She closes her eyes, ponders the gift of Lottie. The DNA test had not linked Lottie to David. Of course it hadn’t. Phyllida should have trusted herself and herknowing. Lottie is now in touch with a man named Lars. He had emailed her through the DNA website to say he appears to be her biological father.
Which brings Phyllida to the one thing that had almost stopped her from taking the pills. She’d known Lottie was pregnant, butas the girl rarely drank alcohol or did anything else that might harm a baby, Phyllida hadn’t liked to mention it. Fate was in charge there. Let these things unfold. She had thought about staying around for Lottie and yet David had been calling to her, each night in her fitful, awful dreams—since that discussion with Miriam in the carpark, and since she found the lump.
She thinks Gretchen is onto something with this PTSD and how it disrupts the brain. She had thought she was cured in that psychiatric hospital thirty years ago, but Gretchen reminded her that she had been fundamentally altered by the trauma of David’s death.And all the previous traumas, Phyllida thinks wryly.
She picks up her phone and swipes, opens the photographs Roddy has sent. Francis sits on the edge of a bed next to an old woman. She is small; almost nothing beneath the bedcovers. In the silent freeze of the photograph, Edith Wilson looks oddly luminous. Phyllida is grateful to the woman for the energy she once had, for her cool head and her devious plan. And most certainly that she cared so well for Francis.
The second photograph is of Roddy and Francis inside a lovely living room. A selfie of two smiling men. She has an inkling they have much to discover. Something wonderful is coming.
She ponders the joy of life and the people she has been blessed to share it with. But her time will eventually end. She will not cling. She feels the grace of her acceptance. Health and sickness, life and death.
Phyllida has read widely about what happens to a soul when a body dies. She’s worked hard to meld Eastern ideas with the remnants of her Christian faith. She still likes the Christian hymns and the pleasant liturgical repetition in the Lord’s prayer,and the commandments are a pretty good road map; although the one about not making a carved image of God seems idiotic; there are lots of Jesus statues about the place, so it’s amusing how it’s all been interpreted and justified by the menfolk down the line.
Phyllida also quite likes the idea of reincarnation but hasn’t settled on any special reckoning. Hinduism, Buddhism, Sikhism—they all say a lot about it. She enjoys the idea that one day you might meet your favourite souls again. With each incarnation, as one lives then dies, one further masters the lessons of the world. Each time, a chance to meet again. She smiles to herself as she thinks how this might be.Cyclical evolution of the soul until you are basically a sage with a pure and perfect heart taking tea with your darlings.Wouldn’t that be nice?
Well, perhaps, she thinks, looking back at the photograph of Roddy and Francis.Perhaps.Phyllida is keeping an open mind.
61
LOTTIE
NOW, NSW SOUTHERN HIGHLANDS, AUSTRALIA
‘Let’s stop in at the shop,’ says Phyllida. ‘I’ve missed it.’
I hesitate. I have left Sienna in charge and her new approach to keeping shop involves reading every book on witchcraft and pagan practices she can find. It began as Sienna’s way to rid the shop of all the ‘bad vibe doom clouds from the convict builders who got tortured around here’ but has morphed into preparation for the arrival of Francis tomorrow, who will obviously need some extra witchy help to be successfully reunited with Phyllida. There is rosemary spray to cleanse the space, a charm jar filled with herbs, and an official playlist packed with reunion songs so that nothing can get in the way of the good vibes Sienna requires to usher Francis and his beloved Dorothea back together.
As I left the shop earlier, I spotted a bundle of pink candles next to some dried sage, which I can only assume Sienna intends to burn to remove residual negative energy. I hope the shop isnot yet on fire. ‘Are you sure?’ I ask Phyllida. ‘There’s no need to hurry back to work.’
‘Nonsense. I feel terrific.’
‘All right. You can meet Sienna. I left her tidying up, but don’t hold your breath.’
‘I cannot wait.’
Phyllida is slow on a walking frame, her muscles weakened from so long in bed. This new version of my grandmother feels strange and confronting. As we were leaving the hospital I had these spinning thoughts about her being gone, lying in a coffin and me left with a pregnancy I’m trying hard not to think about. It feels like adulting, right at the cliff face with a landslide threatening. I had to stop and take deep breaths.
As the shop doorbell rings, Sienna looks up from behind the counter, eyes like a possum in a spotlight.
‘Hello, dear.’ Phyllida stands completely still, regarding Sienna with a smile. ‘I’m Phyllida.’
Sienna is speechless, eyes darting across to me, then back to Phyllida.
‘I’ve heard so much about you,’ says Phyllida, approaching the counter.
Sienna is still mute. Her expression appears to be one of pure panic. She gives me an intense look and tips her head slowly to the right, then flicks it right again, her eyes wide.
Through the doorway to the second room, a man has his back to us. He is tall and grey-haired, and his fingers are running along the book spines at head height as he browses. Phyllida turns to look at him. She nods and puts her hand on Sienna’s hand, which is clutching her phone. She says, ‘Put the music on, dear.I believe you have prepared some special songs.’ She nods towards the man, who still has not turned around. ‘Someone important is here to see me.’
The man turns and my breath catches. Francis Fitzhenry is certainly older than the photographs in the newspaper articles, but he is mesmerising in his blue chinos and mint-green shirt. He has the kindest face, framed by dark pink reading glasses. He pulls them off, crosses the room in a few strides and leans down to collect Phyllida in his arms.
‘Dorothea.’ He holds her, bent over, silent.
Phyllida’s eyes are closed and she has the most beatific smile on her face. It is an awkward embrace, Francis well over six feet tall and Phyllida barely five, but they stand like that for the longest time.
Eventually Phyllida speaks. ‘Hello, Francis, dear. Welcome to The Bookshop of Buried Pasts.’
62
