Chapter Nine
Linc
I decide to call the guy in Queenstown first.
I have no idea what I’m going to say, if he even answers. I’ve spent most of my life living off my wits and winging it, so I decide to play it by ear and make it up as I go along.
I dial the number I found on the White Pages website, amazed that people still use landlines. While I wait, I go over to the window and look out at the view of Lambton Harbour. One of the Interislander Ferries has just set out, making its way across the Cook Strait to Picton in the South Island.
“Hello?” a man’s voice says.
I start and turn away from the window. I know this isn’t going to be the man I’m looking for. I’m fully expecting to have to make a dozen calls before I find him, or, more likely, not find him at all. It did also enter my head that my mother might have been lying, although I haven’t yet been able to figure out a reason why she’d do that.
I clear my throat. “Good morning, I was hoping to speak to Edmund Mansfield.”
“This is he,” the man says. He sounds abrupt, busy.
Ten years ago I might have gone to pieces, but now I find it easier to clamp down on my emotions and switch to business mode. “My name is Lincoln Green. I’m sorry to bother you on a Saturday morning.”
“Are you selling something?” Edmund asks with a touch of exasperation, “because if so, I’m in the middle of breakfast, and I can tell you that nothing you can offer me is going to be as attractive as the bacon sandwich currently sitting there alluringly on my plate.”
My lips curve up. “No, I’m not selling anything. I’d just like to know: do you remember a woman called Nancy Green?”
He’s quiet for a moment. There’s a sound of a sliding door opening and closing again, and then I hear birdsong—he’s gone into the garden. He doesn’t want someone to overhear his conversation. My pulse picks up speed.
“I knew a Nancy Green a long time ago,” he says. “Why?”
My heart skips a beat. Holy fuck. I’ve found him on the first call.
“I’m her eldest son, Linc. I’ve been living in the UK, but I came back a couple of days ago for a funeral. I saw my mother there, and… she told me that the man whose funeral I’d come back for, who I thought was my father, wasn’t, actually. My father, I mean. And that somebody else was.” I know I’m waffling, and I curse myself silently. “She said his name was Edmund Mansfield, and that she had an affair with him early on in her marriage, but when my father—that is, her husband—found out, he stopped the affair, and she never saw Edmund again. That’s all I know, so I thought I’d call all the Edmund Mansfields in the White Pages to begin with, and you were the first one I’ve called.”
My revelation is met with complete silence.
“Hello?” I say after about twenty seconds.
“Nancy has told you that I’m your father?” he asks.
“Yes. I appreciate that this is a bit of a shock.”
“You think? Jesus.” He’s quiet for a moment. I look out of the window at the seagulls wheeling in the air. What was I expecting? That he’d say, ‘Oh my God, that’s amazing, you’re the son I’ve always wanted?’
“How old are you?” he says eventually.
“Twenty-eight. I was born on October fourteenth, 1996. I would have been conceived sometime in the last two weeks of January 1996.”
“Okay, that was when we were together,” he says slowly. “But we used contraception. And also, she was married at the time, so I can’t see how she could say who the father was.” He doesn’t sound aggressive, to be fair. He’s just stating the facts.
“She said she’d had an argument with Don—her husband—and they weren’t sleeping together at the time. I haven’t seen her for ten years, but when I saw her a couple of days ago, she said I looked just like you. My father had blond hair and mine is dark. But I know that doesn’t mean anything.” I hesitate. “I just want to say, I’m not calling for anything. I don’t expect you to take me at my word, and I’m not looking for… you know… money, or anything.”
“Bit of luck,” he says. “I’m no Croesus.”
“And there’s me hoping I was the son of the King of Lydia.” The words come out before I can vet them, and I think Jesus, Linc, you’re such a fucking idiot.
But Edmund gives a husky chuckle. “Are you into history?”
“I’m an archaeologist.”
“Oh? I’m a history teacher at the local high school.”
It doesn’t mean anything. It’s certainly not confirmation that he’s my father. But for some reason my heart lifts. Don Green had no time for anything except Formula One and fixing cars. He would have sneered at my choice of career.
