At Home With The Templetons (47 page)

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‘As you would not have the slightest idea what I am like or what I was like, seeing as you haven’t laid eyes on me in sixteen years and before that you were permanently pissed or off your brain on God-knows-what, I don’t really think you’re in any position to make judgements, positive or negative, about my character, thank you, Hope.’

‘Not in any position and not interested, in fact. And if you don’t intend to get to the point of this otherwise riveting conversation in the next two minutes, Charlotte, it is only fair I tell you that I plan to hang up. I have better things to do with my time than listen to the opinionated, self-important ranting of a long-lost niece.’

‘You know why I’m ringing. I want to know what you’re up to at Templeton Hall.’

‘I’m not up to anything. All is as it seems. I am fortunate enough to be in the financial position where I am able to travel at will. A central part of my journey to sobriety has involved taking an inventory of my life and facing up to the wrongs I’ve done wherever possible.’

Charlotte sighed.

‘I’m so sorry to bore you, Charlotte. Or perhaps this is beyond your comprehension, as it involves thinking of other people than yourself. In a nutshell, I wanted to bring you all back to Templeton Hall to apologise. However, it seems that all of you apart from Gracie are too busy to hear that, so I will apologise to Gracie alone. I have reflected on the situation further, though, and I now feel this is all meant to be. I believe Gracie may also find solace in returning. The past eight years have been extremely difficult for her and she still requires a great deal of care and concern. I certainl

y haven’t seen you rushing back to offer that support, either eight years ago or more recently.’

‘Don’t you try and make trouble between Gracie and me. I’ve only ever been a flight away. Gracie’s always known that. And we’ve all been there for her.’

‘Really? Sometimes only an outsider can see the truth, Charlotte. Surely you know that after all your years in business? As for the rest of you caring about her - you know as well as I do that the only person Spencer cares about is himself. And yes, Audrey has come back occasionally but only when it suits her and she spends most of the time sulking that she isn’t getting enough attention about that ridiculous creature on the end of her hand. And certainly you have only ever been a flight away but it’s not a flight you’ve taken very often. The fact is you’ve all let your mother carry the burden of helping Gracie through her difficult years. That’s what this phone call is about. I’ve made you confront a few cold truths about yourself and so you’ve resorted to the age-old tactic of attack being the best form of defence.’

‘Save your mumbo-jumbo for your counselling sessions, would you? This has nothing to do with Gracie. And I’ve always done what I can for her. We were talking only this week.’

‘This week? Did you come back after the accident? Do you have any idea what that accident did to her? The guilt she felt every single day about Tom? About Nina? The guilt she still feels, years later?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘You knew she cried herself to sleep every night for months, possibly years afterwards? That she wrote letter after letter to Nina and Tom, begging their forgiveness? Dozens of them? That she used to sit and watch for the postman, like a poor abandoned animal, day after day, hoping for word back?’

‘She did not.’

‘She did, Charlotte. I suppose you were too busy living the high life, building up your own empire, thanking your lucky stars every day that you’d escaped from your family. You would have left Templeton Hall, left Australia, whether I was there or not. I was just a handy excuse. You’re good at that, aren’t you? Good at finding other people to blame for your own shortcomings, or at producing what look like valid reasons that pave the way for you to do exactly what you want to do. I know people like you, Charlotte. I see people like you in my sessions every single day. We call them Pretenders. They have the intelligence, they have the vocabulary, they are better at self-deception than most other addicts. Because they can always justify their actions as being the fault of someone else. And that wasn’t a slip of the tongue. I do see you as an addict. A power addict. A self-righteousness addict.’

Charlotte didn’t speak.

‘So shall we start this conversation again?’ Hope said. ‘You rang to ask me what I was up to taking Gracie back to Templeton Hall? I believe I’ve now explained. If you require further clarification; then I ‘

‘Gracie really wrote so many letters to Nina and Tom?’

‘For nearly six months, Charlotte. Eleanor would post them for her. I posted some for her too. Yet there was only ever total silence in return. That’s what hurt her the most, I believe. The fact that she never heard anything from either of them, ever again.’

‘Nothing? Not even a note, a postcard?’

