Chapter 4
4
JUNE 2025 – IRELAND
Stevie Dixon
Stevie pulled into the driveway outside her mum’s house in a tiny seaside village on the outskirts of Galway, on the West Coast of Ireland, and sat for a moment, just staring at the front door. Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Landslide’ was playing on the car sound system. Her favourite song, written in 1973, long before she was born, by the woman she was named after. This all felt so strange. Sitting outside her mum’s home. Driving her mum’s car. Listening to words and music that she’d first heard when she was a child. Just another minute, until the song ended, she decided. As soon as Stevie Nicks sang the last line, she’d get out of the car and go inside. Until then, she’d sit here, putting off the moment she’d been dreading for the last three weeks since a call had brought her back to Ireland.
The game plan was holding up until a rap on the window made her scream. Caleb’s gorgeous face then appeared at the windscreen, accompanied by a thumbs up.
She rolled the window down. ‘Jesus, you scared the crap out of me there.’
‘Sorry, I thought you saw us pull up. How are you doing?’ Before she could answer, his attention went to the song he could now hear. ‘Oh no. “Landslide”. Is the emotional crisis happening or imminent?’
She sighed. ‘Both. And I really hate how well you know me. If I was your type, I’d marry you in a heartbeat.’
It was an often used joke, but there was a grain of truth in there. Caleb was funny, kind, smart, with a killer physique and face that made every head turn when he walked into a room. He was also only interested in Stevies of the male variety.
He had been her best mate since they started working together in the Emergency Department at Glasgow Central Hospital straight out of university. Leaving home, and Ireland, to study in Scotland had been a shock to the system and was only supposed to be a temporary adventure for an eighteen-year-old who wanted to try something new, but it had turned into a permanent move after university, when she’d found a job, a flat, and Caleb, a new friend she’d instantly adored. Long days and nights at the hospital had bonded them and they’d forged a friendship that had seen them through the last ten years of work, love, broken hearts, good times, terrible times and disputes over whose turn it was to cook. But this… what they were dealing with today… this was new.
Another face appeared beside the car. ‘Come on, hon. We can do this. We’ll be with you the whole time.’ Keli was the third friend in the group and she’d travelled in Caleb’s pickup from the B&B on the seafront that they were all staying in. Mum’s house was only a two bedroom, and moving in here, letting anyone sleep in Mum’s room, hadn’t felt right, even if it was Stevie’s closest pals. Keli was a nurse on the elderly ward at the hospital, but they’d struck up a conversation one night about two years ago in the staff canteen, and had been a gang of three ever since. Sunday night dinner at Keli’s parents’ house had become a regular fixture, because her Ghanian mother, Gilda, made the best food Stevie had ever tasted. Keli and Gilda had flown over from Glasgow two nights ago and looking back, Stevie could see Gilda on her phone, deep in conversation, in the passenger seat of Caleb’s pickup.
‘I’m so grateful that you and your mum are here, Kel.’
Keli shrugged that off with a soft smile. ‘We wouldn’t be anywhere else. My mum’s just taking a quick work call, then she’ll be right in.’
Stevie felt a lump begin to form at the back of her throat and swallowed it back. Not now. Not here. Time to move. Now that her friends were here, there was no putting this off any longer. Stevie Nicks would have to finish the song later. Leaning forward, she switched the car engine off, then grabbed her handbag and the large roll of black bin bags that were on the passenger seat.
Caleb opened the car door for her. ‘I’ve got the boxes in the back of my pickup, so I’ll go grab them too.’
‘I’ll help you,’ Keli offered, walking back down the drive with him to his vehicle.
Stevie got out of the car and went alone to the front door, her keys in her hand. She was thirty-three years old, and she hadn’t lived here since she was eighteen, but she still thought of it as home because it was where she’d grown up. Eight-year-old Stevie had made a tent out of old sheets on the grass in the front garden. Twelve-year-old Stevie had brought a dog home that she’d found in the street and smuggled it through this same front door. Fifteen-year-old Stevie had climbed out of the bedroom window above her, and slid down that drainpipe to go meet the boyfriend she’d fallen in love with. And no, she couldn’t remember his name now. This was the home that had shaped her – for better and for worse.
