re out of Vonda’s range, then brakes, his eyes two icicles. ‘That was hardly constructive, Tara.’

‘You see what she’s like, she’s—’

‘Like her daughter.’
What?
‘Stubborn, hurting and hot-tempered, it would seem.’

‘Must be the Irish genes,’ I say, trying to deflect the sting. I’m so ashamed.

‘Would you accompany me around the block while I indulge in a cigarette or two?’ he says. ‘I’ve already got the all-clear from Angela, so long as we’re back within an hour.’

‘Of course.’

I’m relieved to see Mum’s gone by the time I sign us out. Max immediately lights up and I wheel him in silence as he puffs away. He stops me outside a small suburban café with a tiny courtyard garden for smokers out the back.

‘Coffee?’

We settle and he lights another cigarette. Says nothing.

Eventually I crack. I really need to talk to him. ‘So, what was it that finally persuaded you to go back to Vienna after all those years?’

He sips his cappuccino, then places the cup back onto the saucer with slow deliberation. ‘Actually, I had a breakdown.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

He smiles. ‘I’m not.’ He inhales deeply and puffs out a smoke ring. ‘You know, in many ways you remind me of myself. I thought I could compartmentalise the issues in my past. Then I discovered that the things we stuff inside the suitcase of our soul and think we have secured with chains will one day tumble out. The chains just can’t survive the constant strain.’

‘You’re not kidding there.’ My baggage has been tied in place by Mum and Dad’s strict control. By my own wimpishness.

‘The thing is that once the chains are broken, we can never stuff these things back in. We must unpack the baggage piece by piece; shake all the wrinkles out; try everything back on for size.’

‘Let me guess: you’re going to say that when we do, we discover they no longer fit?’

‘Exactly! And then we can discard them and replace them with a much more appropriate and comfortable set of clothes.’

‘Nice metaphor,’ I say to deflect another lecture. ‘So, did returning to Vienna help?’

‘Eventually — though it was terrible at first. But the more I talked it over with my few remaining relatives and friends, the more I came to realise I’d been blaming myself for things I had no control over.’

‘Of course you didn’t. You were only a kid.’

‘That’s my point: nothing I could have said or done would have changed the course of history. I couldn’t
bring back the dead. Nor could I have saved them in the first place. It was only once I’d accepted my own frailties for what they were — wrong place and time, no more or less than that — that I started to edge back to some kind of equilibrium.’

I want to tell him I know what he’s referring to but daren’t for Johannes’ sake. ‘I had this crazy thought this morning,’ I say instead. ‘That maybe if I went to Ireland and saw where Van died it might help.’
It will, Miss T. You’ll see.

‘I dare say it would.’ He downs the last of his coffee. ‘For what it’s worth, it’s a very sensible idea, in my opinion.’

‘You really think so?’

‘Do you have the means to go?’

‘I’ve saved nearly three thousand towards uni.’ Thank god for all those double holiday shifts.

‘My advice is that you should be making this decision with your mother. While I think it’s a sound idea, you mustn’t go spending all your money. You belong at university — anything less would be a dreadful waste.’

‘But you’ve seen how badly I get on with Mum.’ I struggle to keep out the bitterness.

‘Our mutual friend Vincent would say,
What would life be if we had no courage to attempt anything?
’

I groan. ‘That’s a low blow!’

Max grins — I reckon if he still had legs he’d click his heels like von Trapp. ‘Whatever it takes, my dear. Whatever it takes.’

AFTER WORK MY BRAIN
is whirling with so many different conversations and scenarios I’m far too wired for sleep. I climb the back stairs to Johannes’ flat and tap on the door. He greets me with a smile.

‘Hey. Thanks for the card.’

‘It’s nothing. I just wanted you to know how much I appreciate all your help.’

‘I’m going to put it somewhere safe. One day it’ll make me rich!’ He sweeps the door open. ‘Come in. You’ve saved me from murdering another essay.’

I step inside, struck by how similar the two apartments are. More Persian rugs and walls of books. More gorgeous antique furniture and stunning art. ‘Wow. You’re so lucky to have grown up with all this.’

He scans the room. ‘Yeah, I guess you’re right.’ He motions for me to sit down. ‘Fancy a drink? I was just about to make a hot chocolate.’

‘Okay. Why not?’

I settle in a corner of a comfy white linen-covered couch and tuck my legs up under me. There are more subtle feminine touches than downstairs: the curtains made of something soft and filmy, so long and full they sweep the floor; wispy mohair throws in jewels and pastels draped across the chairs. A framed photo of Max, Johannes and presumably his mother sits in pride of place on the mantelpiece of an authentic art deco fire surround. A bevelled diamond of mirror glass is mounted at its centre, surrounded by a fan of wood exactly the same colour as Johannes’ hair.

