Francis is suddenly overcome with an urge to cry. He sits down on the bed and gives Edith Wilson’s hand another squeeze.
‘Well, I’ll be blowed,’ she whispers.
They sit in silence until Francis says, ‘Dorothea ran a bookshop over there.’
Mrs Wilson turns this information over in her mind. ‘Course she did.’
Francis has taken Roddy into his favourite antiquarian bookshop in the village to meet Ellery, and Roddy was quite overcome by the dark blue decor and the name of the shop.
‘Listen, Edie, dear Dorothea has been unwell, and Roddy here thinks perhaps if I meet her, it will help her heal.’
‘In Australia?’ asks Mrs Wilson, her voice barely audible.
‘Yes.’
The old lady closes her eyes. Her wrinkled old hand squeezes his. ‘You go, Francis.’
His heart catches. This old woman, who has been his only real mother figure since he was not-quite-ten, who had comforted him in his grief after Louis and Dorothea’s disappearance, and his father’s death. And, of course, on that terrible night near his seventh birthday when his mother died. Edith Wilson is only days or weeks from her own end.
She was there, silent but constant as his relatives squabbled about who would be foisted with his care. Obviously, his boarding school would do most of the heavy lifting, but holidays presented a challenge. Nobody needed the bother of a pre-pubescent boy who wasn’t interested inanything—not riding or rugby or rowing; not evenshootingfor pity’s sake—and who seemed to have his head permanently lodged in a book.
His paternal grandmother had drawn the short straw in the end, after Cricket’s abrupt departure. The Dowager Viscountess of Bleddesley had returned to her former home with the pomp and enthusiasm of a monarch visiting one of her less savoury dominions, with its flies and heat and unfathomable natives. And to give her a break on theinterminably longschool holiday periods, young Francis had been sent on visits to his mother’s brother in Bath. At least at his uncle’s house he could spend time with Cousin Araminta, which made things less lonely.
It was decided Francis didn’t need a new nanny during school holidays at Bleddesley. At almost ten, surely, he could find ‘something useful to do’. It was his grandmother’s constant refrain:Take the dogs for a decent walk; tidy up the folly. Good lord, thereare fish in the lake or help the gamekeeper shoot some vermin. Get off your bottom, Francis!
For all those years before he went off to university, Mrs Wilson had been the only loving presence in his life. She had cooked for him and taken him to see Mr Thistlethwaite in the bookshop; and to her own mother’s place for Sunday lunch where he would be fussed over and his too-small trousers would have their hems let down.
‘I don’t like to leave you, Edie. That pneumonia has taken it out of you. You’re not getting any better.’
‘Ah, boy. I’m ninety-two years old. Get on with you.’ The old woman closes her eyes. ‘Go pat a kangaroo.’
Francis channels all his love through the whisper weight of her hand. He closes his eyes and thinks of the times she had supported his ventures: the disastrous university theatre production where the ghost of his father’s voice had frozen his own; the gala fashion events where she had sat, handbag prim on her lap in the new dress he’d insisted on, looking equal parts proud and terrified in the front row, as starving models in his haute couture creations stalked past.
Edith Wilson’s hand seems to soften. He opens his eyes and lifts it, placing it gently on the bed. There is a hush, a slipping, so that he is here now, and simultaneously there in the Bleddesley kitchens; the room retreats to hold only Francis and this woman who had done her best to mend his heart. Her face is still, as if the heaviness she carries has disappeared. He stands, peering down at her. He would swear that on her lips, there is the faintest hint of a smile.
Edith Wilson never smiles.
60
PHYLLIDA
NOW, NSW SOUTHERN HIGHLANDS, AUSTRALIA
Phyllida focuses on each stroke as she brushes her hair. It is the mindful practice of everyday tasks that helps her through life. She regards her hand as it places the hairbrush onto the sink; she buttons her shirt with deliberate care. The bathroom is square and bare. A shower curtain hangs beside the toilet, a shower chair in the corner. A bright overheard light is beaming down onto her head.
She sits on the edge of the hospital bed in her slacks and a Liberty print shirt, and she waits. Gretchen is returning to talk to her about going home, about her health (mostly the mental variety) and her worries. Phyllida has read up on this discharge process and how they must muddle through it.Risk assessment, safety planning, support coordination.
She and Gretchen have again discussed the pills she took. She is interested that the girl is still worried, because Phyllidais not. With her health on the mend, and news of Francis, she will go home and live. It was those two burdensome things that had put her here: the lump, which she took to signal an end, and thinking Francis would be compromised when Lottie’s DNA led to him. It had always been her worst fear that Francis might be forced to speak about the killing of Edward. If she had been charged, no doubt he would have spoken the truth, to his own detriment.
Phyllida is sorry she cannot tell Gretchen about Francis and the tragedy of that time. But Gretchen seems to think David’s traumatic illness was plenty to trigger the PTSD, so that’s handy.
Fear had ruled Phyllida’s early life; fear that with one wrong move her sons would suffer further. It can destroy a person—fear that you have done wrong by an innocent child, that you are living in the wrong moment, in the wrong skin. As she went on, she met her fear with curiosity and the courage to act. The pills were not a failing. Nothing is forever.
But she is still alive for a reason. There is more to understand. She must stand beside her fear and they must walk together.
A text arrives from Lottie:Be there to collect you at midday. xx
Phyllida replies:Thank you, my dear. Whatever time suits you is fine.