Pushing the key into the lock, she held her breath and fought the urge to retreat and leave this for another day. As soon as the door swung open the familiar smell of her mum’s favourite ‘clean linen’ diffusers assaulted her senses. Her mum’s jackets hung on the row of coat hooks in the hall. One of her handbags sat on the console table below them, next to the bowl with the spare keys, a couple of pens and some mints.
‘I’m home, Mum,’ she said, but only in her mind, because Lisa Dixon, her mother, had walked out of this house three weeks ago today, and she hadn’t come home again. The woman who had spent her whole life being scrupulously careful and measured, avoiding risks and refusing to do anything out of her comfort zone, had, in a brutal irony, been knocked down by a bus. A mini-bus, to be completely accurate.
Stevie still struggled to accept that this wasn’t some terrible joke being played by the universe, but no. To her horror and disgust, a local newspaper had shown the CCTV footage of the accident on their website. They’d stopped it a few seconds before the moment of impact, but it left nothing to the imagination. Her mum had been walking along the main street of the village, just a couple of miles from where they were now, when she’d stopped opposite the post office. Then, ignoring the pedestrian crossing only fifty metres or so away, she’d taken advantage of a gap in the traffic to walk hastily across the road. She was almost there, when a minibus came around the corner, the sun glaring off its windscreen. Stevie had read the driver’s statement. The sun was in his eyes. He hadn’t seen the woman who was dashing across the road right in front of him, only a few steps from the safety of the pavement. Stevie had spoken to the paramedics who treated her mum at the scene, but their professional opinion was that Lisa had died on impact. She, quite literally, hadn’t known what hit her. The poor minibus driver, a family man from Connemara, was haunted by what happened and Stevie’s heart went out to him. She’d spoken to him on the phone yesterday, after her mum’s funeral. He’d asked the Gardaí to pass on his number to her, and she’d been glad to call him and tell him that she bore him no ill will or blame – it was just a heartbreaking, tragic accident that he couldn’t have avoided, a split-second fluke of timing that had ended one life and changed so many others. The Gardaí had thought the same, so no charges were being pressed. It was over.
‘You okay there, Stevie?’ Keli asked, coming in the door behind her, carrying a stack of flatpack brown boxes.
Stevie flicked on the kettle and pulled a carton of milk from her bag, glad that she’d remembered to stop at the little supermarket in the village for supplies so that they could have tea while they worked.
‘Kind of,’ Stevie answered, not sure whether she was telling the truth. ‘It’s just so…’ she searched for the word and settled on, ‘…surreal. I keep waiting for her to walk in the door. Or to shout to me from upstairs.’
Keli put down the boxes and wrapped her arms around Stevie. ‘That’s to be expected. The funeral was only yesterday. You have to give yourself time.’
The funeral. It couldn’t even really be called that. After the Gardaí called her to tell her about her mum’s accident, Caleb had sprung into action. He’d packed a bag, taken some leave he had owed to him, then he’d picked her up and they’d driven down to Holyhead, in Wales, to get the ferry to Dublin. After that, they’d motored across country to Galway, to her mum’s home. The first thing Stevie had done was go into the sideboard cupboard where her mum kept all her important documents, and she’d found what she was looking for – the folder her mum used to mention on a regular basis. ‘If anything ever happens to me, all you need is in there,’ she’d say, and Stevie would dismiss her. ‘Mum, nothing is ever going to happen to you.’
