hear life is so tough at the moment. Thinking of you. Call me if you want to talk?
So I’m not the only one with a fantasy life!! Thank God!! I’m married to Brad Pitt in mine LOL!!!!!!
The final one was from the radio-station manager in Port Pirie, where Victoria had first started working in radio ten years earlier. Angela had forgotten Keith was even on her mailing list.
Great read, Angela, thanks. Have been wondering how Victoria was getting on. Awful situation in Sydney, she’s best out of it. Ask her to give me a call if she’s ever back in SA?
She jumped as Nick came in behind her, carrying a coffee. She hurriedly pressed a key. Instead of her email closing down, a YouTube video started playing. One of Nick’s. An online documentary about Irish emigration, a man on a waterfront talking into the camera, while sad music played in the background. She pressed some more keys. Finally, her email closed. This was how it must have happened on 1 December, she realised. Hitting the wrong key by mistake. Send instead of delete . . .
‘We might need to think about getting another computer,’ Nick said. ‘It’ll be like Grand Central Station in here once the twins are home, even temporarily.’
He knew about Victoria’s work situation, but Angela still hadn’t told him Genevieve’s news. Here was her chance. A moment to have a normal husband–wife conversation, be parents together . . .
She filled him in. She could see he was concerned.
‘So they’re both back for good?’
‘For a while at least.’
‘That’ll cause a stir around here.’
Not as big a stir as her letter. She had to tell him about it. Tell all of them. It couldn’t wait.
She cleared her throat. ‘I was thinking we should have a family meeting after dinner tonight. A proper catch-up. I could get the twins on Skype too. Just to talk over everything that’s going on. We’ve a busy few weeks ahead of us: the party, Celia arriving —’
‘I can’t tonight, sorry. I’ve got a conference call with a few of the international Gillespie cousins, to talk about the reunion. It’s been difficult to arrange, with all the different time zones.’
‘Of course. That’s fine,’ Angela said. She’d tried. And failed. ‘We can leave it for now. Have the catch-up another night.’
She stood up, went to the door and stopped. No, it wasn’t fine. He had to know. Even if the others had to wait.
‘Nick?’
He couldn’t hear her. The YouTube video was playing too loudly. He was already back emailing Carol.
Angela left without speaking.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Twenty minutes later, Nick finished writing his email to Carol and pressed send. There was no going back now. He’d just confirmed it. The reunion was going ahead.
It was hard to believe. Six months ago, he’d thought life held nothing for him. That it was all over. Every night, while Angela slept beside him, he’d lain awake for hours, trying to quell a rising panic, or lift himself out of the feeling of despair. Each day, his mind went over and over the same defeated thoughts. He was a failure.
It was all he could think about, yet he couldn’t talk about it: to Angela, to his friends, to anyone. Until the sleeplessness got so bad, he went to his long-time doctor in Port Augusta to ask for sleeping tablets. Dr Mitchell asked him why.
‘Take your time,’ he said. ‘You’re my last patient for the day.’
That simple statement triggered something. Nick started talking. He told him everything. About the situation on the station. The money worries. The constant anxiety. The insomnia. The feeling of despair. The emptiness. What it was like to go from being constantly busy to having nothing to do.
Dr Mitchell summed it up in one word: depression.
‘You’re one of thousands, I’m sorry to say, Nick,’ he said. ‘You can’t go through what you’ve been through with the drought and not pay for it in some way. It can be as stressful having nothing to do as a lot to do. Humans
So I’m not the only one with a fantasy life!! Thank God!! I’m married to Brad Pitt in mine LOL!!!!!!
The final one was from the radio-station manager in Port Pirie, where Victoria had first started working in radio ten years earlier. Angela had forgotten Keith was even on her mailing list.
Great read, Angela, thanks. Have been wondering how Victoria was getting on. Awful situation in Sydney, she’s best out of it. Ask her to give me a call if she’s ever back in SA?
She jumped as Nick came in behind her, carrying a coffee. She hurriedly pressed a key. Instead of her email closing down, a YouTube video started playing. One of Nick’s. An online documentary about Irish emigration, a man on a waterfront talking into the camera, while sad music played in the background. She pressed some more keys. Finally, her email closed. This was how it must have happened on 1 December, she realised. Hitting the wrong key by mistake. Send instead of delete . . .
‘We might need to think about getting another computer,’ Nick said. ‘It’ll be like Grand Central Station in here once the twins are home, even temporarily.’
He knew about Victoria’s work situation, but Angela still hadn’t told him Genevieve’s news. Here was her chance. A moment to have a normal husband–wife conversation, be parents together . . .
She filled him in. She could see he was concerned.
‘So they’re both back for good?’
‘For a while at least.’
‘That’ll cause a stir around here.’
Not as big a stir as her letter. She had to tell him about it. Tell all of them. It couldn’t wait.
She cleared her throat. ‘I was thinking we should have a family meeting after dinner tonight. A proper catch-up. I could get the twins on Skype too. Just to talk over everything that’s going on. We’ve a busy few weeks ahead of us: the party, Celia arriving —’
‘I can’t tonight, sorry. I’ve got a conference call with a few of the international Gillespie cousins, to talk about the reunion. It’s been difficult to arrange, with all the different time zones.’
‘Of course. That’s fine,’ Angela said. She’d tried. And failed. ‘We can leave it for now. Have the catch-up another night.’
She stood up, went to the door and stopped. No, it wasn’t fine. He had to know. Even if the others had to wait.
‘Nick?’
He couldn’t hear her. The YouTube video was playing too loudly. He was already back emailing Carol.
Angela left without speaking.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Twenty minutes later, Nick finished writing his email to Carol and pressed send. There was no going back now. He’d just confirmed it. The reunion was going ahead.
It was hard to believe. Six months ago, he’d thought life held nothing for him. That it was all over. Every night, while Angela slept beside him, he’d lain awake for hours, trying to quell a rising panic, or lift himself out of the feeling of despair. Each day, his mind went over and over the same defeated thoughts. He was a failure.
It was all he could think about, yet he couldn’t talk about it: to Angela, to his friends, to anyone. Until the sleeplessness got so bad, he went to his long-time doctor in Port Augusta to ask for sleeping tablets. Dr Mitchell asked him why.
‘Take your time,’ he said. ‘You’re my last patient for the day.’
That simple statement triggered something. Nick started talking. He told him everything. About the situation on the station. The money worries. The constant anxiety. The insomnia. The feeling of despair. The emptiness. What it was like to go from being constantly busy to having nothing to do.
Dr Mitchell summed it up in one word: depression.
‘You’re one of thousands, I’m sorry to say, Nick,’ he said. ‘You can’t go through what you’ve been through with the drought and not pay for it in some way. It can be as stressful having nothing to do as a lot to do. Humans
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