He returns with two brimming cups, marshmallows bobbing on top of frothy cream. He sits down next to me and raises his. ‘Cheers.’

We tap the two together, then I take a sip. Glorious. Creamy and just the right amount of bitterness mixed with the sweet. ‘Mmm. That’s the nicest one I’ve ever had.’

‘Good, huh? It’s imported from Holland. Though it’s horribly addictive.’

I point at the photograph. ‘So that’s your mum?’ She shares her father’s eyes, that same cerulean blue. Johannes has them too, though his also have marbled feathers of lilac and grey. They’d be challenging to paint.

‘Yep. My dear mama.’ He toasts her with his cup. ‘To be honest I’m missing her — and Opa. It’s way too quiet here at night alone.’ He grins. ‘Well, was, till you arrived!’

‘What’s she like?’ A twinge of jealousy prods my chest.

‘You’d like her. She’s like Opa, only even more outspoken. A feminist and bright as hell. Actually, a lot like you, now I come to think of it. Only she’s always in control.’ His gaze scuffs over me and quickly flicks away.

Fair enough
. ‘Do you ever argue?’

He laughs, nearly spilling his drink. ‘Hell yeah! She’s a neatness freak. Even when she’s not here I hear her nagging in my head.’

‘You too? I reckon Vincent and Van must live in mine.’

It’s out before I think.
God damn
. I finally manage to have a conversation with him when I’m neither drunk nor hysterical and I confess to
that
. He’s going to think I’m bloody deranged. If he has any sense he’ll run like hell …

The thought I might lose his friendship like a kung-fu kick right in the gut.

I’M TONGUE-TIED BY THIS
new awareness of my feelings for Johannes. Blood thunders through my ears.

‘… and she threw it on the fire!’ He laughs and I fake laughing too. I have no idea what he just said. As his laughter dies away, he sculls the last of his drink. ‘She thought it was another phase. That I’d grow out of it.’ His focus now turns inwards, brooding.

Come on. Come on. He’s opening up
. ‘So, if it was entirely up to you, what would you do?’ I cross my fingers that I’ve chosen the right tack.

The smile returns to hover at the corner of his lips. Nice lips. Neither too thick nor thin. Their borders neatly etched. ‘Chuck in uni and sign up for a joinery apprenticeship.’

‘What?’ Now I’m really floundering. ‘You want to make windows and doors?’

‘Hell no! Like I said, I want to be creative — like you.’
When did he say that?
He leaps up from the couch and crosses to a bookshelf. Picks up a wooden box and lays it in my lap. ‘Things like this. And furniture. Maybe even sculptures too.’ A blush accentuates the angles of his cheekbones. Very cubist.

The box is around forty centimetres long and a wrist-span wide. It’s made from dark-grained wood, a dainty floral pattern inlaid into the top with mother-
of-pearl
. There’s a little silver handle and an inscription:
Linz 1851
. It’s beautiful. Tactile and mysterious. I open the lid. A tiny tatty black-and-white photo lies inside. A dark-haired woman, compelling and serene. She’s dressed from about the same era as the box.

‘Who is she?’

‘Opa’s grandmother. Apparently this was an anniversary gift.’

Anniversary
. That seductive little word. ‘It’s lovely.’ I pass the box back to him. ‘And must have been incredibly hard to make.’

He nods. ‘I’m trying to do something like it for Opa’s next birthday.’

‘Really? Can I see?’

He pauses for a moment before he beckons me with a toss of his head. ‘Sure. Come on, it’s in my room.’

I follow him. On the far side of his bedroom, by the window, a built-in desk spans wall to wall. One end is dominated by a laptop and a confusion of books and papers. The other is far more orderly: neatly lined tools and glues, strips of wood, small boxes filled with everything from shells to nuts and bolts. He places a wooden box onto my outstretched palm.

‘Wow, Johannes. You really made this?’ It’s
star-shaped
—
six points … of course, the Star of David
— each inlaid with one small pearly edelweiss. In the centre he has etched Max’s initials and gilded them:
MS.

‘The wood’s recycled kauri,’ he says. ‘This one’s taken me about three months. My first attempt fell to pieces and the second one just looked crap.’

‘This one’s perfect. You should be selling these in high-end galleries.’

‘Nah, it’s not about the money. Anyway, I never have enough time. Between my study and helping Mum and Opa, I’m lucky if I get half an hour a night.’ There’s no resentment in the statement. He must think I’m so selfish. Self-absorbed.
Maybe I am.
I’ve begrudged caring for Dad a long time now.

‘Did you take classes to learn this?’

