Joseph had noticed them too. ‘It looks like they’ve all been burnt, doesn’t it?’
The trees on the hill across the road looked like that too. There must have been a big fire here in recent years. A tree-lined path led away from the carpark. They followed it, Joseph carrying Rex’s basket, ducking his head as they passed under a garden arch. In front of them was an ivy-covered stone building. It must have been a house once, Eva thought, noting the chimney and the symmetrical windows. It reminded her of the stone cottages in the west of Ireland, with its low roof and white walls.
They walked inside, blinking for a moment as their eyes adjusted to the dimness of the light. They had just glanced at the photographs and reviews on the wall when a tall, smiling woman greeted them, coming out from a small room to the back. ‘Hello there, I’m Gemma. Welcome to Lorikeet Hill.’
Eva smiled back. ‘Hello, we were wondering if we could get some lunch?’
‘Of course you can. Would you like to sit inside or outside?’
‘Outside, please.’ There was Rex to think of. And
the verandah seats looked tempting in any case, shaded by a huge walnut tree. ‘I’m sorry if this sounds a bit strange, but we’re actually travelling with a kitten. Do you mind if he sits with us? He’s in a basket.’
‘You’ve brought your kitten wine-tasting?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘I’d like to hear it,’ the woman laughed. ‘Don’t tell me, is that an Irish accent? It is? I was there for my honeymoon two years ago. Where are you from?’
That explained the Ireland mention on the sign, Eva thought. She was about to say she was from Dublin when she remembered. ‘Galway,’ she said, very conscious of Joe beside her.
‘Oh, I loved Galway. My best friend lives in the west of Ireland too, in County Clare. She runs a ‘ A bell rang, summoning the woman back to the kitchen. She smiled at Eva. ‘Sorry, excuse me, we’re short-staffed today, I need another three pairs of hands and a less chatty mouth! Make yourselves comfortable, won’t you, and my husband will be out in a moment with some menus. If I get a minute, I’d love a chat. Any excuse to reminisce!’
Twenty minutes later Joseph and Eva were each sipping a glass of flavour-packed shiraz and sharing a big platter of food, listed on the menu as the Lorikeet Hill lunch plate. It was a selection of ten or more different fresh tastes, everything from cheese and olives to smoked chicken and little pies.
‘That was really good, wasn’t it?’ Eva said afterwards. ‘Fantastic ingredients. Especially the cheese.’ ‘How can you tell?’ Joseph asked. ‘Lots of ways. The texture. See?’ She picked up a leftover segment. ‘You can tell it’s a good one by the way it crumbles. And the olives are very high quality. You can tell that by their firmness and the colour of the skin. And the taste of course.’ Joseph was impressed. ‘You know all about food as well as art?’ ‘A little,’ she said. She probably knew ten times more about food than art, if it came down to it. She needed to change the subject. ‘Is there anywhere special you need to visit here? One of the wineries in particular?’ This was the moment, Joseph realised. He was glad it had arrived. He wanted her to know the real reason they were in the Clare Valley. ‘Niamh, I need to tell you something. Something important.’ She was thrown by the sudden change in his mood. He looked very serious. ‘Tell me,’ she said quietly. So he did.
Half an hour later the mood was gentle between them. She leaned over and touched his hand. ‘I’ll stay here and look after Rex. You go to your father now, take as long as you like. I’ll wait here for you.’
‘Thank you, Niamh.’
She watched as he walked back up the gravel path to the car.
Five minutes later, Joseph came out of the petrol station down the road, the directions to Spring Farm Road clear in his mind. As he drove onto the main road, he thought back to his conversation with Niamh. She had been so understanding, listening so intently, asking the occasional question. He had told her everything he knew about Lewis and about his mother.
But he still hadn’t told her the truth about his own life. He knew it was time he did. As soon as he could. It was becoming very important. For now, he focused his attention on the road ahead. He slowed as he saw a white pub, turned left and followed a curving road past more vineyards, a cemetery, an old church and a winery. Then the bitumen ran out and he was driving on dirt, a cloud of dust around the car.
