One Winter Morning Read online

  David went to see a grief counsellor after Anna died, and later tried his best to pass on some of the coping strategies she taught him. I was reluctant to listen, just as I had been adamant that I would not seek any help, but I find his words coming to mind now. There is no secret trick to combating your feelings of loss, but a good place to start is by doing something – anything – just to prove to yourself that you can. That could be as simple as cleaning your teeth, or vacuuming the lounge. With each action, a task has been completed. You may feel broken, but you are still there, still capable of movement and of achievements.

  Sitting here now, I find that it is enough to simply sip my beer and watch the slanting sunlight. There is nothing else I need to do, and that is OK. For once, the nothing can be my something.

  I’m still cast adrift in my own mind when a collective gasp snaps me out of it, and I look up to see a group of paragliders, each one swooping gracefully down from the top of one of the vast hills. They’re so high that they could easily have been mistaken for birds, and as I watch them dip and swirl and buffet through the still air, I imagine how I must look to those strapped inside – how small and insignificant in a landscape bustling with life.

  The sinking sun has cast a pale pink glow across the clouds above the lake – they look like candyfloss spun right out of the heavens. I stare out from my secluded spot and watch as a passing flock of real birds dives down to wash their delicate feathers in the shifting indigo water.

  I don’t know whether it’s the lack of sleep, or the alcohol, but as I sit here, for once letting everything I’m witnessing simply settle over me, I realise that I am beginning to feel the whispers of something that I haven’t felt for a long time.

  Hope.

  6

  It is purely by chance that I spot him.

  My first full day in New Zealand begins with a very large brunch at a café tucked away down a side street. I end up lingering far longer than I can make my second cup of coffee last to take advantage of the free Wi-Fi and scroll through each of my social media accounts in turn, scan-reading posts and double-tapping to like pictures. It occurs to me then that one of the best things about being this far away from home is the anonymity it offers, because surely nobody here in Queenstown will work out that I’m linked to the other Evangeline, even if we do share some of the same physical attributes.

  After eventually settling the bill, I make my way towards the glistening sweep of Lake Wakatipu, wondering as I do so if my biological mother knows anything about the link between myself and my fictional counterpart – and if so, what she makes of it all. Would the fact that the stories are centred around an abandoned child cause her to feel guilt, or is she too self-centred to be sentimental about the baby she gave away? I have tried so many times to peer into the gaping hole that she left in my life, but never found anything there but emptiness. David and Anna played the role of parents with unfailing kindness and love, but they have only ever been able to fill up half of that wide-open space inside me. The rest remains vacant, waiting to be filled by something – anything – resembling truth.

  I reach Queenstown’s main harbour area and stroll down to the narrow strip of beach, where the curved tongue of the lake meets the shore. The sun is at full mast, and I watch a group of girls lay out their towels and strip down to their bikinis. I put on a blue-and-white striped sundress with oversized pockets on the front today, which is long enough to hide my pale thighs, but lightweight enough to prevent an episode of sunstroke. After bending myself into the shape of a paperclip this morning in an attempt to apply sun cream to my back, I gave up and instead unearthed a plain white T-shirt to wear under the dress as a cover-up.

  According to the weather app on my phone, it’s close to thirty degrees on this beach – and it feels it, too. Moisture is collecting on the nape of my neck, and I pause for a moment to tie my hair back into a ponytail. When I was small, Anna used to plait my hair for me before bed. I can still recall how comforted I felt under the gentle touch of her fingers, and I allowed my hair to grow longer as I got older in a bid to draw those moments out. Now, I can’t bring myself to get it cut, even though it’s almost long enough to sit on.

  I distract myself by staring out across the lake, gazing with unseeing eyes at the jagged light dancing across the surface of the water and the vast irregular shapes of the Southern Alps, which are shimmering in the far distance. Anna would have loved it here. She would have been charmed by the quaint but bustling atmosphere of this town and she would have exclaimed over every little detail, pointing out all the things that I will no doubt overlook.

  Feeling the familiar throb of unshed tears, I turn my back on the view and hurry across a small bridge, which leads me into a densely wooded park on the opposite shore of the lake. It is a relief to step into the dappled shade of the oak trees and breathe in their earthy scent, and I feel able to remove my sunglasses for the first time since leaving the café. I can hear birds chirping to one another in the canopy of leaves above me as I walk on, and every person I pass looks relaxed and contented. Whether it’s the heat or the simple beauty of this setting, I don’t know, but it doesn’t take long before my emotions settle down again. There is peace here, the lake seems to whisper, and when I venture through the trees and down the stone-strewn bank, I see a sheath of clouds reflected in its surface.

  The Maori people call New Zealand Aotearoa, which means ‘the land of the long white cloud’, and I am beginning to understand why. There is space for such natural creations here, room for everyone and everything to stretch and spread out. Perhaps that is why it feels so relaxed. Back at home, everything is jumbled and stacked together, including the clouds.