He shakes his head. ‘I looked it all up on the internet. I’ve been teaching myself since I was ten.’

I take in the contents of the shelf tucked in the corner above the desk. There are other treasures here: boxes, figurines, inlaid photo frames … some clearly a little rough but others faultless and enticing. My fingers itch to pick them up. ‘If this is what you want to do, then why on earth aren’t you?’

He sinks onto the corner of his bed. ‘I don’t want to disappoint them all.’

‘How could this disappoint them? You’re bloody brilliant at it.’

‘I wish. Mum wants me to do law so I can earn a decent income, and Opa would love me to take after him.’

‘But wouldn’t they rather see you happy? They obviously value art — look at all their stuff.’

He flops back, staring up towards the ornate plastered ceiling. ‘In my family a university degree is not negotiable. Opa sees it as the ultimate revenge on Hitler. Mum was raised with the expectation of nothing less — and now that expectation’s been passed to me. How can I disappoint him when he’s already lost so much?’

‘Have you talked to him about it?’

‘These last couple of years have been really tough for him. I can’t bear the thought of disappointing him.’

I recall our conversation at the café.
You belong at university — anything less would be a dreadful waste.
Poor Johannes. I’ve only known Max a few days and, already, I’d tie myself in knots rather than disappoint him.

‘He thinks I should go to Ireland. See where Van died.’ I feel awkward looming over him. His desk chair’s stacked with books, so I’m forced to perch on the other corner of his bed.

Johannes props himself onto one elbow. ‘That sounds like him. What do you think?’

‘Max says I should speak to Mum.’ I pull a face. ‘And you think
you
have parent problems.’

‘Families, huh?’ He smoothes a wrinkle from his duvet, the square tips of his fingers a hair’s breadth from my thigh. ‘The most annoying thing about Opa is that he’s usually right. It’s a pity Mum’s not here — what you need is a referee. She does that for her clients all the time.’

‘Maybe.’

‘And you should meet her here. It’s neutral ground.’

‘Thanks. I need to think it through.’ I yawn, losing the fight to hide it, and stand up before I’m tempted to lie down beside him. ‘I’d better go.’

Johannes jumps up. ‘You don’t want another drink?’

‘No, thanks.’

I go downstairs and climb into bed, my head a whirr. Here’s me, screwed over by a starvation diet too low on love, while Johannes is suffocating from too much. Though if he went against his mum and grandfather’s wishes I bet they’d love him just the same.

I SLEEP BADLY, REST
interrupted by rambling dreams — the kind that slip away just as I wake up with my heart rapping, on edge without a reason.

By seven in the morning I’m up and showered, and my mind is set: I’ll ask Sandy to chair a meeting between Mum and me. If I want to reach Belfast before July the 12th, I’m going to have to move. Besides, it’s time I had a witness to the way Mum acts — and I’d rather not inflict it on Ms R — though I’m hoping Mum will be so awed by this house it’ll throw her off guard.

It’s not too hard to organise. Sandy’s so overjoyed at being asked to help it’s cringe-making. She offers to set things up with Mum and I accept. Within fifteen minutes she phones me back, confirming they’ll meet here at twelve o’clock. Meanwhile, I find my favourite Chopin concerto in Max’s collection and turn it up full volume. It’s sweet relief but not enough. I calm my mind by touching up my painting of the hanging tree and the portrait of Van. But when the CD finishes I’ve still got an hour left to wait. Not even painting can soothe me now. I pace the house, polishing every surface until the whole
place gleams, straightening cushions, picking strands of cat fur off the floor.

Just after twelve I hear a car pull up but Sandy appears at the back door on her own.
Bloody Mum. What’s she up to now?

‘I need to check something with you before we start,’ she says. ‘Your mother has a friend with her.’

‘Friend?’ It could be Lena from down the road, or Michelle from her work, or —
hold on
… the tension in Sandy’s face gives it away. ‘Don’t tell me she’s brought that man?’

‘Now Tara, before you make your mind up I can see—’

I don’t wait to hear her bullshit. I storm around the front to where Mum’s standing by the car with
him
. He takes a step towards me, offering his hand. I ignore it. ‘Get him out of here.’

‘What kind of a—’

‘I mean it, Mum. What I have to say to you is
personal
.’

Sandy flaps her arms to calm me down. ‘Now what if we—’

‘You listen to me, Tara McClusky, I’m here aren’t I? You dragged me out of bloody bed, so don’t go playin’ the maggot with me …’

The man, Brendon, steps between us. ‘Kathleen, please. I told you this wasn’t the best of times.’

‘If he stays, I’m out of here.’ I shout so loud I shock myself. I’m shaking uncontrollably. Can hardly stand.