There were no people around, no other houses, just vineyards. Ahead he saw a road sign: SPRING FARM ROAD. He slowed, checked his scribbled map and turned right, the wheels spitting out stones, the noise loud. He caught sight of a wooden sign on the fence ahead. Another dirt road stretched away from it, leading to a house with a cluster of sheds around it. He brought the car to a stop and read the sign: lewis wheeler, craftsman, open
DAILY.
He sat in the car for a moment, gazing over at the house before he climbed out. He looked around. The rough dirt road was lined on both sides by newly planted trees. On his left was a vineyard, the green of the leaves tinged with orange and red. To his right was a rocky hill, a huddle of sheep gathered around a dam in the middle. Above him the sky was blue and cloudless. There was now just a driveway between him and his father.
Back at the winery, Eva sat on the verandah, staring out at the garden. She felt wretched. Joe had shared a very personal secret with her, and in return she was still feeding him lies. It had to change. But was today the day to break something like that to him? She tried to imagine what it would be like for him to meet his father for the first time. Her head filled with images of her own father, the easy relationship they had, the regular contact. What would it have been like to meet him as an adult, without any of the love and familiarity of shared lives? Would she have liked him? Known him differently? Been able to talk to him? She was startled by the arrival of the waiter. ‘Sorry, I was miles away.’ He smiled at her, his sunburnt face creasing into dozens of lines. ‘Don’t worry, that’s what we like to see. People relaxing.’
‘Do you mind if I stay here until my friend comes back? You don’t need the table?’
‘Of course we don’t mind. But perhaps you’d like to stretch your legs? I’m happy to mind your kitten for you. He’s probably ready to try a cheeky little shiraz now, is he?’ He grinned. He’d been very taken with the idea of the wine-tasting kitten.
‘No, he’s had quite enough, thank you. But I’d love a walk in a little while, if you’re sure you don’t mind looking after him?’ She needed to sort through her thoughts.
‘I don’t mind at all.’ He pointed to a narrow path leading from the winery shed down through the vineyards. ‘The Riesling Trail’s down there. It follows the path of the old railway line. It’s beautiful. Very peaceful.’
It sounded perfect. ‘Thanks a million.’
Joseph walked up the dirt road. The only sound was his own footsteps. He jumped when a bird took off from the tree in front of him, its bright pink feathers vibrant against the sky.
The driveway felt like it was three miles long. At the end was an old house made from wooden logs with a large stone chimney to the side. There were two corrugated-iron sheds behind it. It was simple. Neat. Joseph wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. A tent daubed with rainbow symbols? A cave in the
woods? He nearly laughed aloud. It was the new century. Of course his father would have left the seventies behind by now.
He went up three worn steps onto a verandah and knocked on the front door. Once. Twice. No answer. Brilliant. His father wasn’t at home.
He waited a moment, wondering whether to try around the back door when he heard a scrunch of gravel behind him. He turned around. An elderly man was walking up the path toward him. Fit-looking. Short grey hair. A weathered face. The man from the photo.
‘Lewis.’
‘Joseph.’
They were statements, not questions.
Lewis took him into the kitchen. ‘I wasn’t sure when you might arrive, so I just got something simple in,’ he said, as he took bread, cheese and salad out of the fridge.
‘Thanks anyway, but I’ve just eaten.’ Then he thought that sounded impolite. ‘It looks good, though. Did you make this yourself?’
‘The cheese? And the bread?’
Joseph nodded.
Lewis had an amused look in his eye. ‘Like all good hippies should?’
Joseph realised his father was teasing him. Lewis
continued. ‘No, it’s from the supermarket in Clare, but I think some of their food is organic’
Joseph nearly smiled, then stopped himself.
‘Will you have a glass of wine with me then, while I eat? It’s a local riesling, very good. Best in Australia.’
‘Just a small glass. Thanks.’
They talked about the weather. The scenery. Joseph’s conference in Sydney. His impressions of Australia. Joseph began to feel as if he was in an elaborate chess match. One move from Lewis followed by one move from him. He was searching for any resemblance between them, while trying not to be too obvious about it. The shape of their faces, maybe. Their hands. Not their voices, anyway. It was strange to hear the beginnings of an Australian accent coming from his own father. His own father. He decided then he needed more than small talk.
Lewis was by the kitchen sink, putting the plate on the draining board when Joseph spoke up. ‘Lewis, was there anything in particular you wanted to talk about?’
