Bohemia Village Voice

Bare Bones

“But they’re not a bit alike!” That was my first thought. I had come across this photo of two young women. The caption said “Twins, Kate and Claire Cavanaugh, outside their newly opened Brisbane branch of ‘Craft Cavanaugh’.
And I thought “but they’re not a bit alike”; then I thought “ ‘Craft Cavanaugh’ – what a naf pretentious name.” Then I looked at them, the twins. The one on the right was short and skinny with mousy hair. The other one, towering beside her, was me.
I have an aunt, Connie, she works for an organisation called Jigsaw, connecting up adoptees and their natural families.
Dear Connie, Have reason to believe I have a sister in Qld. How do I go about checking? Love – Hannah.
Dear Hannah, I’m very sorry, QLD doesn’t allow siblings direct access to the information. Anyway, you need proof of the relationship. Do you have any? If so, I may be able to help. Why not log onto Facebook and we can chat. Love – Connie
Later, to my sister,
Dear Sarah, attached is a copy of a copy of a photo I saw in the National Portrait Gallery. It is part of an exhibition called ‘Antipodean Portrait Photography’. Only the one on the left looks exactly like me. Do you know anything about this? Do I have a twin? I have spoken to Connie and she’s given me some help. Do you think I am mad? And no, I don’t want to chat on Facebook! Regards to Matt, Lots of Love. Hannah.
Dear Han, would you think I would know anymore than you if you were a twin! Grow up, girl! Here’s something to think about:
1.Perhaps you are one of triplets.
2. You are one of twins and one of you got swapped at birth.
3. The likeness is a coincidence (most likely, I think).
Other points to ponder – your picture is black and white. Colour could change the whole picture (excuse the pun). Your ‘likeness’ could have red hair (lucky thing!) Also the smaller one could be a seven months twin, and that’s why she’s smaller. Don’t let this get to you. We still love you. Sarah
Later again, Mother, reading the local paper: “There’s to be a folk festival at Tewkesbury next weekend. Amongst artists appearing are the ‘Cavanaugh Twins’.”
We went, came across a crowd gathered in a glade, listening. One deep husky voice, the other light, almost instrumental, in harmony. We stopped.. I was looking at myself. Maybe her skin was a shade darker than mine but the grey eyes and over-generous mouth were the same. The shoulder-length wavy black hair was the same as mine. Almost reluctantly, I looked at the other one, Kate. She seemed small and mousy beside Claire but hers was the impressive, deep voice.
I sat holding an envelope. Then I told myself I was being silly and opened it. My birth certificate – my mother’s name was Esther Van Overloop. I was born at Sydney Women’s Hospital, on the date I shared with Kate and Claire, 13th October. No details were given for the father.
Kate, on the phone: “Our Grandpapa’s name is Marcel Van Overloop. Our mother was Eva-Marie.” she paused and I thought “Eva-Marie and Esther, the names go together.”
Kate’s voice again, “But we were born in a different hospital.”
Claire, days later: “Grandpapa’s amazed we met. He and his first wife, the one from Ethiopia, had twin girls, Eva-Marie and Esther. When the parents split they each took a daughter. Our Grandpapa says we are cousins!”

The Journalist’s Tale

21st July 2027
“You’re not going to print this? If I tell you?” Stupid old biddy. What did she think; I’m a journalist. But these days, we don’t print, we publish online, so I didn’t feel guilty reassuring her.
“It’s just, well, you know, a secret. The EU’ll put a stop to it, then what’ll we do. Bloody EU!”
Wow! That was unexpected. I’d overheard a conversation. Well, I am a journalist, and if they will talk into their mobiles, as if the whole world wants to know, what do they expect?
I’d gone back to my editor and suggested a trip to Hastings to check it out.
“A trip? A trip? What do you think this is, a travel agency? Do what you’re paid for, check it out online. Everything’s on the Internet these days. Only do check the dates. Don’t want a repeat of that business when the ‘news’ turned out to be three years old!”
He sniggered. But it hadn’t been my fault. A respected political blogger lauding some Australian initiative and I picked it up. Only some nosey reader remembered reading it some years before, and knew that it hadn’t even eventuated. And she provided all the references! But this time, I won. Because it wasn’t online. I’d looked, and to make sure I’d asked our librarian to double-check, and she’s good!
So there was I, off to Hastings. It was a cold miserable day leaving London, but I arrived in Hastings to blue skies. A sign at the station told me ‘Hastings, a day isn’t long enough!’ I’d have to take their word for it, a day was all I had.
I managed to find my way to this little street in the Old Town (alright, I took a taxi, it’s called using my initiative) and had been invited in and given quite a decent cup of tea. Then I broached the subject.
“But how did you hear of it, how do you know? The EU insists we shop online, so . . .”
I calmed her down, said I’d been told by someone who thought it was something we should all try to do.
“Don’t be silly, dearie,” she said “it’s what we all used to do. And some of us still prefer it that way. We’re used to picking up our goods, feeling them, smelling them, deciding what we’ll buy because of it.”
“Yes, but you can do all that online now. Press the fruit, you get a smell, you can feel how ripe it is. What’s the difference?”
“If you don’t know dear, well, I’m sorry for you. Alright then, I’ll show you.”
That’s when she’d asked me to promise not to print it. I followed her out her back door, through a gate into a little alley, up some steps, down some steps, into a small house and down into the cellar. What a cellar! Bright, cool, shelves of food of every kind, packaged and fresh, long open fridges displaying fresh produce. It was a paradise, and full of people.
“How do you get the stuff?” I asked the manager.
“Well, this is Hastings.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant. Until someone muttered “Four and twenty ponies trotting through the dark . . .” My Grandad used to say that poem to me, so I knew what was meant. I was really onto something here.
30th September, 2027
They were right, you know, a day really isn’t long enough. So I’m living here now, still a journalist – after all, these days it can all be done online. But I don’t do my shopping online . . .