‘Not a thing. Can you imagine how that made her feel? Have you ever felt guilt, Charlotte? True, festering guilt, guilt so strong, so all-encompassing that it is all you think about, from the moment you wake to the moment you try to get to sleep? It’s the closest thing to madness. All you can do is go over and over every second of every hour of every day that led you to the moment the terrible event happened. You try and change it, you try and rewrite history, you try and convince yourself that it was out of your hands, but that’s impossible, because the more you think about it, the more you replay it in your head, the more you are forced to see the same conclusion. It is your fault. You are to blame. And nothing, nothing will ever change that. That’s what Gracie lived with. That’s what Gracie is still living with. And it is worse for her, because there was love involved. Not just for Tom, but for Nina too. Your sister’s life was destroyed that night in Italy, Charlotte, and you never had the decency to recognise it.’

‘I have to go, Hope.’ Charlotte hung up

without saying goodbye.

Hope just smiled into the phone. ‘Really? What a shame. Thank you so much for calling.’

Charlotte spent fifteen minutes pacing around her living room. Outside, the large cherry tree was a flurry of feeding birds, the leaves quivering. Her neighbour was disgusted that she hadn’t set up nets to keep the birds away, that she let the fruit just rot like that. They’d had a sharp conversation about it, ending only when Charlotte produced her haughtiest tone of voice and stood erect, reminding him that it was her tree, her property, her business. They hadn’t spoken since. The birds had been noisier than ever, though. Normally the sound soothed her, the sight of them amused her. Now, she wanted to go outside with a pellet gun and shoot the lot of them.

She’d expected the conversation with Hope to be entertaining. She hadn’t expected to feel like this. Angry. Guilty. Confused. Her nerves were actually jangling. She wanted to rewind every moment of her call with Hope, inspect everything she had said, work out what was truth, what were mischievous lies. That wasn’t possible. She had to do something, though. She couldn’t leave it like this. There was only one person to talk to. She picked up the phone and dialled the number.

‘Gracie, it’s me,’ she said as soon as her sister answered. ‘I’ve been talking to Hope.’

‘Did you terrify her on my behalf? Warned her that if she tries to upse’

‘Gracie, she told me about the letters you wrote.’ ‘Sorry?’

‘She told me about the letters you wrote to Tom and Nina. The dozens of letters, after the accident. Is she telling the truth?’ There was silence for a moment. ‘What did she say?’ Charlotte told her exactly what Hope had said. More silence and then Gracie spoke again.

‘It’s true.’

‘Why didn’t I know any of this?’ ‘You weren’t here.’

‘Gracie, I still should have known. You should have told me, not just about the letters, but about all of it. I didn’t even realise it was that serious between you and Tom.’

‘I loved him, Charlotte.’ ‘But you were only kids.’ ‘I loved him, Charlotte.’ ‘But surely if it had been that serious ‘

‘He’d have written back to me? That’s what I hoped. But I was wrong.’

‘You just never heard back?’

A pause. ‘Not from him. Nina wrote to me once.’

‘But Hope said you never heard anything.’

‘I didn’t tell Hope. I only told Mum and she promised not to tell anyone.’

‘What did Nina say?’

‘I’d rather not repeat it. But I’m sure you can guess.’ ‘Gracie, I wish you’d told me. Why am I only hearing this now, all these years later?’

‘Because it’s only now you’re asking me about it.’

‘I’m so sorry. I was so busy back then, setting up the business and ‘

‘I know that, Charlotte. I’m not angry with you. I’m just telling you how it was.’

‘I would have come back if you’d wanted me to. But Mum said you’d get better in your own time, in your own way.’

‘She was right.’ ‘I feel terrible.’ ‘Don’t. I am better.’ ‘What did Nina say to you? It wasn’t good, was it?’

‘No, but if I tell you, if I say it all out loud again, it sticks in my head and I ‘

‘I understand. I’m sorry, Gracie. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me.’

‘You were, in your own way. Charlotte, please, don’t worry. Ignore Hope. You know she’s always liked making trouble between us. I like her much more now, but just because she’s sober doesn’t mean that aspect of her personality is any different.’ ‘If anything like this ever happens to you again, please, would you tell me ‘

‘If I ever have another car accident and cripple one of my passengers, you mean?’

