Subject:re: F#@*ing Miriam
Hi Lottie,
I’ll come round and do Phyllida’s lawns tomorrow, after the working bee on the river path.
Just answering one of your questions in that email to Mary that you sent to everyone. Your mum doesn’t rate Phyllida because of what happened when David died. David was pussy struck by your mum back in the day (most of us blokes were). He moved straight in with her in the week they met, and it turned into a case of mother–girlfriend rivalry I reckon. He was only a pup, so you can’t really blame Phyllida. She was probably trying to protect him. Don’t know the full story, though, except that Phyllida left the village for a few months not long after David died. Not sure where she went, but your mum reckoned everyone blamed her for running Phyllida out of town. She’s probably holding a grudge about it.
Your mum sure was a looker back in the day and she turned David’s head. It was that sad when he died and I reckon nobody handled it that well. He was such a good bloke. But your mum got you to show for it, so that’s a win.
From Big Bill
I feel nauseous that the tentacles of village memory reach into every crevice of what should be my private life. The people here know more about my family than I do. They knew myfather before he died, and they knew my mother as a young model, when her face was on the front cover ofVogueandCosmopolitan; when Miriam had still liked her looks.
Some people think there is comfort in being known; at living in a small place where neighbours help each other out while wrangling with the whispers and undercurrents of long-shared histories. They pity those poor city-dwellers who don’t know the name of the person in the next apartment. But right now, I long to walk down the street past strangers who don’t require me to chat to them. I want the sounds of traffic and sirens; to walk into a busy bar and disappear.
I look at the emails again. By all accounts, David was bookish and quiet. He mowed lawns for the elderly. He probably opened doors for strangers and rescued cats from burning buildings. The man sounded like a saint, and not much like any other man Miriam has ever dated. Was it his kindness she fell for? He was certainly handsome and exceedingly tall. Was that the basis of their relationship? I sigh. Why can’t I get along with my mother, and why do I feel so unsettled?
I look back at Big Bill’s email: Phyllida disappeared in the months after David died. Where did she go? Did her disappearance have anything to do with the mysterious person—Francis—I have been asked to find? And, now that I think about it, how did two such different people—Miriam, a successful internationally renowned model in her mid-thirties living the party life in Sydney, and David, a sweet, twenty-year-old university student living at home with his mother in this village—even meet?
10
PHYLLIDA
1995, NSW SOUTHERN HIGHLANDS, AUSTRALIA
When the knock came, Phyllida hurried to open the door. She looked up and was immediately put in mind of a giraffe, because the poor, dear girl was so very tall and so lanky. Phyllida herself was only five feet tall and knew what it was to be different; a standard deviation or two away from the norm. Good lord, yes! She did! And so, her giraffe thought felt unkind. She pulled Miriam into an enthusiastic hug to show her care and her sorrow at their shared loss of Helena. Miriam, however, didn’t seem enthused by the hug, but that was probably because she was grieving her mother and because she barely knew Phyllida. And perhaps she was not a hugger.
Phyllida ushered Miriam towards the kitchen. ‘Come in, how lovely to see you, dear. What a terrible fortnight it’s been for you. Poor, poor thing. Sit down. Make yourself comfortable. Would you like a drink? Of course you would.’
David was standing in the open French doors, framed by the lovely colours of her autumn garden. Phyllida was momentarily distracted by thoughts of snails eating her dahlias and how they had almost defoliated three entire plants overnight, and when she returned her attention to the room, a strange quiet had settled. David and Miriam were staring at each other and neither seemed bothered by the silence. She frowned. ‘Miriam, this is my son, David. I think you met at the funeral?’
‘Yes,’ said Miriam.
Phyllida hesitated, watching them. ‘Would you like tea, Miriam?’
David smiled. ‘I’ll make it. How do you take yours, Miriam?’
‘Weak and black. Thank you.’
‘Good. Why don’t we sit in the garden?’ suggested Phyllida. ‘It’s a rare sunny day and we aren’t to waste it. I made a lemon slice. Or would you prefer a plain tea biscuit, dear?’
‘Slice is fine.’
Phyllida led her to the wrought-iron setting next to her ‘everything bed’, currently blooming with joyous swathes of lavender, a riot of rust-coloured sedum and Japanese anemone proudly waving their pink heads. In the centre, her ornamental pear tree was every shade of yellow and red.
‘Mum told me you were a great gardener,’ said Miriam.
‘Oh! Well, I sometimes helped with hers at the end.’ Phyllida understood this must be difficult for Miriam; she had not been here for her mother when she was needed, and Phyllida was just a neighbour who had stepped in when it was clear Helena was becoming increasingly unwell.
They sat, both watching David through the kitchen doors, and Phyllida pondered the odd little eulogy Miriam had given.It was stilted and not terribly thorough. But grief did strange things to a person.
‘I’ve been going through her paperwork …’ Miriam hesitated.
Phyllida waited. She pushed the tray of slice towards the poor waif, sure she might blow away if she didn’t eat something soon.
‘I didn’t realise that the house is mortgaged.’ Miriam tried for a smile as David set tea down in front of them and returned to the kitchen.
‘I supposed it might be,’ said Phyllida, and she was rewarded with a sharp look. ‘Your mother tried hard to overcome her troubles, but she … struggled.’
