My Sister’s Secret (14 page)

Willow

Styria, Austria

September 2016

I should be exhilarated as I stare out at the emerald lake before me. Instead, I feel like a fool.

I came at the wrong time of year.

This is what happens when you make impulsive decisions to fly somewhere without doing your research. It may look pretty here with its white-capped mountains in the background, the lake glittering like a diamond in the midst of it all. But it’s too bloody shallow to dive!

At least there’s Niall Lane’s exhibition tomorrow at the Green Lake hotel I’ve booked into. It doesn’t have to be a wasted trip. I can ask him some questions, try to see if he can fill in the gaps of my mum’s past, of her dead sister’s past, gaps my aunt Hope refuses to fill.

As I stare out at the lake, I have this moment where I feel tiny and utterly alone in this vast landscape. No fellow divers around me. No Ajay shrugging on his stabiliser jacket. No Aunt Hope writing her poetry from a rock nearby.

I’ve always been content with my own company, I guess I had to be with Aunt Hope spending so much time writing and disappearing off to poetry events most evenings. Sure, I had some friends from swimming classes, but they were never deep friendships. Just ships passing in the night. I think they sensed something in me, that lone wolf Ajay talks about. I have my ‘tribe’, all my fellow divers. But they’re not always around and that’s cool with me.

But right now, being alone bothers me. Maybe it’s something about this vigil, about trying to find the missing jigsaw pieces in the puzzle of my life that is making me feel like one very solitary piece. It’s not even as though I have a party to go to, like on one of my diving holidays, diving and drinking before tumbling into someone’s bed, limbs entangling…just enough to stop the flashes of loneliness I might otherwise get in the dead of the night.

Maybe that’s what I need right now. I need to go back to the hotel and grab that Austrian man on reception, all flushed cheeks, blue eyes and cropped blond hair. But the thought makes me feel empty. Just another passing acquaintance. Nothing fixed, nothing substantial.

What if this carries on for the rest of my life? Will I end up like the sad old Mad Shoe Lady in Busby-on-Sea?

Or like Aunt Hope?

‘You have to come in June when the snow melts if you want to dive,’ a deep Austrian voice says from behind me.

I turn, surprised to see the very receptionist I was just thinking about standing with one foot propped up on a rock, a fishing rod slung over his shoulder. He’s wearing a striped blue jumper over jeans that are tucked into big brown boots. At the hotel he looked like a bewildered young man. Here, he looks like a rugged outdoorsy type, as Aunt Hope would say.

‘Bugger,’ I say. ‘I can’t believe what an idiot I’ve been.’

The man smiles slightly.

‘You work at the hotel, don’t you?’ I ask.

‘Yes. And you are in room 313,’ he says. I raise an eyebrow and he blushes. ‘I have a very good memory.’

‘Not happened to see an etching on any of these trees, have you?’ I ask. ‘I’m guessing they’d be underwater in June?’

The man frowns. ‘Etching? What is that?’

‘A carving made with a knife,’ I say, making the carving motion with my hand.

He smiles. ‘Ah, yes. So-and-so loves so-and-so.’

‘Exactly.’

‘There is a carving on one tree still in the lake up there,’ he says, pointing into the distance.

I look in the direction he’s pointing. There’s just more lake and more trees. ‘What does it say?’

‘There are just two letters. N and C.’

‘Can you show me where it is?’

He shrugs. ‘Sure. But you’ll have to get on my boat. The lake’s not deep but it’s easier that way. I’m Luki by the way.’

I look him up and down. Does he look like the type to kidnap a tourist stupid enough to try to dive a shallow lake? Maybe. But I reckon I could overpower him.

Ten minutes later, I’m sitting in a small wooden boat in shallow water with Luki the receptionist. It really is very beautiful here. Trees surround us, the autumn sun glints off the lake’s surface. Birds chirp in the branches above, the occasional splash in the distance suggesting some animal or another has jumped into what remains of the lake.

‘Sail ahoy!’ Luki says, grabbing an oar and scooping it into the water. Nope, he’s definitely not a mass murderer.

The boat sets off, surprisingly smoothly.

‘Aren’t you supposed to be hiding behind that reception desk?’ I ask him.

‘I only work weekend night shifts. Are you from London?’