But there it was, a whole folder with a sticker on the front that said:
If I Die…
Inside was all of her mum’s legal documents: birth certificate, her parents’ divorce papers, Mum’s insurance documents, her will (leaving everything to Stevie), and a note saying what Stevie should do with Lisa’s possessions. Stevie was to take whatever she wanted, then donate anything else of value. She was to keep the car if she wanted it, or sell it if she didn’t. Stevie had felt her stomach clench when it came to the section about the house. This had been her great gran’s home, the house where her mum and gran had grown up, but Lisa’s instructions had been clear:
Put the house on the market – it’s not worth much but there should be enough there to make your life a bit more comfortable.
Stevie had contemplated keeping it and renting it out, but the reality was that she had no ties to this area any more. She knew she would never come back, so having a commitment over here didn’t make sense. She’d called the local estate agent the day before the funeral and he was coming round in a couple of weeks to take photos and get the ball rolling on the sale.
‘I mean, who does that?’ she’d said to Caleb at the time. ‘Who actually puts together a whole book, at the age of fifty-something, with express wishes on every detail of both their life and their after-life? She’s even put in explicit details about the kind of funeral she wants.’
Actually though, it had all been invaluable, because it had taken all the decisions out of her hands, including yesterday’s farewell. Her mum had specified a direct cremation. No service. No mourners. They had no other close family – it had just been the two of them since her mum and dad divorced when she was five – and Mum had never been one for socialising or having close friends. She liked the people she worked with at the care home but she didn’t have ‘out of office’ friendships with them, so no one was going to be devastated that they weren’t getting an opportunity to pay their respects. In the end, the only people present had been Stevie, Caleb, and Keli and Gilda. After they’d witnessed the cremation, they’d gone for a picnic in the park and toasted her mum with wine out of plastic cups.
Now, tea was going to have to suffice. There was another noise at the door, and Caleb came in, followed by Gilda, whose outstretched arms Stevie gladly walked into.
‘We’ll get through this, sweetheart,’ Gilda said, holding on to her. It was strange. This woman gave out love and affection to anyone and everyone who needed it. Her mum had never been that way. She’d been quiet. Reserved. Stevie had never doubted that she was loved, but it didn’t come with displays of affection or gushing compliments. Sometimes, in moments of self-reflection, she wondered if that was why she was still single at thirty-three. Mum had been such a solitary, sensible person. Maybe some of that had rubbed off.
‘What can I do to help?’ Gilda asked, when she finally released her.
‘I was just about to ask the same thing,’ Caleb said, coming in with more boxes, which he dropped on top of the pile that Keli had left near the door.
Stevie took the teabags, sugar and cups from cupboards as she spoke. ‘Let’s have a cuppa first, and then I thought we’d make a start upstairs today and clear out the bedrooms. I think clearing Mum’s room will be the toughest so I’m grateful you’re all here for that one. My room is still exactly as it was when I moved out. If anyone wants a One Direction poster, they’re welcome to it.’
‘That’s my birthday present sorted,’ Caleb joked.
‘It’s yours. And then maybe next week I’ll do downstairs. It’s not going on the market for a month or so, and I’ve got another two weeks off work, so I’m not in a rush. I’ve got plenty of time – and much as I want it over with, I don’t need to do it all at once.’
‘I can try to come back—’ Caleb began. He planned to go home tomorrow, taking Keli and Gilda with him.
‘Thank you, but honestly, I’m fine. You’ve already been here with me for three weeks and I’ll never be able to thank you…’ That was so true. ‘But I can manage this by myself.’ She’d already contacted a couple of local refuges that were willing to take all the furniture, and everything else would go to the charity shop in Galway that supported the nursing home her mum worked in, so it really was just the personal stuff she wanted to keep that she would pack into Mum’s car and drive back to Glasgow.
The pot of tea she’d just brewed went in the middle of the table, next to the biscuit barrel, milk and sugar, then Stevie dished out the mugs. There was a comfortable silence while everyone sorted their drinks. She was about to take a seat, when she spotted the box on top of the sideboard on the opposite wall and felt her chest tighten.
