Who Were You?

Book summary

Ros Mathieson, a journalist from New Zealand, embarks on a journey to uncover her late grandmother's mysterious past in Scotland. Amid tensions with a persistent colleague, Ros discovers her grandmother's diaries in Dundee, which may hold the answers to her family's hidden history. "Who Were You?" explores the depths of family secrets and personal discoveries.

Excerpt from Who Were You?

Wellington, New Zealand

2016

I stand in the doorway and stare at the empty armchair. You chose that floral chintz material to match the pale pink walls. Sunlight streams in through the bay window and bathes your chair in an aura of light. In my mind I hear your voice. ‘How was your day, sweetheart?’

Curling myself into a ball, I lean my head against the chair’s wing and breathe in your favourite scent, After the Rain, made on the Scottish Island of Arran. Aunt Viv in Dundee sends you a bottle every Christmas, and only the other day I found last year’s bottle, half full, on your dressing table.

My thoughts roll back until I’m fourteen again. You and I are on the ferry going over to the South Island. How excited we both are when the Aranui docks in Picton, to the raucous calls of the gulls and the lapping of the water against the ship’s keel. Even at that time in your middle sixties, you had the wonderful gift of remaining a child at heart. The memory of that day brings a lump to my throat and I wipe away a stray tear. ‘How will I go on without you?’ I whisper, the words wrung out of me as the silence closes in.

It hits me then that you never spoke about your life in Scotland before you came to New Zealand, and I know nothing about your childhood. How I wish I’d asked you more, but it’s too late now. You’ve gone and taken your secrets with you.

I drag myself into the kitchen to make some dinner. The food is tasteless, and I simply push the pasta and salad around on my plate. The past three weeks have been hard, but this is my worst day yet. Elva warned me that this would happen when the initial shock wore off.

Must write to Aunt Viv. Should have done it by now. It’s going to be hard to find the right words, but she’s your best friend and needs to know. I return to the living room and take an airmail letter out of the desk drawer. Then, pen in hand, I start to write.

2nd November, 2016

Dear Aunt Viv

I hope you still remember me, Ros Mathieson, although you haven’t seen me since I was a small child. This is the hardest letter I’ve ever had to write. I’ve put it off for the last three weeks, but I can’t do so any longer. I must let you know what has happened … 

CHAPTER TWO

Despite sleeping poorly, I waken before my alarm. I shower, dress and eat breakfast in record time. Then I put out food and water for Smoky and he meows his thanks, before climbing through the cat flap on the kitchen door to go and explore the big outdoors. There are no major hold-ups on the drive into work and I stop off at the Post Office on Cuba Street and drop my letter to Aunt Viv into the overseas mail-box.

When I walk into our office on the twentieth floor of Alston Tower, Ted Downie gives me a smile. ‘Hi, Ros, how’re you today?’

‘Fine,’ I say, even though my head is all over the place. I hang up my jacket on the ancient coat stand, which resembles the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I watch the stand swaying under the weight of my light cotton jacket and hold my breath, certain that one of these days that stand’s going to topple over. When it remains upright, I go to my desk which adjoins Ted’s, our laptops positioned back-to-back.

‘I see our new reporter is already in with Charlie.’ I nod towards the outline of the two men, visible through the vertical blinds covering the glass partition, which separates the editor’s room and the main office. I’ve always found Charlie Nunn an approachable boss, and encouraging to young staff like me.

‘Yep, he was here when I got in, must have arrived at the crack of dawn.’ Ted, who misses nothing, peers across at me over the top of his specs. ‘Are you sleeping alright, kiddo?’

I make do with a nod. Despite wearing eye make-up, I guess the puffy, red eyes are a dead give-away. But I say nothing; I hate crying in front of others, preferring to keep the proverbial stiff upper lip.

Elva says I bottle things up too much and I guess maybe she’s right.

Ted is our senior crime reporter, and he’s been kind to me as a young trainee. Almost like a dad. He’s known for his habit of poaching other people’s ideas, but I’m sure he doesn’t think my work is worth poaching. I’ve found him to be the real deal, and genuinely concerned about how I’m coping following my bereavement.

Keen to get our conversation ended before I burst into tears, I’m glad when Matt Armstrong comes into the office. ‘Morning,’ he says, and drops his backpack on to the floor, then throws his jacket and baseball cap over the back of his seat. As second in line to Charlie, Matt has been selected as my mentor, and I must submit my articles to him for proofreading.

