He was silent, staring out across the lake. Out of nowhere he asked, ‘When will Cricket come back?’
Dorothea checked the basket. Louis was looking back, blowing bubbles. She had an urge to hold him tight. ‘She’s just away for a few days. I told you. In London for some shopping.’
‘I don’t think she likes me.’
‘Oh, Francis, no. That’s not true. It’s just that … she finds all the responsibilities a little overwhelming. It’s such a big change to her life.’
Francis pondered this. He took his last raspberry and began to dab it on his lips. He rubbed them together as he must have seen his mother do when applying lipstick, then ran his finger around, so that his lips were stained pink and pretty.
He stood, balancing on the rock wall and posed, one hand on his hip, a haughty chin in the air. ‘I am a great fashion designer! One day it is my destiny to be famous! You must pay one hundred pounds for my clothes!’ His voice rang clear and crisp across the garden and Dorothea clapped.
‘What’s all this?’
Their heads shot around.Edward.He must have arrived back early from London, as he was still dressed in his suit. ‘What are we paying one hundred pounds for?’ He frowned at Francis then strode towards the Moses basket. Dorothea blanched as Edward picked up the baby and held him awkwardly, hardly supportinghis head. ‘He’s going to be a strapping lad. What do you think, Francis? Do you think he’ll be a rugby player?’
‘Maybe.’ The boy had slid off the wall, his whole demeanour changing, curving into himself.
‘He has the makings of a fine young man. We’ll have him hunting and shooting in a few years’ time, mark my words.’ He grinned at Dorothea, and in his suit and tie, with his muscular frame and strong jaw, she could see why women thought Edward handsome. ‘Which prep school should we put him down for, Francis?’ He gave the boy a hard look, then peered closer at him. Dorothea’s heart was thudding in fear, at the raspberry lips as much as the suggestion of boarding school.
‘Not the Dragon School with you. I see no need for the coeducation they’ve forced on us there. Turns the boys into sissies, doesn’t it, Louis?’ The baby was in the crook of his arm, and he moved up and down. Dorothea had to restrain herself from reaching out to make Louis safe.
‘None of that for you, my boy!’ he said.
Dorothea could see Francis looking at her, confused.
She propelled herself forward, forcing a smile. ‘He needs changing, I think. Shall I take him?’
Dribble ran down Louis’s chin. Edward glanced down. A knitted booty had fallen to the grass, and this seemed to hold Edward’s attention. The asymmetry of it; the messiness. He appeared to smell the baby’s nappy, winced, handed Louis to Dorothea as if it had just occurred to him that soiling and mess might feature in this equation—unpleasant and disagreeable possibilities at odds with his grand plans for the boy.
Francis hovered at Dorothea’s side. He took Louis’s hand, toying with his grasping fingers. He leaned in. ‘Poo-ee, Louis! You need a new nappy. Shall we use a red or yellow nappy, do you think? Which is prettiest?’ His face was animated as he spoke to the baby. It was almost as if he had forgotten momentarily that his father was there.
‘Quick!’ said Dorothea with her brisk voice. ‘You run ahead to wash for dinner, Francis. Your father must have so much to do after his meetings. We must let him get on with it.’
She forced a smile, but Edward’s gaze was fixed on Francis’s departing back. ‘Interesting trousers he’s wearing.’ Then he looked her up and down. ‘Don’t encourage this ridiculous phase he’s going through. You’ll turn him into a screaming queer.’
Louis wriggled in her arms. Edward eyed the baby thoughtfully, then he reached out his hand and put his finger inside the baby’s palm. Drool slipped from Louis’s sweet little chin onto Edward’s wrist. Her employer reached into his pocket and withdrew a handkerchief. He wiped his son’s drool away, flicked out the handkerchief, folded it back up and put it into his pocket. Then he walked away.
30
PHYLLIDA
1995, NSW SOUTHERN HIGHLANDS, AUSTRALIA
As she entered the hospice grounds, a voice called to her from beyond the carpark. ‘G’day, Phylly!’
Tom Thompson was grinning and holding a can of what she presumed to be fuel, his foot on a push-mower.
‘Hello.’ The heaviness was all through her and her usual smile, the lift of her eyebrows, her face, even her hand, did not accompany the greeting. Tom hesitated, then put down the can.
‘What are you doing here?’ Tom worked as a gardener at various places around Bowral. They attended the same garden club. He was a lovely person, married to a less lovely person.Often the way, Phyllida thought. Not that Phyllida didn’t get along with Henrietta Thompson. She made it her business to get along with everyone. But Henrietta was someone who liked to find fault with things.
Henrietta and Tom had been on a cruise this last month, Phyllida recalled, and before that, two months in England, staying with their son who was a top investment banker and extremely successful, with a ‘pile’ (as Henrietta insisted on calling it) in St George’s Hill in Berkshire (pronounced ‘Bark-shuh’, Henrietta reminded everyone). He was flying them business class, which you apparently got used to after the first time, and yousimply could not go back.
Phyllida’s brain felt disconnected, as if she was watching a vignette of Tom and his wife in some other world where David was well, and Phyllida was repeating ‘Bark-shuh’ in her most elegantly modulated accent right back at Henrietta. After all, PhyllidawasEnglish, and this fact pleased Henrietta no end, because all thebestpeople were English, including the Queen, and for some reason Phyllida liked to please Henrietta, while at the same time chiding herself because she was probably, on some level, also poking fun at the woman. Because, really, who could resist?
Tom was waiting for her to speak. It seemed he had not heard about David, and she did not wish to have the conversation that was coming. ‘Was your cruise wonderful, Tom?’
‘Lovely.’ He didn’t elaborate and he was eyeing her curiously. She knew that she was supposed to say something, but David was soilland Tom and Henrietta’s cruise was of no interest to her, and yet some strange societal pull kept her rooted to the spot. Some dreadful mannerly obligation to spend a minute, even when that minute was more precious than gold, and sheknewthis was idiocy. Her mind was blank. She had snatched a few hours of sleep, had hurried to get back here, to take overfrom Miriam. Phyllida had witnessed Miriam’s deep care for David in these last few months. Her devotion, as her stomach grew and the pair made plans for how their baby would be raised. Until a few days ago, when he still had the energy, David had insisted on placing both his hands on Miriam’s belly whenever she came into the room, and the intimacy of the gesture moved Phyllida. Her son wanted to feel the baby kick. They thought it would be a boy. They would call him Charles. A lovely, strong name, they agreed. Phyllida sensed it would be a girl, though had no intention of voicing the thought. But that discussion about baby names was a full week ago, a lifetime ago, when David could still walk unassisted to the bathroom.