Lewis stopped still for a moment, before turning around. ‘Well, yes, I suppose there are a few gaps about your life I’d like to fill in.’
‘A few?’ Joseph felt a rush of unexpected anger, at Lewis or at his mother, he wasn’t sure which. A few gaps? Like thirty-four years worth, perhaps?
Lewis seemed to guess what he was thinking but
didn’t take the bait. He sat down slowly in the chair opposite Joseph and took a sip of his wine. ‘I did want to ask why you went to the university in South London, rather than that good one just near home. And the award you won? Was that in your third or fourth year? And did it take you long to find the Wheeler Design offices in Hoxton? And have you found anyone else since you and Tessa broke up?’
Joseph was speechless. Had his father been tailing him all these years?
Lewis stood up. ‘Come with me.’
Joseph followed him outside, through the garden and into his workroom, an old shed on the side of the property. It was full of wood. Planks and slabs of rich-coloured timber. One whole wall was covered in sketches and photographs of tables and detailed close-ups of knots and burls in trees. In the centre of the shed was a long, half-finished table. As Joseph stood still, not sure what to say or look at, his father picked up a cloth and began rubbing oil into the wood.
The swish of the cloth was like a soothing rhythm. The gentle movement made Joseph even more aware of how tense he was.
After a moment his father began to talk. ‘Your mother and I were very unhappy when we divorced, Joseph. I’m sure you know that much at least. I’m not certain how much else you know, if there is anything you remember at all. But it was a very difficult time.’
There was a long silence before Lewis spoke again. ‘Kate and I knew it wasn’t possible for us to get together again. I had already decided to come to Australia, but before I left we came to one agreement. Kate would send me a photo of you once a year, on or around your birthday, with a brief note. That would be the only contact between us.’
He moved from the table. Going to a cupboard at the back of the shed, he took out an old photo album and laid it on the table, moving a chair in front of it. He gestured at Joseph to take a seat.
As Joseph sat down, Lewis opened the album from the back. Joseph glanced at the colour print stuck in the centre of the page. It was a photo of him in his mother’s front room in Kensal Green, taken just three months ago. He remembered Kate taking it. She’d said she wanted to use the last film in her camera.
Joseph turned back another page. A photo taken in his new apartment. Kate had called around to see it. He remembered her taking that photo too. He turned back another page. Him in the Wheeler Design offices. Another page. With Tessa at a restaurant in Camden Town. Then another. There was a photo on every page, all of him. Each had a short caption, written on a small piece of paper or a postcard, in his mother’s handwriting. Graduation. Award night. Current girlfriend. A few extra details here and there. Some newspaper and magazine cuttings. It was a photo story of his life.
Lewis had moved away from the chair and gone back to rubbing the table. The slow swish of the cloth and the oil against the wood and the noise of the pages turning were the only sounds in the shed for a while.
Finally Lewis broke the silence. ‘Do you have any memories of me at all, Joseph? From your childhood? Of living in Scotland?’
Joseph thought hard. He didn’t know if what he remembered were his own memories or if they’d become confused with what his mother had told him.
‘I don’t know,’ he answered honestly. ‘I don’t think so.’
He wanted to ask his father what memories he had of him as a child. But he wanted to finish the album first. He turned the pages quickly and finally reached the first page. It was a black and white photo of himself, two or three years old, with curly black hair, holding a baby. There was no caption.
‘This photo at the front, Lewis. Who’s the baby I’m holding?’
Lewis put down the cloth and came over beside him. He looked down at the photograph. ‘No, Joseph, the baby is you.’
‘Then who’s that holding me?’
The shed was quiet for a long moment.
‘Lewis?’
‘Your brother, Joseph.’
JOSEPH FELT like he’d been punched. Winded.
He looked around as though a grown version of the boy in the photograph was about to appear, here at his father’s house. ‘Did we get divided up, is that it? One child for each of you? And I never knew?’ His anger rose quickly, sharp, white hot.
Lewis was very still. ‘No, Joseph. Alexander died. Nearly thirty-five years ago.’
‘I had a brother who died? Why wasn’t I ever told?’
‘It was my fault, Joseph.’