There’s a creak, maybe of a chair as Edmund sits. “It was really hot that summer,” he says, and I realize he’s thinking about when he met Mum. “I was on a teaching course at a hotel here in Queenstown, and she was waitressing. We got talking and… well, anyway. These things happen. Her husband came to the hotel to pick her up one afternoon and saw us together. He hit me and broke my nose, and dragged her away. I never saw her again.”
“That’s pretty much the story she told me, too.”
“She was a lovely little thing,” he says. “How is she?”
I look at my feet, thinking of the dour, sullen woman she turned into. “She’s not the woman she was, unfortunately. Don made sure of that.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that.” He sighs.
“Are you married?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. “I wasn’t when I met Nancy, but I am now. Isabel is also a history teacher, would you believe? I have two girls. Marie is twenty-two and she’s just finished a science degree, the traitor. She’s thinking of teaching too, probably primary. Claire is twenty-five, also a historian—she’s doing a post-grad at Otago, and she lectures there, too. She’s just had our first grandchild, Lily.”
I smile, although my head is spinning. Two sisters! I can’t imagine either his wife or his children would be happy to hear of my existence, though. Oh well, it’s not the first time I haven’t been wanted.
“Are you married?” he asks. “Kids?”
“No to both. I’m single at the moment.”
“Can you send me a photo?”
I blink. “Of myself?” God, what a stupid question. Who else would he want me to send a photo of?
“Yeah.”
Flustered, I take a selfie and text it to him.
He’s quiet for a moment as he waits for it to come through. Then he gives a short laugh.
“Sorry about the hair,” I say. “I haven’t had a shower yet.”
“Hold on,” he says. I wait for a moment, then a banner appears on my phone announcing the arrival of a text.
I tap it, and a picture pops up. I stare at it.
It’s a selfie he’s probably just taken, because he’s in a garden, and it’s early morning. He’s looking straight at the camera. He has the same color hair as me, only his is a little longer and graying at the temples. He has more lines around his eyes and mouth, and a short graying beard. But his eyes are the same as mine—a bright, startling green. It looks like me, about twenty-five years in the future.
Holy fuck.
He clears his throat. “Okay, look. I think maybe it would be best for both of us if we had a paternity test done, don’t you?”
My heart’s racing. “Yes, of course, that makes perfect sense. I’ll pay for it.”
“That won’t be necessary,” he says firmly. “I know a little about it because a colleague of mine got one done a few months ago. How long are you in New Zealand for?”
“I’m joining a corporate cruise on Wednesday in Christchurch for a few days. I’m flying back to the UK on Monday the fifth.”
“Not long then. Okay, look, leave it with me for an hour or so. I’ll contact Bob and find out the process. Where are you now?”
“Wellington.”
“My guess is that you’ll have to go to a lab and give a cheek swab. I’ll do the same, and they’ll be sent to Auckland, probably, to be compared. I’ll see if I can get it fast tracked as we haven’t got long before you leave.”
“Okay. I’m sorry to put you through all this trouble.”
“It’s no trouble,” he says. “I’ll let you know where to get the test done, and we’ll take it from there.”
“Okay, thank you.” I hesitate. “I don’t want to cause trouble. But my father… I mean, Don… was not a nice man. And I just wanted…” My throat tightens, and I can’t continue.
“Death is always a shock, no matter what our relationship was like with the person when they were alive,” Edmund says. “Give yourself time to process it, especially while you’re in New Zealand. Look, I’ll get back to you shortly, okay? Let me sort out the test, then we can go from there.”
“Okay.”
“Speak soon.” He ends the call.
I sink onto the sofa, toss the phone onto the table, and put my face in my hands, then drop my head, sliding my hands into my hair. I blow out a long, shaky sigh.
After a few seconds, I pick up the phone again and pull up the photo he sent me.
I stare at it for a while, taking in every detail.
I know the brain does strange things. You can show someone a series of unconnected lines, and they will automatically fill the gaps to make a square. You decide you’re going to buy a red Ford, and suddenly you see red Fords everywhere. I want this guy to be my father, and so I’m going to look for similarities. Lots of men have dark hair and green eyes. It’s highly likely it’s a coincidence. I need to stay objective.
But it’s impossible not to see myself in his features. It’s not just the fact that his hair is dark, and his eyes are green. It’s the lift of his brow, the curve of his lips. His sense of humor, his manner.
No, I’m trying to see shapes in the clouds. I can’t do this or I’m going to get terribly hurt.
