Francis pulls Ganymede, his vintage Jaguar, into the grounds of Picador House and cuts the engine.
‘Lovely old gardens,’ says Roddy, who is sitting in the passenger seat.
Francis is overcome with a rush of gratitude. That Roddy is here with him, that he sees the beauty of the gardens, that last night on their third full day together, he simply nodded and took Francis’s hand when he had recounted the very worst day of his childhood: the witnessing of his mother’s death. Roddy says he is brave, and in the reflected calm of Roddy’s eyes, Francis feels brave because he is no longer alone.
Roddy is going to show him Sydney and the outback. The man cannot be real. A gorgeous, sweet Australian. An Antipodean accountant! Cuddly, funny and he loves old books. He’s interesting! Self-deprecating! He isall the things.
Roddy peers around and his gaze lands on the Tudor building at the centre of the gardens, artfully posing as a rambling family home. ‘Looks pretty grand,’ says Roddy. ‘Is it really a nursing home?’
‘Only the best for my Edie.’ Francis and Roddy lock gazes.
It has only been three days, but they both know this isit.Francis brushes a finger across Roddy’s cheek and Roddy smiles at him, squeezes his other hand.
They head across the parking lot and Francis enters a code into a security pad outside the front door. Inside, a woman, Maggie, he remembers—glad she has retained the shade of deep pink lipstick his memory mnemonic relies on (Maggie-Mags-magnolia pink)—sits behind the reception desk next to a grand bouquet of flowers.
‘Hello, Lord Fitzhenry,’ she says. ‘Lovely to see you again.’
‘Thank you, Maggie. You too. How is she?’
‘Well,’ she sighs, ‘I hear she hasn’t had a good night.’ She gives him a kind smile.
Francis leads Roddy down a hallway; appreciates the way he slows to look at the original artworks that adorn the walls. The home is painted a calming shade of musky pink, and faint classical musical plays through hidden speakers. An old man in a wheelchair is being pushed towards them and Francis sees that it is his favourite nurse, Obi, who is pushing it, grinning his sunshine smile. A balm for the winter’s day gloom that Francis might usually experience when visiting Edith Wilson, though today Francis is in little need of balm. The light sprinkling of snow earlier was as warm as a dusting of sugar on his creamy thick childhood bowl of porridge (Mrs Wilson had made excellent porridge).
‘You lookin’ proper noble today, m’lord. Mad respect. Them pink strides isrightfancy.’
‘Thank you, Obi. You are too kind,’ Francis demurs. Nice to be appreciated. Obi, on his days off, is a riot of colour and contrast, and Francis sees him as a compatriot in the fashion stakes, even if they do order from rather different boutiques.
‘This is my friend, Roddy, from Australia.’
‘No way, Down Under!’ exclaims Obi. ‘Hear that Mr Pincus?’ He leans down to the old man in the wheelchair, who stares at his lap and does not appear to hear anything.
‘All them deadly spiders! You lucky you made it over here safe, Roddy, my man!’ He shakes Roddy’s hand, and Francis notices the hint of a flush on Roddy’s cheek. Adorable.
‘Better get on,’ says Francis. ‘Edie will be waiting.’
‘You tell our Mrs Wilson, I’ll be in to bring that tea soon. Nice and fresh with a bickie,’ says Obi as he pushes the chair down the hallway, chattering to the man in the wheelchair.
Francis taps on the door of the Hydrangea Suite and pushes it open. He waits as Roddy takes in the room, notices the wisp of a figure beneath the bedcovers. Roddy gives Francis an encouraging nod.
‘Edie, it’s Francis. I’ve brought someone to meet you.’ At the bedside, he picks up the frail hand of his old housekeeper.
Her eyes flutter open. ‘Francis,’ she whispers.
His heart sinks as he sees how much weaker she seems compared to his visit just five days ago.
‘This is Roddy,’ he says. ‘From Australia.’
The woman fixes her rheumy eyes on Roddy.
‘Now, brace yourself, Edie. We have some amazing news. Just for between us, though.’ He taps the side of his nose and looks back at Roddy. ‘This lovely man knows our Dorothea! And Louis, all grown up now.’ Francis and Roddy have agreed that they will pretend Louis David is still alive. Mrs Wilson need not know the truth about her adored baby Louis.
‘Really?’ she says, blinking, suddenly more alert than Francis has seen her for months. ‘Sit me up, boy.’
Francis helps her sit forward, while Roddy grabs a cushion and props it behind her. It warms Francis’s heart that Roddy is so practical.
‘Where?’ she asks, feeling around the bed. Francis retrieves her glasses from the bedside table.
‘They’re in Australia,’ says Roddy. ‘They’ve been there since 1975.’
