She thought of all that she and David had been through. She’d shaved his head when they had to run, so that the thick tufts of black infant hair fell into the clawfoot bath. English hair, gone. She had dressed him in pink on those days they had to lie low, before the passport came through. She had worn wigs, which was no difficulty; it was the seventies—her mother had owned glamorous wigs for every occasion. On the day the passport photograph had been taken she had chosen the red one, and then worn it on the plane and given him that sip of whisky that Edith Wilson had suggested in the weeks before, because a crying baby in a taxi, at the airport, on the plane to a distantland—as far from England as she could think to go—would have drawn stares she could ill afford.
Miriam’s words broke her reverie. ‘I need to be with him alone, now.’ Miriam stood at the bed, impatient, with her beautiful beachball stomach straining beneath the black sheath of a dress.
A strange choice of outfit, said a distracting voice in Phyllida’s head, because she did not wish to think about Miriam’s request.
‘Just for a while. I’ll call you if he gets worse, Phyllida. I promise.’
37
PHYLLIDA
NOW, NSW SOUTHERN HIGHLANDS, AUSTRALIA
Phyllida awakes with a sense of danger. A sense that something has collapsed around her. Time, light, noise. Her body feels alien, her arm like jelly as she lifts it from the bed. But the dream-like state in her mind has receded. She is here, in hospital. Her mind is clearer.
A nurse appears and says, ‘Well, hello, Mrs Banks.’
Phyllida murmurs a greeting. The sound feels distant. She tries to smile.
‘Your granddaughter was here. You just missed her. She didn’t want to wake you.’
Phyllida blinks her understanding, her lips twitch.
‘Her mother was in too. Haven’t seen her before. Miriam, is it? Your daughter-in-law I think? Very attractive lady, all dressed up she was. Maybe she was off somewhere nice.’ The nurse writeson the chart. Phyllida closes her eyes and her sense of danger returns.Miriam.
Phyllida remembers sitting on the bench seat in the village as Lottie slammed the van door and disappeared up the main street. She had peered across the top of a red Corolla, which had hidden her from view. Should she have made her presence known to Lottie and Miriam as they stood arguing in the carpark? What had stopped her? Curiosity? Guilt? Concern for Lottie?
Miriam was standing, rigid, in the near-empty carpark, staring after the van. If Phyllida was pressed to speculate—and this didn’t require her special intuitive powers—she supposed Miriam would not want her input. Still. Needs must.
‘It’s difficult, mothering, isn’t it?’
Miriam startled. ‘Oh, what are you doing there?’
Phyllida smiled. The argument had not been hers to overhear, but here she was. Her usual calm was ragged, in the way that only seemed to happen when Miriam was nearby. So much negative energy in the woman. It was always a little off-putting. ‘What a wonderful woman you’ve raised. A success story indeed.’
‘She’s obstinate, single, under-employed and broke. At nearly thirty years old, I would hardly call that success.’
‘She’s fully employed in the bookshop now. And I’m thrilled to have her.’
‘Couldn’t wait to get your claws into her, could you?’
Phyllida regarded Miriam. She wondered what it would be like to carry around so much boiling hot pain, right on the surface. ‘Like you, Miriam, I love Lottie dearly.’
‘Well, apparently the two of us are not enough. This DNA test she’s doing is really quite upsetting. Why she wants to godigging around for cousins and random aunts and uncles I don’t understand.’
Phyllida stared. ‘What?’
‘The DNA test she’s done.’ Miriam paused, looked at Phyllida quizzically. ‘She’s convinced she’ll find Nordic cousins. Vikings apparently. Why, I’m not sure. Although you’ve never told us anything about David’s lineage.’ Miriam looked at her pointedly. ‘So, perhaps she will.’
‘A DNA test? I … are you not worried, Miriam? About what it might reveal?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Her … paternity?’
‘David’s lineage will no doubt be of interest to her.’
‘But, I … I don’t believe sheisDavid’s.’ Phyllida felt her heart beating a little fast. Was she upsetting the balance of a wordless agreement cemented over David’s grave; the mosaic of careful silences and precarious understandings that had glued their relationship together since Lottie’s birth? Surely Miriam must know it too?