Apart from the short time I lived with Sophia, I’ve spent most of my time alone. I’m used to dealing with my problems myself, to finding ways to deal with my emotions. But something makes me think of Elora, and I find myself wanting to tell her about what’s just happened.
I know she’s going to be at the museum this morning. I promised her I’d see if I could find out about the Bell Ring, and that I’d meet her for coffee and tell her what I found out.
I think about the way our eyes met last night, and the resulting shock that passed through my nervous system. I’m attracted to her, and I’m pretty sure she’s attracted to me, too. I feel an urge to act on that and see where it takes us, but now of course it’s been overshadowed by the story her brothers revealed to me last night. They implied she’s damaged, and the last thing she needs is me to complicate matters.
Once again, though, I feel a surge of rebelliousness and resentment. I might have compared her to a butterfly last night, but for some reason what they told me has only made her stronger in my eyes, not more fragile. She suffered that horrific assault, and it’s obviously affected her, I’m not denying that. But she could have let it destroy her, and instead she picked herself up and become a successful archaeologist, living in the city, surrounded by family and friends. And she’s so fucking beautiful and spirited. I have nothing but admiration for her.
I check the time—it’s just gone ten. I need to have a shower, check my emails, and then I’ll go and see her.
*
Forty-five minutes later, I walk into the museum and pause in the foyer. I’ve done a bit of research, and I know that Fraser took over as director of the museum five years ago. At the time it was old-fashioned and losing money, as much a relic of the past as the artifacts inside it. But Fraser brought youth, energy, and enthusiasm, and after successful applications for various grants, he’s been able to repaint and redecorate the building, and has completely reorganized the exhibits. He’s in contact with lots of different museums nationally and internationally, and he’s housed several big touring exhibitions, such as mummies from Cairo, dinosaurs from South America, and Viking exhibitions from Scandinavia that have brought in the crowds.
I can see him now, walking down the central marble staircase. He’s wearing another tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows, and with his distinctive glasses he looks a lot like Harrison Ford’s Indiana Jones, when he’s in his professor mode.
“Why does it always have to be snakes?” I ask as he spots me and comes over.
His lips curve up. “Morning.”
“Morning.”
“How’s things?”
“Yeah, good. I was hoping to catch Elora.”
His eyes take on a dangerous glint. “Were you, now?”
“Ah, Fraser, come on, man. Don’t be like that. I’m off to Christchurch soon; there’s hardly time for me to cause an upset.”
“Have you seen what a tornado can do in fifteen minutes?”
I give a short laugh. “I just want to tell her about the Bell Ring.”
His eyebrows rise. “You’ve found it?”
“No. But I might know a man who has.”
He relents. “All right. She’s in the conservation room. She’s working on some bird bones for her MA.”
“Oh, fascinating.”
“Don’t be sarcastic,” he says. “Her thesis is going to be groundbreaking.”
“I wasn’t,” I say with some surprise. “I’m an archaeologist too, remember? I love osteology.”
His eyebrows rise. “Oh, yeah, I forgot.” His gaze skims down me. “You don’t dress like an archaeologist.”
“You mean I don’t have patches on my elbows? Not all archaeologists look as if they’ve stepped out of the nineteen-forties.”
“Harsh,” he says. “But there’s probably some truth in it.” He opens the door to the conservation room and goes in. “Spotted this reprobate prowling the corridors, looking for you,” he says to his sister.
I give him a wry look, then go over to where Elora’s sitting on a stool. The table in front of her is covered with bird bones, carefully laid out in the form of a giant skeleton.
“Fuck me,” I say, “is that a giant Moa?”
Her head snaps up. “Oh,” she says.
I move my gaze from the skeleton to her, and my eyebrows rise as I watch her turn the shade of a tomato.
“Morning,” I say with amusement.
“Morning.” She looks at Fraser, who’s arched an eyebrow, and drops her gaze to the skeleton. She clears her throat. “Yes, Dinornis robustus in all his glory.”
“Wow, I’ve never seen one of these.”
“It’s from a box of finds excavated from a cave in Nelson just a few months ago. I don’t think they realized what treasure was inside.”
I smile. “You’d be more excited to find moa bones than you would a coffer full of pieces of eight from a pirate ship.”