‘I’m not joking, Gracie.’ ‘Neither am I.’

or half an hour after she’d finished the call with Charlotte, Gracie tried to finish what she’d been doing, packing for the trip. She’d be there for a week: she’d need four dresses, three skirts, Tshirts It

was no good. Charlotte’s call had stirred her up too much. She’d been trying her best to concentrate only on her happy memories of Templeton Hall, to try and make herself look for ward to the trip with Hope. Those memories had disappeared again. Now only thoughts of Tom were back in her mind, in full colour, as if she had seen him the day before, not eight years before.

She went across to her computer, even though she knew what she was about to do was a mistake. She’d forced herself to stop doing it years before, hours of endless searching the internet hoping for some, any, mention of him. She told herself now these were unusual circumstances. She was going back to Australia in just a few weeks. Back to Templeton Hall. As Audrey had said, she needed to be prepared in case she …

She just needed to be prepared.

She opened an internet search engine and typed in his name. Tom Donovan. After hesitating for just a second, she pressed Search.

Entry after entry appeared. She’d long ago discovered there were hundreds of Tom Donovans in the world. Thousands. The screen in front of her was full of mentions of them. A Tom Donovan, skiing in New Zealand, part of an Australian team.

Twenty-three, five years too young. Tom Donovan, running for office in local elections in Ireland, aged forty-two. A Tom Donovan on Facebook, aged eighteen. A priest called Tom Donovan. Baseball players, musicians, plumbers, political commentators. A sports commentator called Tom Donovan in Melbourne. When she’d first found a mention of him, six years earlier, her heart had immediately begun to beat faster. She’d clicked on entry after entry, finding articles he’d written about cricket, about the Australian team’s performance, about other sports as well, football, rugby. She’d read every word, even found transcripts of a regular radio slot he did on Melbourne radio. She’d been shocked at first at how right-wing he’d become, how deliberately provocative, even racist,

he was at times. She’d clicked on more links until a photograph of him appeared and she’d realised, with some relief, that it wasn’t her Tom Donovan but another much older one, a former cricket player in his midfifties who’d reinvented himself as a controversial pundit. His name appeared again now, as she scrolled through the dozens of pages. She didn’t read his articles this time. She kept looking, hoping for something new, anything, the tiniest fact about her Tom Donovan, where he lived now, what he was doing. She found an architect in Sydney called Tom Donovan, a Thomas Donovan house painter in Perth, a Tommy Donovan disc jockey for hire in Brisbane. After a moment’s hesitation, she started again, putting more detail into the search line. Tom Donovan wheelchair. Stop, the voice in her head said. Whatever you find won’t make you feel better. She ignored it.

She found a wheelchair-bound Tom Donovan blogging from his new home in America. Her heart began to beat faster again, until she clicked on the biography section and found a photo graph. He was fifty, with red hair. A Thomas Donovan, working in a Sydney university as a lecturer in the medical school. Sixty-two years old and bald. Another in England …

She re-entered Tom Donovan. Added cricket Australia. She finally found him on the sixth page of entries, a passing mention in the biographies section of an out-of-date online cricket magazine. This was him. This was definitely him. She recognised his birth date, his education record. Knowing it was going to hurt, but now unable to stop, she clicked on the link and held her breath. The first thing she saw was a photo, bad quality and nine years old, but it was him, his dark eyes, dark hair, smiling at the camera. She read the first two lines of the paragraph of text beside it, then turned quickly away, shutting the laptop, breaking the connection. She wasn’t quick enough. She’d seen it. There had been a mention of his place in the cricket academy and then the sentence: A promising career cut short She

didn’t need to read on. A promising career cut short by an accident. A promising career cut short by Gracie Templeton. A promising life destroyed because of her.

What did you expect? the voice told her. What had she expected? What did she think she’d find? His own website? Photos of him playing basketball, skiing, competing in international wheelchair games, rising above his injuries, successful and happy again?

One thing was now clear. There was no way she could try to find him while she was back at Templeton Hall, back in Australia. What was there left to say that she hadn’t said in each one of those letters he’d ignored? ‘I’m sorry - again - for ruining your life?’ She had no right to expect anything from him, be it anger, understanding or forgiveness. She’d relinquished any claim on him the moment she’d driven into that truck.