  I see the minibus after I have finished exploring Queenstown Gardens and am making my way back through the centre of town. My heart leaps instantly into my throat when I clock the name emblazoned in bold green letters across its side. Those same two words – Koru Stables – are written at the top of the piece of paper that David gave me; the note bearing the address of my biological mother. I admit, I was immediately intrigued by the fact that my birth mother, similarly to me, had chosen to spend her life surrounded by horses. I had always wondered if I had inherited my passion from her, or even from my father, whoever he was – so when I found out about Koru Stables, I was grudgingly comforted to know that I had been right. Plus, I figured there was more chance of finding common ground with this woman if we had at least some of the same interests. If only I wasn’t so afraid to face her.

  A complex tangle of intrigue and fear keeps me rooted to the spot, and as I stand there, a group of people appear from the open doorway of a hotel a few yards in front of me. They are led by a tall, dark-haired man with the broad-shouldered build of a rugby player, who smiles widely as he unlocks the side door of the minibus and slides it open.

  ‘In you get, folks,’ he says, nodding at each of them as they clamber into their seats. Bringing up the rear is a teenage girl with a spread of wiry dark hair and a puppy in her arms the colour of apricots. She seems a bit unsteady on her feet, as if she’s wearing shoes two sizes too big, and the same burly man offers her an arm so that she can lever herself up into the passenger seat more easily.

  I know from a Google search at the café this morning that Koru Stables is in Glenorchy, which is close to Queenstown, but not close enough to risk bumping into my errant parent on the street. That element of distance had comforted me until now, and my plan was to spend a few days acclimatising before finding my way to the yard. I definitely did not expect to come across someone who is presumably a member of staff from the stables before I was ready, and now it feels as if the rug of perceived security has been yanked out from under me. All I can do is watch, open-mouthed and immobile, as the man steering the van toots its horn and drives away.

  7

  As soon as the minibus disappears from view, I’m struck with a powerful urge to run after it. I picture myself tearing along the pavement in my sandals, ducking in and out
of backpackers, my hand raised while I shout for the driver to stop and let me on.

  I am being ridiculous.

  But then, perhaps I should go to the stables now? Get the whole uncomfortable encounter with my birth mother over with?

  Buoyed by a sudden flush of courage, I hurry to the rank of idle taxis on the main road and practically throw myself into the back seat of one.

  ‘Koru Stables, Paradise Valley, please,’ I say, and the driver turns, eyeing my dress.

  ‘Do you want to get changed first?’ he asks. ‘I can run you to your hotel on the way?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ I reply, my words rushing out across his. ‘I’m not going there to ride, so don’t worry.’

  This seems to satisfy him, but I register definite confusion on his face as he puts the car into gear and drives us out of Queenstown. I sit quietly, taking one deep breath after another to steady myself, but when we reach the highway to the right of the lake, I begin to baulk.

  What am I thinking, rushing in like this without a proper plan? This woman might well be my mother, but that doesn’t mean she won’t turf me out. The last time she saw me I was little more than a few hours old, according to David, and even if she does believe me when I tell her who I am, she may still want nothing to do with me. She has stayed away for all this time, and while things may have changed drastically in my life, her own might be nice and settled just the way it is, without my interruption.

  Then again, I counter stubbornly, what does it really matter what she wants? The baby she chose to leave behind is a grown woman now – and that woman needs answers. Hell, I deserve answers. That is what I’ll do – I will ask politely for a private word, then I’ll tell her who I am and ask her what happened, why she gave me away, and who my real father is. I have to believe that the sooner I have these fundamental questions answered, the sooner I can begin to fill that empty space inside myself.

  Almost as soon as I convince myself, however, I am assailed by thoughts of Anna, of what she would think if she could see me now. Am I being disloyal to her memory simply by being here? But even if I am, is that enough of a reason to turn and run? I can’t do that now, not after coming all this way. I have to see this thing through, even if it does feel like a betrayal.

  ‘Not far now,’ the driver says cheerfully, half an hour later, his eyes flicking to the rear-view mirror as I fidget and fret in my seat. I hear loose stones crunching under the wheels and, looking out of the window, I’m thrown by the sight of horses grazing in a wide, wood-fenced meadow. It’s been ages now since I have been this close to them, so I suppose I should have been prepared to feel a wobble.

  We pull up at the end of a gated driveway, and the driver turns to face me, an apologetic expression on his face.

  ‘I can’t take the car along there,’ he explains. ‘Are you cool to walk the last part?’

  ‘Yes, sure. Of course,’ I say quickly, fumbling in my bag for my purse.

  It’s only as I watch him edge away in a cloud of dust that I realise my error. I’m on the edge of a dirt track, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by fields, trees and mountains, and I have just let my only means of getting back to Queenstown drive off and leave me here.

  ‘Shit,’ I say to a passing butterfly, only to giggle manically as the word vibrates harshly in the silent air. I feel like I’m cracking up at the moment – all this crying one minute then laughing the next.

  Taking a deep, anxiety-quashing breath, I hitch up my dress, clamber over the gate, and start along the stony pathway beyond, not looking at the horses on either side of me. The powerful heat seems to intensify as I walk, pressing against my shoulders like a pair of insistent hands that I can’t shrug off, and I can feel sweat beginning to bead on my upper lip.