Two gardaí had brought it round the day she’d arrived, when they’d met her here to give her the details of the accident. It contained Mum’s personal effects that she’d been carrying when she died. In Stevie’s grief, she’d put it there and then got distracted by everything else. She considered leaving it a bit longer, but then changed her mind. If she was going to open that box, she wanted to do it when she was surrounded by the people she loved who were here to support her.
Retrieving the box from the sideboard, she placed it on the table then sat in front of it, before using the end of a teaspoon to slice open the gaffer tape that held the flaps together. ‘My mum’s things. The stuff she had with her on the day of the accident,’ she explained.
‘Oh, Stevie, are you sure you want to do this right now?’ Gilda asked, and Stevie appreciated the care and concern that was written in every line and curve of this lovely woman’s face.
‘I do. Is that okay? I mean, I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable.’
Keli put her hand on Stevie’s. ‘Do whatever you need to do. That’s what we’re here for.’
Stevie opened the box, and stared at the bag inside, recognising it immediately. It was a Coach tote that she’d brought back as a gift for her mum from her holiday to New York last year. It was another difference between them. Stevie loved to travel. Her mum liked to stay home. Lisa hadn’t had an adventurous bone in her body. If Stevie had to describe her, she’d say her mum was a homebody, who was averse to taking risks, overprotective, anxious, yet emotionally cool and strangely distant. It was an odd combination of traits that Stevie had always struggled to navigate, both as a child who felt curtailed and as an adult who struggled to connect in any kind of deep way to the woman who’d given birth to her.
Removing the bag from the box, she hesitated. ‘It feels wrong to look inside. Like somehow I’m invading her privacy.’
This time it was Gilda who reassured her. ‘But you’re not, sweetheart. You’re just taking care of business. There might be something in there that your mum wanted you to have. Much as it hurts, you need to look at everything.’
Stevie knew she was right. With hands that were suddenly trembling, she opened the bag and began to remove the bigger items. Her mum’s purse. Her iPhone – with a blank screen because it was obviously out of charge.
There was a small make-up bag with lipstick and a compact in it. A hairbrush. And the next thing she pulled out was an electricity bill. ‘That explains the trip to the post office,’ Stevie said aloud. ‘She was such a technophobe. Refused to have a computer at home. She hated paying bills online. Always took them to the post office. Although, she might have been killing two birds with one stone…’
In her hand now were the last two things from the bag – two letters. Stevie checked the front of the envelopes. One was addressed to her mum, and open. The other was addressed to someone called Moira Chiles, at an address in Scotland, and it was still sealed. Two lines formed between Stevie’s eyebrows as she frowned. The writing on the front of that envelope was unmistakably her mum’s, but she didn’t recognise the name.
She held it up to show the others. ‘Moira Chiles,’ she murmured. ‘I’ve no idea who that is.’
This time it was Gilda who was first to speak. ‘Unusual name, though. The only other person I’ve ever heard of with that surname is Ollie Chiles – the actor from that Clansman show. If you laid that man down you could use his abdominal muscles as a toast rack. Not that I pay close attention.’
‘Mother!’ Keli exclaimed. ‘That’s so inappropriate.’
‘You’re right, I’m sorry,’ Gilda said, flushing. ‘I’ll close my eyes next time I see him on screen. And I’m gluten free, so I’m not interested in toast anyway.’
Stevie had zoned the conversation out, too busy concentrating on the letters. Her fingers hovered over the open one for a few seconds, before she reminded herself once again that she wasn’t invading her mother’s privacy.
Slowly, gently, she pulled out the letter inside.
‘What does it say?’ Caleb was leaning forward expectantly.
Stevie took a breath as she checked out the bottom of the page first. ‘It’s signed by someone called Moira. Must be the same person Mum was replying to in the other letter.’ She went back to the top. ‘It says… Dear Lisa and Carina … I’ve no idea who Carina is.’
‘Keep going,’ Keli encouraged her.
