‘They run night-time ghost tours from a big old house on the other side of this village,’ says Sienna as they approach the bookshop. ‘You have to be sixteen to go, which is stupid.’
‘Mmm,’ says Roddy.
Sienna continues. ‘I saw my first horror movie when I was ten. Ghosts don’t bother me. I could pass for sixteen if I wore makeup. Maybe we should see if we can do the tour when Mum’s at work tonight.’
Roddy tries to hide his smile. She is so small and fine-boned, she barely looks ten. ‘Don’t be in a hurry to grow up,’ he says, thinking about Phyllida attached to life-support in hospital. He recalls his childhood spent in Phyllida’s garden. Backyard cricket and plum picking in summer; he and David jumping the back fence and hurling themselves off the river rope swing to see who could dive-bomb into the centre and make the biggest splash. ‘Growing up isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.’
12
LOTTIE
NOW, NSW SOUTHERN HIGHLANDS, AUSTRALIA
‘Hello, Sienna.’ I hold out my hand. ‘I’m Lottie.’
The girl hesitates, shoves her phone in her back pocket then extends her own clammy hand. I smile at her. She glances sideways at Roddy, a little nervous maybe.
‘Roddy says you’re keen to work here?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Do you like reading?’
‘Not that much. I read the Harry Potter books but I mostly like art and drawing.’
‘So, maybe illustrated books are your thing?’
She shrugs. ‘Dunno. But I can do stuff. I’m a fast learner.’
I size her up. She’s serious and twitchy; a bright little ferret, waiting to take on the world. Phyllida would like her immediately. ‘Why don’t we give you a trial. Want to start now?’
She shrugs again. ‘Sure.’
I hand her Phyllida’s feather duster. ‘How about you start in the next room? Just give it a once-over, all along the top of the books as well. You can sweep after that.’ She takes it and goes into the next room without a word.
I tip my head to one side. ‘Let’s see,’ I whisper to Roddy. ‘You never know. I was awkward at that age too.’
‘She’s bright. And keen to earn money. If she can stay off that phone, she should be fine.’ He blows out his lips as if he’s exhausted. ‘How’s Phyllida?’
‘I rang the hospital to see if I should go in again. They say she’s still barely conscious. I’ll pop in later.’
There’s concern in Roddy’s expression. I get the sense he understands what might have driven Phyllida to do this; as if he knows things that I don’t.
‘She seemed fine before she did this,’ I say. ‘I still don’t get it.’
‘Me neither, really. But maybe she was in pain from her bad back, or just tired.’ He gives a thoughtful shrug. ‘She’s eighty, she lost her boy decades ago. It’s hard, getting up day after day and having no one to share it with.’
‘She’s gotme,’ I say. I know I sound petulant. I wonder if Roddy’s lonely too. He’s been single as long as I can remember. ‘She’s got Mary too,’ I add. We consider this and both laugh. Mary keeps the whole village entertained.
‘I’m just glad I don’t have to do anything about her will yet,’ he says.
Roddy is the executor of Phyllida’s will and, if things had gone differently, he would be dealing with her estate now. ‘Yeah.’
We watch Sienna through the doorway, busily dusting the shelves of books. She has found the stool and is reaching up to the top shelves. ‘In the letter Phyllida left me, she talks about me buying Lily Beedle’s cottage with the inheritance. I just checked. It’s on the market for two million dollars!’
Roddy raises his eyebrows with amusement and waits patiently for me to get to the point.
‘Phyllida’s place is falling down,’ I continue. ‘You’d assume she has no money. The bookshop makes a bit, but she gives loads to charity. She pretty much pays for the running of that orphanage in India she’s always sending emails about. That must take most of the shop profits.’ I frown. ‘She said she left a spreadsheet about her investments in an envelope, which I found, but I don’t feel like I should open it if she’s still alive.’ The idea that my grandmother has substantial funds or that she knows her way around an investment spreadsheet does not tally with the woman I know. My grandmother buys cheap cuts of meat and keeps butter wrappers to line cake tins for future baking. If there’s half a blob of mashed potato left over from dinner, she makes bubble and squeak for breakfast. Any extras she can’t eat go to old Sam in the dilapidated cottage three doors down. She has worn the same combinations of pants and woollen cardigans forever, purchased on her occasional trips to David Jones. She always buys high-quality clothes, but it’s a rare event. She otherwise lives as if she is poor.
