DOROTHEA
1965, CAMBRIDGESHIRE, ENGLAND
Dorothea hesitated, peering at the title of the book in her hand:Gigantic Land Tortoises of the Galapagos. She rifled through her mind for where the book had come from. She was so tired. She had become an old woman overnight, although not too old, as it turned out, to find herself in this particular situation.
She bent to file the book onto the bottom shelf and, as she stood, a wave of something went through her. A sick, prickling sensation that made her momentarily dizzy. With one hand she held on to the shelf. She placed the other on her stomach and closed her eyes. This couldnotbe real. She had an essay due next week. A degree to finish. She had rent to pay, a job that paid for it. James was as far away as he could possibly be—apart from if he had gone to New Zealand, she supposed.
She sighed now, thinking of James. ‘It’s only two years, Thea. I’ll be back before you can blink. Wait for me, won’t you?’ He hadsmiled, pushing his glasses back up his nose as he said it. The damn things never stayed put. She had watched him with a deep fondness as they sat in her room above the shop, he in the old floral armchair reading his book. Every minute or two his finger would go to his glasses and push them back to the sharp bridge of his nose, like an automated factory piston in slow motion. When he found her looking, the genuine, kind smile was always there, his hair flopping disobediently over one eye. She couldn’t ask him to return from America to be a father, not when this opportunity meant so much to him. Not when it would mean they were forever bound.
It was two weeks after he left when she had sensed something was wrong; sensed that her monthly, usually as regular as clockwork, would not be arriving. She had been right. But what should she do? She had made it clear she would never again ask her family for help, even while her parents had laughed at her—her father fondly and her mother with a waspish cackle of disbelief. She supposed the joke was on her now.
She wished dearly that this whole situationwasa joke, so she could laugh and wake up tomorrow with her first thought being the choice betweenmarmalade toastorporridge? Instead ofhave the baby(pain, ruination, adoption) ordon’t have the baby(pain, ruination, heartbreak).
She needed to act quickly, but her brain felt as sluggish as her body. She knew there were outward signs too—Mr Thistlethwaite said she had been looking ‘sickly’ and he may well have heard her retching in the lavatory. He had insisted she visit the doctor. The old medic had not told her anything she hadn’t alreadyknown, and she had given him one of her imperious looks when he tutted at her bare ring finger.
A few days ago, Dorothea had finally come to a conclusion. She must save herself. After closing the shop, she had gone to collect the pennyroyal plants she needed. She dried them by the fire and then prepared the leaves with her mortar and pestle. It had been a decade since she’d watched her grandmother do this very thing.Grind, grind, turn.The powder had appeared as greenish brown and had the faint smell of peppermint. She’d left the mixture in a container on the bench of her kitchenette, too afraid to start the process. It would be painful, she knew, and messy. She’d had an important paper due. But after she had slotted the paper beneath her tutor’s door at lunchtime today, an anxiety had swept through her. There was no longer anything standing between her and the pennyroyal powder. The time had arrived.
Now, as her bookshop shift finished and she let herself into her flat, she could not stop shivering. She walked slowly around her apartment, her hand on her belly. She boiled her kettle and took out the spare mug. She allowed the kettle to cool a little then poured the water onto the carefully measured powder and wondered what it might feel like to drown. Was it like giving up? Floating listlessly until you went under with a final, wetted sigh? Or was it a thrashing and brutal sucking and fighting until you had nothing left? As the tea brewed, she watched the tiny bits of pennyroyal leaf rising to the top of the mug, like a flotilla of small boats arriving to save her.
She stirred it and brought the mug to her lips.
22
LOTTIE
NOW, NSW SOUTHERN HIGHLANDS, AUSTRALIA
‘Goodness, this place needs a skylight!’ Judy Dingle, village grevillea expert and resident second-wave feminist, is peering through the gloom of the bookshop.
‘It’s heritage-listed,’ I say. ‘You can’t muck around with the structure by putting holes in the ceiling. Anyway, there’s a floor above.’
‘How does Phyllida read anything? It’s so dark.’ Judy has been deep cleaning the kitchenette and is now standing in her rubber gloves, squinting at a modern first I am working out how to price.
‘Ooh,’ she says. ‘James Bond.’
‘Well, sort of,’ I say, holding out the copy ofGoldfingerby Ian Fleming.
‘Is it worth much?’
‘A bit. Unfortunately the dust jacket’s had the original price clipped off, but it’s in pretty good condition, apart from a bitof edgewear, here, see?’ I point out some minor damage and a small tear. ‘Still, it’s a first edition, so might be worth a thousand or more.’
‘Good lord!’ she says, shaking her head.
She takes herself back to the kitchen and returns sans gloves, handbag over her shoulder. ‘I’m off to babysit my granddaughter.’
We wave goodbye. It’s Sunday and members of the village historical society, many of whom also belong to the village book club, garden club and craft collective, had wanted to spruce up the shop for when Phyllida eventually returns.
Sienna, sitting cross-legged on the window seat at the front of the shop, looks up from her book. ‘Mum’s going to pick me up soon. I might go to the lolly shop before she comes.’ She takes out her phone.
Roddy places his hands on the worn patina of timber counter that he is currently waxing. ‘Really?’
For the last hour, Sienna has been getting through the pile of sugar packets she stole from the coffee shop; tipping them into her palm and periodically poking her tongue into the pile of white granules. It’s like watching an anteater at work.
‘You’ve overdosed on sugar already today,’ he says.
Sienna glares. ‘Who died and made you sugar king?’
Mary comes out from the kitchen with two cups of tea and hands them to Roddy and me. She ducks back into the storeroom and returns with a photo album. ‘Phyllida was completely wrapped up in that boy of hers,’ she says, handing me the album markedDavid—High School. ‘Nice pictures in there. Roddy’s in a few. Two handsome little buggers they were. Teenage devils.’
