‘He was.’ Roddy smiles. ‘He looked amazing. I remember that suit.’ He stares towards the wall of books. ‘This all feels sad.’
I lift up the note again. ‘I guess Francis couldn’t have known he was actually writing to Dorothea when he wrote this card,’ I say. I want to spell it out for Roddy, because although he has acknowledged it, I want to make sure we are now on the same page going forward about Phyllida being Dorothea Stewart and that we are searching for the boy, Francis Fitzhenry, she left in England. I want him to confirm that we aredoingthis.
Roddy has picked up something out of the tub of documents: a newspaper photograph of a guy aged about forty, in a coloured vest, jeans and green boots. He is thin and pleasant looking, standing on a catwalk between two models in strange, box-like outfits with pronounced pink eye makeup. The article is dated 2004: ‘Francis Fitzhenry with models at London Fashion Week wearing Frankie Fitz designs.’
‘He has nice eyes,’ says Roddy, sipping his coffee.
I look back at my notes. ‘Phyllida wrote these letters every second month, religiously since the end of 1975. They stop for nearly two years, during 1995 and 1996. Then they start again.’
‘That was when David died,’ says Roddy.
‘You think she was too grief-stricken to write?’ I ask.
Roddy shrugs. ‘She wasn’t in a good way. But I wasn’t seeing much of her then. I only came back for the funeral.’ He pauses. He looks so forlorn that I feel like hugging him. ‘I was a kid,’ he says. ‘Caught up in my own life, and my own grief about David, I guess. Drinking and partying. Mary’s the one who got Phyllida through. You could ask her, I guess. Or maybe talk to your mum?’
35
LOTTIE
NOW, NSW SOUTHERN HIGHLANDS, AUSTRALIA
‘Come into the lounge room,’ says Miriam, looking at the pile of dirty washing on my bedroom floor. ‘I need to talk to you.’
I have come home to get more clothes to take to Phyllida’s place. My mind is spinning with the information that Roddy and I have uncovered. Staying at Phyllida’s is nice, especially as I can immerse myself in researching Francis without my mother breathing down my neck. Last night I tried the general inquiries number for Bleddesley House again. I figured someone there would have to be in touch with Francis Fitzhenry about the business operations if he still owns the place. The woman who answered the phone was having none of my story that I was a bookdealer, researching the libraries of historic British homes and interested in getting in touch with Lord Fitzhenry about his collection. After that I tried the gift shop number but they were equally unhelpful.
I have only read about twenty of the hidden letters so far and, interestingly, the letter I showed to Roddy is one of the only ones that talks explicitly about a connection to Bleddesley House. In the earlier letters to Francis, she talks mostly about the delights of parenting Louis David, his school friends, the bookshop and the Australian way of life. There was nothing illuminating about Phyllida’s past.
I follow Miriam down the hall. I am tired and hot. It has just gone midday, and I have closed the shop for an extended lunchbreak.
Miriam pulls a bottle of white wine from the fridge and pours herself a glass. I fill a glass with water and wait.
‘Sit down.’
I sit, cross one leg over the other and look at her expectantly.
‘What really happened to Phyllida?’ she asks.
‘What do you mean?’
‘It wasn’t a stroke, was it?’
I shrug.
Miriam seems to be turning something over in her mind.
‘I had words with Phyllida the week before she collapsed,’ she begins, then looks away. ‘I’ve been worrying about it. Maybe it tipped her over the edge. She had depression, years ago. Maybe she was depressed again.’ Miriam flushes. There is guilt in the way she shifts her gaze. But also concern.
‘What sort of words?’ I ask. It is hard to imagine havingwordswith Phyllida. She’s non-confrontational in the most artful way.
Miriam sighs. ‘She tried to give me mothering advice.’
Phyllida rarely gives advice. She is more of a live-and-let-live person. ‘Like what?’
‘Some rubbish about how you’re a credit to me and I should be proud of you. It was patronising.’
‘Right. Well, that sounds terrible. I can see why you took offence.’
She glares, annoyed at my flippant tone. ‘I mentioned you’d done the DNA test, and how interested you were to trace David’s lineage back.’ She pauses. ‘I was surprised when it became obvious you hadn’t told her already.’