Stevie focused back on the paper, as she continued to read the words, her voice oozing puzzlement until she got halfway down the page, when there was mention of someone called ‘“my Ollie”.’ Gilda’s eyes widened as she exclaimed, ‘No, it can’t be? Mr Toast Rack? Surely not. What does it say next, Stevie?’
Stevie carried on, until she got to the line that stunned her into silence.
‘“Chums, do you realise that this summer, it will be exactly thirty-five years since we met in Hong Kong? July 1990. Oh my, what a time to be alive that was.”’
‘There must be some mistake,’ she whispered, more to herself than her friends.
Keli bit first. ‘Why do you think that?’
‘Because my mother was never in Hong Kong. At least, not that she ever mentioned, and surely that’s something I would know.’
She carried on reading, the confusion turning to astonishment when the writer got to the bit about a reunion. ‘“So here’s my plan… The Harbour Lights Hotel. 1 July…”’ That was the day after tomorrow. None of this was making sense. Although, the one thing Stevie knew for sure was that there was no way her mother, Lisa Dixon, would galivant off to Hong Kong. All Stevie’s life, it had been a struggle to get her mother to leave the village.
‘This definitely has to be a mistake…’ She repeated as she got to the end of the letter and the P.S. that was there. ‘Oh wait, hang on. It says there’s a photo.’
She delved back into the envelope and picked out a slightly grainy photograph of three women and a man, in what looked like a bit of a shabby room. The guy was behind what appeared to be a reception desk, so maybe the lobby of a hotel?
‘Definitely a mistake,’ she said, feeling a tad relieved. ‘My mother isn’t in the photo.’
She put both the letter and the photo down on the table, and Caleb picked up the image, studying it. ‘Wow. That’s like total nineties fashion right there and…’ He paused. Looked closer. ‘Erm, Stevie, are you sure she’s not there?’
He turned the photo around so that she could see it. ‘That woman there…’ he pointed to the female on the right of the picture, a rock chick in Doc Martin boots, with long shaggy blonde hair, her fringe coming down low over her eyebrows.
Stevie peered closer. The woman must have been early twenties or so and she was holding a cigarette in one hand…
Her mum didn’t smoke.
And a bottle of beer in the other.
Her mum didn’t drink.
And she was wearing what looked like denim hot pants and a tiny vest top.
Her mother definitely didn’t dress like that.
But the face… She froze, her gaze fixated on the woman from the shoulders up.
‘She looks like you,’ Caleb said softly, and Stevie felt goosebumps pop up as the realisation dawned.
‘Oh. My. Holy. Crap. That’s my mum.’
For what felt like hours, she just stared, unable to process or make sense of this. It still had to be a mistake. Yes. Had to be. Didn’t it?
The other letter on the table, the one addressed to Moira Chiles, written in her mum’s handwriting, began calling out to her. That might have the answer.
Stevie snatched it up and hurriedly opened it, before unfolding the single sheet of paper inside.
Dear Moira,
I’ve missed you too, pal. And you’re right – my first instinct was that this wasn’t a good idea. But sod it, maybe it’s time I made a couple of bad decisions. I’ll see you there.
Love, Lisa x
If her mother rang the doorbell right now, Stevie wouldn’t have been more astonished than she felt in this moment.
According to these letters, her mum once lived in Hong Kong. She had friends there. She was planning to visit them in a couple of days. And they knew her when she was a smoking, drinking, sexy rock chick. Who the hell was this Lisa? Because she bore no resemblance to the restrained, reserved, loner, low-key mother who had brought her up. Her mind was spinning, running back and forward across the letters, the photo, the shock of it all.
‘This is crazy,’ Caleb exclaimed, picking up the photo again.
‘I mean, I can see that’s your mum there, but who are these women? What’s the story here?’
Stevie didn’t answer for the longest time, until one thought bubbled to the surface of her mind, then came out of her mouth before she could stop it.
‘I’ve no idea. But is it bonkers that I kind of want to go to Hong Kong and find out?’