Tracy Buchanan - My Sister’s Secret

‘What’s this?’ I ask.

‘Just some junk mail.’

‘But it’s addressed to me, why would I get post here?’ I say. ‘And why would you open it if it was addressed to me?’

Aunt Hope shrugs. ‘I didn’t notice your name on it.’

I open the bag wider, sorting through the rubbish until I come across what looks like an invitation.

To Willow,

You are invited to a private viewing of

Niall Lane’s next exhibition:

The Charity Collection , a Retrospective and

Commemoration.

10th August 2016

7pm

Brighton Museum & Art Gallery

Beneath the text is a beautiful photograph of a tree that appears to be underwater with an etching in the bark.

I look up at my aunt. ‘This is the same symbol that’s on the necklace. And have you seen what this photographer called his collection? What’s this all about, Aunt Hope? Is there something you’re trying to hide from me?’

‘Oh, you’re so dramatic, Willow. There’s nothing to hide.’

‘But why would you throw the invite away?’

She shrugs. ‘It was yesterday, too late for you to go.’

I squeeze the invitation in between my fingers in frustration. Deep breaths, Willow, deep breaths. ‘How is this photographer connected to Mum?’

‘He was just some kid who had a thing for her a long time ago,’ my aunt says, dismissively waving her thin hand in the air.

‘What do you mean a thing ?’

‘Your mother had lots of admirers. It was nothing.’ She stands up, wiping the dust off her long skirt. ‘I’m going to put some soup on for us.’

‘Why can you never be straight with me, Aunt Hope? She’s my mum! It’s like you’re jealous of her memory.’

She shoots me a cold, withering look then leaves the room. I quickly pull my phone from my pocket, Googling ‘Niall Lane’. A photographer’s website appears at the top of the results page. I click on the link and a page with dozens of photos materialises, all of submerged forests, underwater trees or ghostly tree stubs littered across vast beaches. They’re beautiful, eerie and atmospheric.

I click on the ‘About Niall’ page. The description is brief:

Niall Lane is a renowned underwater photographer whose photographs are exhibited around the world. His Charity Collection has won a number of industry awards.

There’s a black and white photo of a rugged-looking man in his fifties. A memory suddenly comes to me of digging up pebbles on Busby-on-Sea’s beach around the time I lost my parents. I try to grasp at the memory before it slips away again. There’s so little I remember from my time with my parents that when a hint comes, I’m desperate to gather it in. I close my eyes, press my fingers into my temples, willing the memory to hold steady.

There! A man. Tall, very tanned, dark hair shaved close to his head. He was dressed in a wetsuit, a camera hanging from his right hand, dark tattoos scrawled all over his arm. I remember him because he grabbed Mum’s arm while they were talking.

It was him. Niall Lane! Many years younger but definitely him.

I click around the site then find a map featuring all the locations where Niall Lane has taken photographs. I peer closer at the map. It’s hand-drawn, small illustrated trees marking the location of various places. Another memory stirs.

I dart upstairs.

‘Where are you going?’ I hear my aunt call up after me.

I ignore her, pulling the loft hatch down and climbing the stairs attached to it. There are only a few boxes up here. I pull the closest one over and open it. Inside are some of Mum’s counselling books – except for one book, old and musty-smelling with a green cover, a fish symbol overlaid on it: Submerged Forests by Clement Reid. I open it and there it is, the map folded in four. I pull it out and unfold it, laying it on the floor. It’s the size of an A5 piece of paper and seems quite old. I take it downstairs and show it to my aunt.

‘Why is there a picture of this on that photographer’s website?’

Her brow furrows as she takes the map. ‘It was your mother’s. She wanted to visit all the submerged forests in the world. Silly notion.’

‘Why does Niall Lane have it on his website?’

‘They used to dive together. He must have taken a photograph of it.’

‘Mum dived?’ I ask, incredulous. ‘Why wouldn’t you tell me? It makes no sense!’

‘We all did. We spent our childhoods by the sea, remember.’

‘So this photographer and Mum used to hang out when they were kids?’

She nods.

‘They must have been close,’ I say.

‘Back then, yes. But they were children.’

‘Then why did Mum have the necklace in her bag the night she died? She wasn’t a kid then.’

My aunt hands the map back to me. ‘Why torture yourself with all these questions, Willow? The past is the past.’

‘It’s my past. Why are you being so elusive?’

‘Honestly, the way you read into things.’

‘And the way you hide things. Like those photos of Mum I found the day I moved out, all those blank sections.’ I scrutinise her face. ‘You’re not being honest with me.’

‘This isn’t an episode of EastEnders, Willow .’

‘Really? You’d make a good actress, the amount of times you’ve lied to me.’

She shakes her head. ‘I can’t listen to this nonsense. I’m going to finish tidying the dining room, your soup’s in the kitchen.’

I don’t sleep all night. I’m in my old room but it’s a ghost of what it once was, the sea-themed wallpaper faded, the cream carpet filthy. So I get up and pace the freezing house. I eventually end up in the garden. It’s very early, mist still a sheen over the grass, the air very still and quiet. There’s a sheet of grey clouds above, one indiscernible from the other. I walk the length of the garden. It seems to go on forever, a two-tier fence running around its edges to mark it from the rest of the land.

There’s a patio area just outside the house that’s overrun with weeds now. A beautiful sundial sits at the centre of the patio and, to the side, a large gazebo with circular benches. The rest of the garden is simple, a long green lawn that’s like a meadow now, grass shin high. Around it, beneath the fence, are tangled roses. And then, right at the end, a huge willow tree that seems to have doubled in size since the last time I saw it.

My heart clenches as I notice the swing swaying below it. Dad made that for me. No big deal for some dads. But it was for mine. He usually got other people to do stuff like that, but he’d sanded down the wooden seat with his own hands, painted it glossy white with red stars then attached the ropes.

I sit on the swing, feet still on ground so I don’t break it as I sway back and forth. I close my eyes, try to imagine Dad pushing me.

Then out of the corner of my eye, I notice something in the tree’s bark. I lean closer and there it is:

Willow and Daddy

1996

The year the ship sank. Sobs build up inside and I put my hand to my mouth.

‘Oh, Dad,’ I whisper.

When I walk back inside, I’m surprised to see my aunt standing at the table. She’s usually an early riser but never this early. She’s looking down at the map I found, her grey eyes glassy with tears. When she notices me, she quickly folds it up.

‘Was Mum serious about visiting all these submerged forests?’ I ask, more gently than before.

‘She was just a kid,’ she says dismissively.

‘Was it the submerged forest off Busby’s coast that sparked her interest?’

Aunt Hope takes a sip of her tea. ‘That wasn’t discovered until we were older.’ She peers up at me. ‘In fact, it was your parents who discovered the forest.’