I laugh. ‘Not everyone who lives in England comes from London. I live in a place called Busby-on-Sea.’ I’m surprised when I say that. I usually say I’m of no fixed abode when people ask. ‘What about you? Do you come from around here?’

‘Yes, just ten minutes’ walk from here. I come fishing every day for my people.’

‘Your people?’

‘Yes. My brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers.’

‘How can you have more than one mother and father?’

He smiles down at me. ‘Why just one mother, one father? Where are the rules that tell us that?’

‘Erm, biological fact?’

He smiles. ‘Just because it’s fact, does not make it right.’

‘Okay then,’ I say, humouring him.

We sit in silence for a while and I take the chance to admire the park, the changing leaves on the trees, the hints of grass and smooth brown rocks blanketing the lake’s edges. A bench appears in the distance. On it is an old white-haired man with a walking stick, a contented smile on his face as he looks out at the green lake.

‘That’s underwater in the summer,’ Luki says, pointing to the bench.

‘Yes, I’ve seen the photos,’ I say. ‘There’s a wooden bridge that gets submerged too, right?’

He nods. We go a little further before he slows the boat down.

‘There it is,’ he says, pointing to a tree shivering in the lake, branches naked and exposed. As we approach it, I realise the water is just a few feet above the base of the tree. I could just as easily have walked around the edges of the lake then waded in. Maybe Luki is a mass murderer after all.

‘So why do you want to see the etching?’ Luki asks as he pulls a rope up, leaning his long body across the gap between the boat and tree to tie it around the trunk.

‘Oh, just saw it in a photograph,’ I say, not wanting to get into it all.

He looks at me sideways, frowning, then pulls the boat closer, the etching coming into view. Moss has grown over it, and it’s barely visible – faded by time. But anyone searching for it, like me, can see it’s there.

So it seems Niall did this etching in every place he photographed…each submerged forest on my dead aunt’s map. Why? Did he know Aunt Faith too? Did he visit the lake with Mum? Why did
she
never tell me?

I don’t like that thought.

I guess I’ll find out tomorrow.

I stand at the entrance to the temporary exhibition that’s been set up in a room to the side of the hotel’s reception. I can see glimpses of the submerged trees featured in Niall’s photographs, strangely at odds with the wooden panelled walls of the hotel, bone-dry and stiff when the wood featured in Niall Lane’s photographs seem to ebb and flow before my eyes.

I stay where I am a moment as people stroll in. I feel awkward in the only suit I own, navy blue, too small, scratchy, especially as people start to float in in jeans and long skirts. Oh well, I’m not here to impress, am I?

I take a deep breath.
Here goes nothing.
I step inside and more photos come into view. They’re printed on massive canvasses, just six of them, two on each of the walls facing the entrance. For a moment, I forget why I’m here, I just drink them all in: the lonely majesty of the sunken trees, the misty depths of water, the way he’s somehow managed to capture the sensation of time slowing down when beneath the surface.

Then there are the carvings, some barely discernible but all there.

I pick up one of Niall Lane’s leaflets, which are lying on the side. The man’s talented, I’ll give him that.

A woman of about fifty approaches, tall, blonde, graceful. The kind of woman I always think of as the polar opposite of me.

‘Welcome,’ she says with an Austrian accent. She surveys the photographs, a serene smile on her face. ‘Exquisite, aren’t they?’

‘Quite something,’ I reply, hoping I’m not going to be drawn into a discussion about art. I wouldn’t have a clue. ‘When’s Niall Lane arriving?’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, he’s not coming. Were you hoping to meet him?’

‘I was,’ I say, trying to hide my disappointment. I didn’t really think this through, did I? Just assumed he’d be here. I bet Aunt Hope will be happy when she finds out.

‘He was at the Vienna exhibition but not this one. He had another assignment to go to.’ She tilts her head, examining my face. ‘Do you know Niall?’

‘He was a friend of my mum’s,’ I say.

‘Well then, I must insist on showing you around. My name is Viktoria.’

‘I’m Willow. So do you know Niall Lane well?’

‘I’ve known Niall many years, I work in tourism for the lake. We use his photos in our promotional materials. Please, come.’

I let her take me around the exhibition, explaining where each photograph was taken. They feature six of the most beautiful submerged forests in the world – Romania, the US, Ghana, Kazakhstan and then Periyar Lake in India, and Green Lake, here in Austria. All of them are on Faith’s map…and all have my mum’s initials etched into their bark along with Niall Lane’s own.

