I should have come home earlier. I should have been here for my grandmother; to understand her thinking and why she did this thing. She was too old to be hefting boxes of books around on her own.Istoo old, I remind myself. She’s still with us. Hooked up to a bunch of machines in the hospital, barely there, but alive. I thank my lucky stars Mary had popped over to see her unexpectedly on Saturday night and found her just in time.
In the bedroom, I wipe tears from my face and kick clothes out of the way. I locate my favourite earrings, then pick up Phyllida’s letter from my bedside table. I stare at it, unable to decide what to do. I rang the hospital yesterday to find out if I could visit her yet, and they told me she’s not properly conscious, but that I am welcome to come and sit with her. MaybeI’m delaying my visit because Phyllida’s letter has freaked me out so much. What do you do about your grandmother’s dying wishes when she’s not actually dead? I can’t ask Miriam for help. She doesn’t know about the overdose—she thinks it’s a stroke (Mary and I agreed on that story when she told me what happened). But since the letter arrived, my mother has done nothing except badger me to let her read it. Asif.
Miriam has always had a strained relationship with Phyllida. I suppose it’s something to do with my father, but it might be other things. Maybe religion. Miriam is an atheist, so she was unimpressed when, at twelve, I came home from a school religious instruction lesson and demanded to know if there was a god; demanded she take me to church, just in case there was and it meant I was at risk of eternal roasting in hellfire if we didn’t immediately sort something out.
Miriam refused to take me, of course, but Phyllida had been thrilled to be asked. She isn’t a devoted Christian—she likes parts of all religions—but she was friends with the women in the church and she liked the idea that I was interested in developing my spirituality. From then on, most Sundays, Phyllida and I would go to church. It stopped when I was fifteen and I decided that maybe Miriam was onto something. If there was a benevolent god, why would he have let Tracey Schuster’s dad molest poor Tracey and then lie about it in court so that Tracey was forced to leave home and become a junkie and walk in front of a train? You’d think God would have something to say about that. And about the kids starving in Ethiopia, and about the Christian cult leaders in Uganda who murdered seven hundred followers with fire and poison before running off with theirmoney. What kind of god was I praying to if he didn’t bother using his powers to get down to the nitty-gritty?
Phyllida said it was good I was on my own path of discovery. She seemed to have her own homegrown brand of religion too, which, from what I could see, involved walking along the river and having silent communion with some sort of deity, while being generally delighted by any little thing nature threw her way: ducks, wombat holes, repulsive-looking fungi on dead logs.
I peer into the hallway mirror and wonder why the cucumbers have done nothing to cool my swollen eyes. It looks like two bullfrogs have landed on either side of my nose. Phyllida’s weird letter, which made it obvious she’d planned her death, was bound to put anyone in a depressed mood. But it was the possibility of her being gone from my world that kept me awake most of the night.
By my bed there is a photograph of me as an eight-year-old holding Phyllida’s hand at The Mad Hatter’s Tea Party she hosted in her shop every year. In her other hand is a book. Always a book. I wonder who took the photograph? Mary? My teacher, Mrs Price, who brought my whole class to Phyllida’s shop for the party? Perhaps Roddy? I have forgotten. And why hasn’t Roddy called me to discuss Phyllida’s condition? He is almost as close to Phyllida as I am, and is the only other person Mary was going to tell about the suicide attempt. I don’t want to ring him in case he hears how upset I am and offers sympathy, which will just make me cry more. I’ll text him later; get him to come into the shop so we can talk about Phyllida’s condition. And about the strange letter she left me. He’ll know what to do.
I look back at Phyllida in the photograph, taken more than twenty years ago. She is wearing a tall purple hat, a bow tie and a waistcoat she embroidered with circular patches. She convinced every kid in my class to stand up and read with her that day, and afterwards she brought out Dormouse treacle tarts inspired byAlice’s Adventures in Wonderland. She treated the books with a gleeful reverence that was catching. All the kids there that day wanted a grandmother like mine.
I pick up my bag and my phone and head to the van, breathing a sigh of relief when I don’t run into Miriam in the kitchen. I don’t want her questions or her expensive cosmetic suggestions for fixing swollen eyes. I need to find Phyllida’s strength and take each day, each moment, as it comes. There’s an overused phrase my English grandmother had seemed to live by, at least until now:Keep calm and carry on. What changed her mind?
4
RODDY
NOW, NSW SOUTHERN HIGHLANDS, AUSTRALIA
Roddy squats to assess the shelf of old board games. He picks up a 1000-piece puzzle of a scene showing a castle glinting with icicles and surrounded by a snowy forest. He feels the sweat dripping down his inner thigh and considers the power of positive thinking. Tonight, when sitting in the one-bedroom cabin that passes for a flat in Donna’s backyard—fan whirring like a plane about to take off, sweat blowing across his back—will this puzzle transport him to the frost-laden turrets of a European fortress?
He really needs to view some places to buy. In the meantime, he has organised to get an air conditioner installed.
There is a rustling behind him, and with a grunt he pushes himself up to standing.
‘What’s that?’ Sienna asks.
He frowns, replaces the puzzle and picks up the battered game of cribbage she is pointing to. ‘Ever played this?’
She stares at him. ‘Nuh.’
‘It’s fun. We can give it a whirl.’
‘Lame.’
‘Or awesome, potentially.’ He holds her sceptical gaze.
‘My nan says you were a bit of a loser back when you were at school with Mum. She reckons people never change.’
Roddy sighs. He recollects vaguely that Donna’s mum had been just as horrible back in their school days too, so maybe the old woman was right. Maybe people didn’t change.
‘I reckon your nan needs to meet me as an adult.’
Sienna curls her lip. ‘You don’t want to hang out with my nan. Believe me.’
‘Fine. Okay.’
‘Why are we at this dive, anyway?’
‘Shopping for vintage relics. You never know what people are going to throw out.’ Roddy looks around the vast antiques and collectibles warehouse. ‘Why would you buy new when you can get everything you need here and it’s often better quality? You might find a hidden treasure.’
Sienna grimaces. She pulls her phone out of her pocket and sinks down onto a replica Bentwood chair that Roddy had been sizing up for the corner of his bedroom. The sticker says twenty dollars. Excellent value given he’d initially thought it was a Thonet original.
His phone beeps a text message from Lottie.