Matt heads over now with one of my manuscripts in his hands, his pencilled scrawl visible in the margins. ‘This is the piece you showed me yesterday, Ros. It’s fine apart from the few alterations I’ve suggested.’ He stands close to me as he’s speaking, and I discreetly draw back from him. I’m never sure what food Matt consumes, but his breath stinks and makes me feel nauseous. I’d like to speak to him about his problem, but bad breath isn’t an easy subject to discuss, is it? Think I’d need to have a few glasses of wine to be brave enough to broach it.

Just then Charlie emerges from his office, with the new guy in tow.

‘Let me introduce Simon Leggat, ex Christchurch Herald,’ he says.

On first glance, I reckon over a metre and a half tall, inky black hair tending to curl at the ends, and piercing blue eyes. Even before he reaches us, I feel overpowered by the reek of after-shave, as if he’s thrown half the bottle over himself. Strikes me at once that he looks very confident and self-assured. Lucky devil.

Charlie turns to Simon. ‘You and Ted have already met. And this is Ros Mathieson and Matt Armstrong.’

‘Welcome to the team,’ Matt says, holding out his hand to the newcomer.

Simon shakes hands with each of us in turn. ‘Good to meet you guys, although I apologise in advance that I’ll probably get your names mixed up.’

Ted shrugs. ‘No worries, unless of course if you call me Ros.’

When the laughter subsides, Charlie directs Simon to the empty desk. ‘Everything you need should be in the drawers or your filing cabinet. Once you’ve sorted yourself out, Matt can show you where Personnel is, so you can fill in any necessary forms. We need to make sure you’re on the payroll before you do any work.’ Laughing at his own joke, Charlie returns to his room.

The silence is punctuated only by phones ringing as we concentrate on our various tasks. Trawling through the messages that have been left for me, I see that Charlie has assigned me to run a report on a house fire that occurred over the weekend in an inner-city suburb. Two family members died, while two others are in the Burns Unit at Wellington Hospital. I type out a first draft, using the sketchy material Charlie has given me.

When he hears me sigh, Ted takes off his specs and looks over at me. ‘The boss said he was going to put you on to the weekend’s fire story. Having problems?’

‘There’s so little to go on. Think I might go over to the hospital?’

Ted rubs his nose and stares down at the keyboard for a moment. ‘Don’t think they’ll tell you much but it’s worth a try.’

I get up and put on my jacket. ‘Anyone need anything while I’m out?’

Matt holds out a five dollar note. ‘A sandwich please, Ros, anything but egg mayo.’

***

‘I’m Ros Mathieson from The Wellington Post,’ I tell the receptionist in the Burns Unit, holding out my ID badge. ‘I was hoping to have a word with the patients from the Coburg fire.’ My eyes latch on to her earrings, which remind me of giant curtain rings.

‘I’m afraid not. The police are here waiting to speak to them.’

‘Can I at least have a try?’

She shrugs, her earrings swinging around. ‘Okay, but I wouldn’t hold out much hope. Turn left and it’s straight down the corridor.’

I only get a few yards before I’m stopped by a big, burly policeman. ‘Whoa, and where do you think you’re going?’

My reply is to once again take out my reporter’s ID from The Post. ‘I’m keen to get a word with the injured from the fire.’

‘No way. They aren’t even well enough to speak to us yet.’

I turn on my best pleading look. ‘Can you give me any information?’

His eyes smile warmly, but I’m unsure if he’s being pleasant or feeling sorry for me.

‘You can print that no reason has been found yet for the blaze and that the two people rescued from the building are being looked after in hospital. That’s as much as I can give you.’

Aware it’s as much as he’s going to give, I say thanks and leave.

Back at the office, I place a cheese and chutney sandwich on Matt’s desk, and beside it the change from his five dollars.

Ted looks up as I approach my desk. ‘Any joy?’

I shake my head. ‘No more than what we already know.’

***

At midday I sprint along to The Lavender, our usual haunt, where my best friend, Elva Kahui, is seated at the table. I return her wave and weave my way over.

Elva and I have been besties since we started as 11-year-old pupils in the first grade at St Serf’s Girls’ Grammar in Wellington. Our close friendship has continued, and we meet for lunch a couple of times a week.

Situated here on Cuba Street, The Lavender is conveniently close to both Alston Tower and Wellington Hospital, where Elva is secretary to a cardio-thoracic surgeon. The café lives up to its name with lilac and white gingham tablecloths and lilac frilly blinds.