NOW, NSW SOUTHERN HIGHLANDS, AUSTRALIA
I slide a second-hand book about cold-climate gardens into a brown paper bag as the woman taps her card. She runs her finger across our printed shop logo. ‘The Bookshop of Buried Pasts,’ she says. ‘So intriguing. Who named it?’
‘My grandmother. I’m not sure why. She likes the mystery of it, I suppose. The buried skeletons in all these old books maybe?’ I smile. I assume she is a tourist as she is holding a brochure about the historical walking tours of Brookbank run by a local woman. ‘They’re really good,’ I say, gesturing to the brochure. ‘Have you booked in?’
‘I thought I might,’ she says. We chat about what the walk entails: the cafe across the road that was once an ammunition store, the old courthouse now a performance space, the pub and this granary.
When she leaves, the empty shop echoes with silence. It is a hush brimming with promise; all the knowledge buried in the books, waiting for their pages to be turned. I look at Phyllida’s letter again and consider the words.Find Francis. You will soon have the means at your disposal. I hope he will help you discover the real me.
Whoismy grandmother? I remember Phyllida’s words when I was fifteen, when I asked her how I resembled my father.You share the joy of David’s heart. And yet she gave me no real information about David, almost as if she couldn’t think of any familial traits we shared and didn’t want to be drawn into a conversation. Certainly, there were no physical similarities.
I rang the hospital a little while ago and they told me Phyllida had awoken and asked for tea. I’m excited to visit her later, as it sounds like she’s starting to really heal.
My grandmother has always had a strange appeal, a quality that makes everyone want to be in her orbit, but there is also an invisible barrier that keeps them slightly distant. But despite this reserve, which I feel too, we are still very close. I am overwhelmed with the relief that I’ll soon be able to have proper conversations with her again. But I’m also worried that this story I am unearthing will impact her recovery and her ongoing health.
The doorbell tinkles and Sienna walks in, dirty white sandshoes, tiny denim shorts. She is chewing gum as she says ‘Hi,’ then walks into the second room.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask. ‘Ditch the gum.’ I save a book description I’ve been working on and follow her through into the room a few minutes later. She is sitting cross-legged on the couch, flicking through a book.
‘Mum dropped me off while she gets something from the shops. I found this book on witches the other day,’ she says. ‘I want to read the next bit.’
I lift the book and look at the cover. I nod. ‘Gerald Gardner. A classic.’
‘It’s a book of shadows,’ she says knowingly. ‘I need to find a black candle. Does the shop next door sell them?’
‘Not sure. Go and ask. Remind me, why black?’
‘It’s to break a curse. I need salt and I have to burn some paper.’
‘What’s the curse?’
‘I think it’s on Mum. Nan’s been saying some really mean stuff. She’s so evil and messed up and Mum is, like, super down about everything.’
‘Maybe you can buy a pink candle to send positive vibes to your mum and nan.’ I went through a Wicca phase in high school. Phyllida had always encouraged me to read widely on all things mystical and had taught me a little about herbs too, though I have never pursued that part of her teachings. I’m usually too impatient for results, although this week I’ve started picking herbs from her garden for brewing tea and for my cooking. In the past, though, Miriam’s pharmaceutical suggestions for headaches and rashes had always seemed much easier. But alone in Phyllida’s house at night, something about those old lessons has been pressing at me and I have a recollection now that burning a pink candle does something nice. ‘Look it up,’ I tell Sienna. ‘I’ll give you some essential oils too. Phyllida has a burner for them out the back. It might help your mum. I’ll see if I can dig out some other books for you.’
I leave her reading. It’s one of the first times I’ve seen her looking inside a book and it feels tenuous and important, like watching a newborn calf trying to stand for the first time. I worry she’ll begin to wobble if I stay in the room.
Back at the counter I finish a description of a pair of books, published in 1876.The Scottish Gael; or Celtic Manners as Preserved among the Highlanders: James Logan. Two Volumes.
Original half calf over marbled boards (slightly rubbed). Spine with gilt and raised bands, red Morrocco titling label; title page vignettes; frontispiece full colour illustration; tissue guards and b/w text illustrations. Foxing on preliminary pages, otherwise a good copy.
After some online research and checking what Phyllida paid for it, I price the works at two hundred dollars.
These have been bought after a recent visit to an old house in North Sydney. They might be something Phyllida wants for her own Celtic collection, so I make a note to ask. Phyllida would enjoy having Sienna here to teach her these things. At Sienna’s age, I had been intrigued by my grandmother. She had a knack for predicting which books people would be looking for, but not only that, she would somehow have them at her fingertips when a customer came in. ‘How did you know the lady wanted that?’ I asked one day, after she had once again had the book there, waiting. She was strange like that, knowing a storm was brewing when the sky was bright blue; knowing an awful undisclosed history of a house when she walked into it and later having her suspicions confirmed as fact. ‘You’re like a fortune teller,’ I said.
Phyllida had been unusually serious. ‘We shouldn’t meddle with fate, dear. No, no. I don’t make predictions.’
‘But youknew, just then, what that customer wanted. How did you know?’
‘I just have a … knack. I’ve always had it.’
‘So, when did you start knowing you knew things?’
Phyllida had smiled. ‘I was a child when my grandmother pointed out that I was different. I was nine, and a woman came to the door. I knew the woman’s secret.’
She hadn’t told me any more than that, and it was strange how I had just accepted the statement without asking her what the woman’s secret was. She changed the subject when I asked about her grandmother.
I wonder if Phyllida ever talked to Mary about her past. I’ll ask her tonight.