  It is beautiful here in this wilderness, but I can’t seem to process the shapes and colours properly. My mind is narrowed in its focus, blinkered to all but the task ahead, and so I find it easier to simply stare down at my moving feet than at the landscape around me.

  I push my way under a thicket of trees at the far end of the driveway, and once through, spot what looks like a small yard of sorts up ahead. There are twelve or so stables arranged in a horseshoe shape around a large paved area, and I count six horses tethered to a wooden rail, each one tacked up ready to be ridden. In a small paddock to the right of the yard, a woman of around my age is schooling a lively-looking bay, its black tail swishing away the flies on its bronze flanks as it circles, snorting with irritation, through the dust.

  The group I saw climbing into the minibus back in Queenstown are all here, too, lined up not far from a mounting block, each of them clad in matching borrowed hats and boots. There is no sign of the teenage girl with the little dog or the dark-haired man who was driving the van, but as I make my tentative way across the dry, dusty earth towards the rest of the tourists, he strolls out from what looks to be an office, clocks me lingering, and promptly heads in my direction.

  ‘You all right there?’ he calls, his clipped but strong Kiwi accent immediately apparent. Now that he’s drawing closer to me, I can see a complicated pattern of tattoos decorating his arms. He has an open, friendly face, with paler eyes than I was expecting topped by thick, black brows, a chiselled chin, wide nose and healthy spread of dark stubble. The white short-sleeved shirt he’s wearing is branded with the same lettering and Koru Stables logo as the minibus, and his red shorts are streaked with dirt.

  He’s about to draw level with me, and I have yet to answer his question.

  ‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Do you speak English?’

  He’s right in front of me now. His eyes are the faintest green.

  ‘Yes,’ I manage. ‘Sorry, I just. I was just …’

  I trail off clumsily, and the man’s smile of welcome droops a fraction at the edges. He’s looking at me now as if he recognises me, which makes me feel even more flustered than I was in the taxi. To buy myself some time, I feign a small coughing fit, then take a deep breath and force my features into what I hope is a confident expression.

  ‘I wonder if you can help me?’ I say politely, hearing the tremble in my voice. ‘I’m looking for Bonnie, Bonnie Moon. I was under the impression that she works here.’

  ‘That’s right,’ he says, folding his sturdy arms across his chest.

  ‘Is she here?’ I ask, standing on tiptoes in order to peer cautiously over his shoulder towards the yard. Half the assembled group from the bus have mounted their steeds now, and one of the horses has promptly carried its helpless rider over to a patch of grass and dropped its head down to eat.

  ‘Pull one rein hard,’ I want to instruct, but keep my tongue tucked firmly behind my teeth.

  ‘You a friend of hers, then, eh?’ the man asks now, and this time my reply is a sad sort of sigh.

  ‘It’s …’ I begin, seeing him narrow his eyes. He doesn’t look confused by my random blathering so much as curious, and I’m encouraged by the fact that his smile is yet to fade completely.

  ‘She knows me, yes, but it’s complicated,’ I say, trying to appeal to him with my eyes. ‘I just really need to speak to her – and I’ve come a long way,’ I hasten, as if that much was not already obvious from my pale skin and British accent, which has for some reason become more like that of the Queen since I started talking to him.

  ‘What’s your name, then?’ he wants to know, his arms still crossed. ‘Might Bonnie have mentioned you?’

  I very much doubt that she would have.

  ‘Genie,’ I tell him, offering my hand. ‘Genie Nash.’

  ‘Kit,’ he replies, shaking it. His hand is so large that my own completely disappears within its grasp.

  ‘And you’re from England?’ he checks.

  I nod.

  ‘Well, that’s just plain weird,’ he says, unfolding his arms and scratching behind his ear, ‘because Bonnie actually left for England two days ago.’

  8

  Bonnie

  Bonnie closed the bedroom door and s
at down at the desk. The curtains were pulled across the window, but she could hear the lashing of rain against the glass and was grateful for its gentle disruption in the otherwise silent space.

  She had got herself to England, and that alone felt almost unreal to Bonnie, because she’d sworn she would never come back. That was life, though – unpredictable, unfathomable and undeniable. All you could do was strap yourself in and hope for the best. Her father would have called it ‘rolling with the punches’, but Bonnie had never cared much for that phrase. Why was it that people so often plotted the route of their lives from one hurt to the next, rather than focusing on the moments of happiness, or love? She knew that she was guilty of the former, but while there had been darkness in Bonnie’s life, there had also been light, and it was this that had taught her the most about herself.

  When Bonnie had touched down at Heathrow Airport earlier that same day, the courage that had got her on to the plane deserted her, leaving nothing in her tank for what she had planned to do next. Instead of taking the Piccadilly Line to King’s Cross, where she could catch a train up north to Cambridge, Bonnie had stalled for the best part of an hour in the arrivals lounge, before eventually opting for a taxi. A taxi that she instructed to drive in the opposite direction.

  The gap between herself and her reason for coming to England still felt too great. She needed to bridge it somehow, create not an olive branch but a whole tree – one that she could then use to make her approach. Bonnie knew her time was limited, but she also knew that it would be foolish to rush something so important. This was the best chance she had at explaining herself, and she must take it.