‘You bealin’ little header—’

‘Kathleen. Stop!’ Brendon plants himself in front of Mum. Drops his big hammy hands down on her
shoulders. ‘This isn’t right. I’m going now. I’ll meet you back at home.’

Home? That’s cosy.

He turns and marches down the drive. In the seething silence, Sandy steps in.

‘Please. This is so unproductive. How about we all collect ourselves and go inside?’

I refuse to budge before Mum does. I’m over being the mat she uses to wipe her dirty feet on.

‘Kathleen?’ I have to hand it to Sandy, she’s managed to inject some steel into her voice.

Mum points her finger at me. ‘One more outburst, missy, and I leave.’

‘Ditto,’ I say. I walk back around the corner of the house and go inside. Sit down on the window seat in the lounge and wait to see if Mum can swallow down her pride.

She slinks in after Sandy, eyes widening as she takes in the beauty of Max’s home. One–nil to me.

‘Right,’ Sandy says once she and Mum are seated. ‘Some ground rules first. No shouting. No interrupting. No calling names.’ She addresses this last rule at Mum, who obviously has no intention of looking ashamed.

‘I agree,’ I say.

All eyes on
her
. ‘Whatever.’ If looks could kill, Sandy would be gasping her last breath.

‘Excellent.’ Sandy gives a cheesy smile. ‘Perhaps it would be helpful if I summarise the reason we’re here?’

I nod. Mum shrugs.

‘Very well … Kathleen, it seems Tara is struggling with the news her sister Vanessa suicided. She’d been under the false impression the death was caused by a
road accident and this new revelation has come as quite a shock.’

Quite?
‘A false impression put out by you,’ I add.

Mum opens her mouth to speak but Sandy halts her with a raised hand. ‘Rather than playing the blame game, Tara, let’s stick to why we’re here.’ She swivels around so she’s directly facing Mum. ‘Tara’s clearly distressed, Kathleen. Her schoolwork is suffering and she’s been self-harming …’

Shame floods my face.
Pathetic
. It sounds so mad.
It is.

‘… so after a good open discussion with her yesterday she came up with what I think is a very sound suggestion. She’d like to go to Ireland to see her sister’s grave.’

‘Eh?’ This wipes the sneer off Mum’s face. Go, Sandy!

‘I understand you have family she could stay with?’

‘Uncle Royan,’ I say. I can’t meet Mum’s eye, and my bravado withers and dies. There’s no way she’ll agree.

‘And how, exactly, do you intend to get there?’ Mum asks. As I expected, the sneer is back.

‘My savings.’ There’s no way I’m going begging to her.

‘Tara’s quite prepared to spend her savings but we doubted you would want to see that happen if there was some way you could help.’

This is so ludicrous I have a terrible urge to laugh. And yet there’s a churning, sickening need in me to see her soften. Show some love.
One-a-b … two-a-b
…
three-a-b
… Silence ticks by as Mum leaves me hanging.
Nine-a-b … ten
…

‘Forget it,’ I say. ‘I’ll do it on my own.’

‘Hold on, Tara. You need to give Kathleen more time to think. You know finances are stretched.’

Mum’s having none of that. ‘So you’d be wanting to hump off to Belfast while your daddy’s on his deathbed?’

I should’ve guessed she’d play this card. ‘He’s been like this nearly six years. I’ve been home every day—’

‘Till now, Puss Face. Whatever you did to him that night—’ She’s up and bouncing on her heels, finding her stride.

I turn to Sandy. ‘See?’ But I don’t wait for her to answer. ‘Whatever I did, Ma, I
was
there. Where were you? You say you’re out at work but who’s to say you’re not out screwing
him?
’

‘Tara, please—’

I ignore Sandy. ‘Which will kill him sooner, Mum?
Me
reminding him that you guys caused Van’s death — or
you
breaking your vows?’

‘You little scanger. I
knew
you were the cause.’

‘All I ever did was tell the truth. That’s more than you can say.’

‘Whoa!’ Sandy claps her hands like we’re new entrants. She’s scarlet. ‘That’s enough.’ No fake smiles now. ‘Kathleen, surely you can see the poor girl’s in desperate need of support? She’s in a fragile state. She needs to see your love.’

‘What about me?’ Mum says. ‘You think it’s all been fluffy ducks? I’ve been a slave to all of them — sacrificed my entire boggin’ life — and now Miss Hoity-Toit wants to go gallivanting off … Do you think money grows on trees?’ She addresses this last question to me. Draws blood with her eyes. ‘Life is shite, Tara. You’d better get used to it. We’re all on our own and the only relief is when the good Lord takes us at the end. Let your poor unfortunate sister rest in peace.’