Bob said that he read an obituary about a month after she died, a long and fawning one written by a music librarian at York University. The obituary said that Violet was survived by her only son who inherited her entire estate, including houses in Australia, New Zealand, London and the US.
“She didn’t have a son,” I said.
“Yes she did,” Bob said. “And I remember his name because it was unusual. It was Orlando.”
I felt sick with rage and excitement, because Violet invented Orlando Park. I knew that from the tape, and so did my dad.
Suddenly, after loving him and looking after the hole he’d left and trying to grow up without him, I knew where Dad was.
And I knew he wasn’t dead, the bastard.
He was rich as sin, however rich that is, living off Violet’s money in the sun.
I went to my room and I punched a hole in the wall, but I didn’t cry.
I felt weirdly happy. Angry happy.
And I did something that I didn’t tell anyone about; not Bob, not Martha, definitely not my mum. I can’t work out if it’s the start of something or the end of it and I’m trying to stop my brain from going there. I did it and I’ll wait and see what happens before I tell anybody.
I sent a parcel to Orlando Park at Violet Farm, Turungakuma, South Island, New Zealand. I found him on the Internet. He’d been there the first time, the time I’d checked for Violet. I’d looked straight through him.
I sent him Violet’s empty urn, the one he’d collected from the crematorium and left in the back of a cab.
And I stuck a little note on it, round the other side from Violet’s name.
It said
PETE SWAIN1958-2002RIP
Who knows if I’ll hear anything back? It seems unlikely.
Thanks to Violet, that matters a hell of a lot less than it used to.
Thank you thank you thank you to
Veronique Baxter
Stella Paskins
Gillie Russell
Jane Griffiths
Belinda Hollyer
Pat and Chris Cutforth
and the marvellous Lauren P.
For
Molly and Ella,
Jess and Emma,
and Kate.
All great sisters.
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
It wasn’t mine.
I didn’t drop it, but the boy in the queue said I did.
It was a negative of a photograph, one on its own, all scratched and beaten up. I couldn’t even see what it was a negative of because his finger and thumb were blotting out most of it. He was holding it out to me like nothing else was going to happen until I took it, like he had nothing else to do but wait.
I didn’t want to take it. I said that. I said I didn’t own a camera even, but the boy just stood there with this I-know-I’m-right look on his face.
He had a good face. Friendly eyes, wide mouth, all that. One of his top teeth was chipped; there was a bit missing. Still, a good face doesn’t equal a good person. If you catch yourself thinking that, you need to stop.
All my friends were cracking up behind me. The girl at the counter was trying to give me my change and everybody in the queue was just staring. I couldn’t think why he was doing this to me. I wondered if embarrassing strangers was one of the ways he got through his day. Maybe he walked around with a pile of random stuff in his pockets – not just negatives, but thimbles and condoms and glasses and handcuffs. I might be getting off lightly.
I didn’t know what else to do, so I said thank you, who knows for what, and I went red like always, and I pulled a face at my friends like I was in on the joke. Then I shoved the negative in my bag with the oranges and milk and eggs, and he smiled.
All the way home I got, “What is it, Rowan?” and “Let’s see” and “Nice smile” – a flock of seagulls in school uniform, shrieking and pointing and jumping around me. And I did my usual thing of taking something that’s
