‘Why would you think you’re Nordic?’ asks Miriam.
I shrug. ‘I feel like I might be a Viking.’
Miriam regards me sceptically. ‘My parents had English and Scottish heritage. And Phyllida is English.’ She sips her wine thoughtfully. ‘But that woman has plenty of secrets, so I suppose there might be some Nordic blood in you.’
‘I do think I’ve got a Nordic vibe. I like their ethos of collective responsibility. And those tea-light candles. I might move to Scandinavia one day.’
Miriam tips her head to one side and blinks slowly, as if she is utterly perplexed. ‘Have you actually lost yourmind, Charlotte? You have dark hair. You’re not Nordic.’
‘There were lots of dark-haired Vikings.’
My mother shakes her head. ‘I told my therapist about your obsession with the fact that you don’t look like David or me and how you think this DNA test is going to reveal long-lost family. And she agrees with me—you’re bound to be disappointed.’ Miriam pauses to refill her wine glass. ‘Leave the past in the past, darling.’
Miriam has taken to therapy with gusto and spouts her new pearls of wisdom at me frequently.
She sighs. ‘Put the kettle on.’
‘I haven’t finished lunch yet.’ But I pick up my phone and head to the kitchen. I need to think about how to respond to Lila’s text message. In the mirror above the kitchen table I startle at my tired reflection. I’m not terrible to look at, just a bit weird: dark brown hair, wide green eyes, a nose too big, chin too small. A cupid’s bow for lips that is oddly too perfect. A bizarre collection of features that gives me a feeling ofotherness. Miriam has probably contributed to that. She’s always told me I’m different; that we don’t belong here. She got stuck in this village when I was born, because Phyllida begged her to stay so she could be involved in my life, as per David’s dying wishes. And then, apparently, it was easier to stay because the house prices in Sydney were too expensive, and Phyllida was on hand to babysit. Then Miriam joined the golf club and became quite addicted to being mere minutes away from a quick nine holes.
So although Sydney is only an hour or so down the freeway, my mother is constantly complaining that she is stuck living ‘inthe country’ where she is forced to endure a cultural vacuum, and irritatingly laid-back tradies who run to the ticking of their own clocks, and under-dressed neighbours with no regard for her nuanced style choices. She should have moved back to Sydney years ago.
The kettle clicks off and I make tea. Back in the living room, Miriam is finishing the wine. She puts down the empty bottle and holds the strainer over her teacup while I pour from the pot. The tea is her way of pretending she hasn’t just downed four-fifths of a bottle of wine in thirty minutes.
‘Anyway,’ I say, ‘I could find out if I have distant cousins. If they’ve registered on the ancestry website and they link our DNA. Wouldn’t that be good?’
Miriam shrugs and looks away. Eventually she says, ‘Was the test expensive? You’re behind on your rent payments to me.’
‘I’m transferring it today.’
‘I’m thinking of putting it up to cover costs, by the way. That useless man who does the garden is now charging eighty dollars an hour. And he says he won’t do the hedging! What’s the good of him?’
‘He still mows the lawn?’ I offer.
Miriam makes a huffing sound.
The doorbell rings and she hurries down the hall. There are faint voices, indistinct and rising. When she returns to the living room, Miriam is looking ruffled. She is holding an envelope, staring at the writing on the front. Reluctantly, she holds it out.
The envelope is thick and creamy, like a wedding invitation. I take it and turn it over. There’s nothing on the back, but the front is addressed toMiss Charlotte Peters-Banksand is markedPrivate and Confidential. I immediately clock the old-fashioned handwriting as my grandmother’s.
‘Who was that?’ I ask. ‘Was it Phyllida?’ I tug at the edge of the flap, but something about the envelope and its heft makes me stop. ‘Mum? Was it Phyllida at the door?’
Miriam is staring at the envelope, blinking slowly, as if hypnotised. Eventually she says, ‘It was Mary. She asked if you were okay, and said she was sorry she had to tell you the bad news on voicemail.’ She regards me warily. ‘I pretended I knew what she was talking about.’
I stare at her.Why didn’t Mary come in? What bad news was on a voicemail I missed?A cold sensation sweeps through me.Why had my grandmother asked Mary to deliver this letter?But before I can voice these thoughts, Miriam says through gritted teeth, ‘Bloody Phyllida Banks. What’s she gone and done now?’
3
LOTTIE
NOW, NSW SOUTHERN HIGHLANDS, AUSTRALIA
At the lounge room window, I am spooning cornflakes into my mouth, watching a rabbit nibble at something by the lemon tree: paws to mouth, head down. Abruptly, it sits bolt upright, twitching, then jumps, elongated in flight for a moment until swallowed by the hedge. I envy its ability to disappear.
Across the fence in the Brookbank River picnic area, gum trees are interspersed with oaks and elms. Up our street, traditional cottage gardens are dotted through with natives, and fail-safes such as crepe myrtle planted for the extremes of the four-seasons weather. It is odd to think I have chosen to return to this village I spent so many years planning to escape as a teenager.
The lure of the work, the silent, shadowy corners and the comforting presence of the old books in Phyllida’s shop are what brought me back. And the knowledge that I would be working beside my grandmother again. I wanted to be here with her andthe books instead of living in the city as a singleton, running around inside busy, bright cafes making coffees and scraping food waste into bins and cleaning tables. Brookbank felt like a safer place to nurse the pain that I had inflicted on myself.
It suddenly hits me thatIwill be the one in charge of Phyllida’s antiquarian bookshop when I open up today. I have worked in the shop for several months of each year since I was twelve: through weekends and school holidays and long university summer breaks, and a full year when I was back here in my early twenties after travelling overseas. But for all of those shifts—and every shift in this last month since I’ve been back—I have been carefully stewarded by Phyllida. Working in the shop alone feels like being thrust into a responsible adult world I have never really had to navigate, despite the fact that I’m nearly thirty.