‘This is my favourite, apart from his Green Lake photographs, of course,’ Viktoria says as we stop in front of one photograph. The small information card below it explains it was taken in Kazakhstan at a lake called Lake Kaindy. The photo is taken from the bottom up, three trees dripping with green leaves looming above in the misty green water. On one is a faint trace of an etching. ‘Niall sent me this on a small canvas as a gift when I married,’ she said. ‘We still have it taking pride of place in our hallway twenty-eight years later.’

‘This was taken twenty-eight years ago?’

She looks down at her notes. ‘Yes, nineteen eighty-eight. I believe the Charity he named the collection after was with him when he made his carvings. She died less than ten years later. This is why the carvings are so very special to him.’

1988. That was the year before I was born. Mum was with Dad then.

‘Niall will be in Kazakhstan next month actually,’ she continues.

‘And now?’

‘I have no idea.’ She smiles. ‘Niall likes to disappear every now and again. A real nomad.’

I try to muster the enthusiasm to smile back. ‘Thanks so much for showing me around, Viktoria.’

‘No problem. Shall I tell him you popped by?’

I think about it. ‘Yes. Say Charity’s daughter said hi.’ Then I leave without watching her expression, unable to help the small smile appearing on my face.

I fiddle with the lip of my beer bottle, staring miserably at the leaflet I took from the exhibition.

‘Why so miserable?’ I swivel around on my bar stool to see Luki the receptionist adjusting the cuffs of his white shirt. He looks weird in his work suit now.

‘I think my mum loved someone other than my dad,’ I mumble.

He shrugs. ‘People can love who they wish, however many people they wish.’

I roll my eyes. ‘Let me guess. You don’t believe in monogamy.’

He waves his hand about. ‘Silly society rules.’

‘Everything is silly society rules to you.’ I look him up and down. ‘Not so keen to break them here, are you?’

‘I have to earn money. If we don’t, we starve. Anyway,’ he says, taking the stool next to me, blue eyes exploring my face, ‘I saw you in the exhibition earlier.’

I sigh. ‘Yes. My mum is the C in the carving.’

Luki raises an eyebrow. ‘Interesting. One of my mothers knows the photographer well.’

I turn to him. ‘Really?’

‘Yes. He stayed with her when he took the photos.’

‘When was that?’

He shrugs. ‘Before I was born. Come to dinner tomorrow night. She will talk to you.’

I frown. ‘Are you trying to kidnap me?’

He laughs. ‘You’re very funny. Will you come?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

He gets up and eyes the two empty bottles by my hand. ‘Don’t get too drunk.’

‘That’s exactly what I plan to do.’

He smiles. ‘Very funny,’ he says as he walks away.

I peer back towards the room filled with Niall Lane’s photos. The one of Kazakhstan is in view, taunting me. Was my mum out there with Niall Lane? Aunt Hope told me once in a rare moment of openness that Mum and Dad got together a couple of years before I was born. How could she have been in Kazakhstan? Did that mean Mum had an
affair
with Niall Lane?

No. My parents had the perfect relationship. My memories of them together are nothing but smiles, Dad twirling Mum around in the garden as she laughed up at him, Mum bringing Dad cups of tea as he worked in his office, softly kissing his cheek. If they were apart overnight, she’d fling herself into his arms when he returned. Were these the actions of someone who was having an affair with her ex?

But then what do I really know about my parents? I was just seven when they died.

I turn the leaflet over and look at the photo of Niall Lane’s face.

My blood seems to turn to ice.

He has blue eyes like mine. Dark hair too. He loves diving, taking risks…and he was with Mum a year before I was born.

Could he be my father?

‘God, no,’ I whisper, putting my hand to my mouth. The beer I’ve been drinking churns its way up as the world seems to tilt on its axis. I quickly grab my mobile phone and call my aunt, heart clamouring against my chest. When she picks up, there’s the clatter of cutlery in the background. I imagine her in that messy old kitchen, phone pressed between her cheek and her thin shoulder as she does a terrible job of washing up.

‘So, did you meet Niall Lane then?’ she asks.

‘No. He isn’t here.’

‘Good.’

I look at the photo again. Her aversion to my meeting Niall Lane makes even more sense if she thinks he might be my father. And now I think about it, maybe he purposely invited me to his exhibition in Brighton because he knows too.