“I would,” she says. “Look at this.” She beckons me closer. “In the past, archaeologists reconstructed moa skeletons in an upright position, which was why everyone thought they were really tall. But look at their vertebral articulations. I think they probably carried their heads forward, like a kiwi. The spine would have been attached here, to the rear of the head, not the base, so they could graze on low vegetation and also lift their heads to the trees.”
“Fascinating,” I say, drawing up a stool so I can sit next to her. Fraser sits on the opposite side of the table, apparently not keen to leave me alone with her.
Ignoring him, I rest on the table, my arm close to hers, and lean forward to look at some small rings of bone where the bird’s windpipe would be. “What are these?”
“I’m glad you spotted those. They’re tracheal rings. Their trachea were up to a meter long, and they’re the only ratites that have them.”
“Ratites?”
“Sorry, it’s a group of flightless birds. Swans and cranes have them. The bones show that they probably would have had deep, resonant calls that would have traveled long distances.”
The color has faded a little from her face, and her eyes flash with passion. I love how excited she is about her discovery. It reminds me of fourteen-year-old Elora showing me the drawings of stoat skulls she’d made in her sketchbook. She’d been passionate, focused, and talented even then. And beautiful. She’d started to develop curves, and although she hadn’t been allowed to wear makeup, her stunning English-rose complexion had yet to develop any sign of teenage acne, and she’d had a soft, dewy glow that had appealed greatly to the lad who appreciated beauty in all its forms.
She’s looking at me now, her big blue eyes wide, and I realize she must have asked me a question.
“Sorry?” I say. “I was distracted for a moment. Bird bones tend to do that to me.”
Fraser snorts. Elora’s lips curve up. “I asked whether you’d had any luck with your calls and emails today.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. Good news and bad news. I heard from Tucker’s colleague. Unfortunately his friend died recently.”
“Ah, no.”
“Yeah. Apparently, the guy’s son is clearing out his house. I got the phone number of the son and called him. He lives in Arrowtown. His dad was an antique dealer and left behind lots of items. He’s going to check out some boxes and see if he can find anything.”
“Had he heard his father mention the ring?” Fraser asks.
“He said it sat on the mantelpiece in a box when he was young.”
Both of their jaws drop. “Seriously?” Elora says.
“Yeah. He hasn’t seen it for a while though. Hopefully it’s in one of those boxes.”
Her eyes light up. “That’s amazing.”
I smile. “Cross fingers we’ll hear today.”
“Did you call the Edmunds in the phone book?” Fraser asks.
I nod, and my lips twist. “It turned out to be the first one I rang.”
Elora gasps. “Linc!”
“What?”
“Oh my God, that should have been the first thing you told me.”
“I thought the ring was more important.”
She pushes me. “Of course it isn’t. This is your father we’re talking about! What happened?”
“He remembered having a fling with Mum, and when I mentioned the two weeks when I would have been conceived, he confirmed he was with her then. He did say they used contraception, but…” I shrug. “Mum said she wasn’t sleeping with Don at the time, and she’s not likely to have had an immaculate conception.”
“Linc,” Elora scolds.
“Sorry, just stating a fact.”
“What was his reaction?” Fraser asks.
“He was shocked, obviously. A bit suspicious, and again, I expected that.” I hesitate. “Then he asked me to send him a selfie. I did, and he sent me one back.” I pull the photo up on my phone.
Elora leans in to look at it. A big smile appears on her face. “Ah… I don’t believe it…”
“Show me,” Fraser says, and I turn the phone to him. His eyebrows lift, and he laughs. “Yeah, that’s pretty conclusive.”
“Well, it’s not, obviously.” I look at the photo of the man who could be my father. “But it’s promising. He’s suggested we get a paternity test done, so he’s going to send me the details of a lab, and I’ll go and get a cheek swab done. He reckons he can fast-track it.”
“Oh, I’m so pleased for you,” Elora says, and she turns and lifts her arms around my neck and hugs me.
I hug her back, conscious of Fraser’s frown. I close my eyes for a second, shutting him out, and inhale, smelling her perfume, and feeling her soft body against me. Then I release her and open my eyes.
“Yes,” I say, as if I’m completely unaffected, “so good news all around.”
“And I’ve just discovered a great moa’s tracheal rings,” Elora states, beaming. “What a wonderful day!”