PHYLLIDA
NOW, NSW SOUTHERN HIGHLANDS, AUSTRALIA
Phyllida sips the glass of sparkling wine and looks out onto the garden. Dozens of her friends and acquaintances are meandering around lush flowering beds or chatting in the shade of Miriam’s pear trees. Tomorrow is Christmas Day, and Phyllida has been given the most remarkable gift.
‘Are you feeling all right?’ Lottie has been hovering. She has already asked the question no fewer than a dozen times, worried that this outing might be too much. But how could Phyllida not be all right? Her cancer is under control, Francis is here and Lottie is back working in the bookshop after a few days recuperating from her own medical concerns. Phyllida had been apprehensive on the day of her hospital release; she could not sense the life inside Lottie’s womb that had once been there, and sure enough, later that day, her granddaughter had begun to bleed.
Lottie and Phyllida have talked for many hours over these past days; about her anger, and her grief at losing the pregnancy, and about her huge sense of relief that she is no longer pregnant. Lottie is adamant she does not want children, and yet she is mourning this loss deeply. They discussed Lottie’s wish not to mother, and Miriam’s insistence that Lottie will change her mind. Phyllida has tried to assure Miriam of the profound integrity of Lottie’s choice. It is brave and deliberate. It frees Lottie to live a life of self-determination; one that will bring joys and sorrows, just as any choice does. Tears had welled in Miriam’s eyes, perhaps for the grandchildren she will never have.
Mothering is certainly a difficult path, thinks Phyllida. You work it out as you go along, failing on some days, succeeding on others. There is no measuring stick. No way to know if you’ve passed or failed. Your children still might grow up and get addicted to drugs, even though you’d insisted on three serves of vegetables and given all the pep talks about drink-driving and STDs.
Miriam emerges from the kitchen looking beautiful and holding a platter of smoked salmon blinis. This slightly postponed garden club gathering has invigorated her. She glances towards the front gate, and her expression changes. A couple is approaching.
‘Ah,’ she says. ‘Finally.’ She gives them a wave. The man is tall, and nearing seventy, Phyllida guesses. He has an interesting look about him. Not handsome, but there is a calm gravity to the way he holds himself. He is well dressed with a kind face. Beside him is a woman in sandals and a pretty floral dress, a fewyears younger. Miriam deposits the tray onto the table and gives them another wave. The man’s face lights up with an expression that is so familiar, Phyllida immediatelyknows.
‘Well, long time no see,’ says the man, kissing Miriam on both cheeks. She flutters beneath his gaze. He introduces his companion. ‘This is my wife, Hazel. Darling, this is Miriam Peters, my friend from forever ago.’
The woman smiles and they shake hands. They turn to Lottie and Miriam says, ‘Lottie, this is …’ She hesitates, looking at Phyllida, a fleeting uncertainty in her eyes.
‘Your father,’ says Phyllida gently. She stands, with some effort. ‘How lucky she is to have two of them.’
‘Lars?’ says Lottie.
‘Lars Olafsson. Pleased to meet you.’ He gives a lopsided smile.
There is silence. Miriam looks at Lottie and says haltingly, ‘I thought it might … be good that you meet each other sooner rather than later.’
Lottie releases a huge breath then smiles. She and Lars hug. It is long, warm hug.Well overdue, thinks Phyllida.
Lottie has told Phyllida all about her emails with Lars in recent days. He was delighted to discover he has a child. He and his wife hadn’t been able to conceive, so Lottie turning up on his DNA matchmaker notifications had made his pacemaker miss a few beats, apparently. (Genetic issues with the heart. Good for Lottie to be across the facts.)
‘Your mother thought she’d take the initiative,’ Lars says. ‘Save us from an awkward meeting in a coffee shop. I hope you don’t mind the surprise.’
‘It’s wonderful to meet you,’ adds Hazel. ‘Lars has been like a cat on a hot tin roof, waiting for today.’ She laughs, and they all find themselves laughing with her.
Judy Dingle approaches. ‘Will I hand these salmon things around, Miriam?’
‘No, I’ll do it,’ says Miriam. She nods at Lars and Hazel, then gives Phyllida a small smile. ‘I’d better get back to my hostess duties.’ As she passes Lottie, she squeezes her arm and a look passes between them that, to Phyllida, feels like a beginning.
Phyllida waits, comfortable in the silence that settles over their little group. Hazel says, ‘So, Lottie, I hear you work with your grandmother in the bookshop here in town?’
‘Yes.’
‘A dream job,’ exclaims Hazel.
‘She has the perfect instincts of a bookdealer,’ says Phyllida. ‘A keen eye and the historical curiosity one needs in our trade.’
‘How interesting,’ says Lars, beaming.
‘Lars and I love history,’ says Hazel. ‘We’ve restored four old houses over the years. We love anything with a story.’
‘Wonderful,’ says Phyllida, liking her immediately. ‘And do you work together in that field?’
‘No,’ says Lars. ‘She’s the heritage expert. I’m a lawyer, I’m afraid. By far the more boring profession.’
‘Necessary, though,’ says Phyllida. ‘And I’m sure quite interesting, depending on your speciality.’
Phyllida listens to them chat for a while, then makes her way to the kitchen to give them some privacy. Through the kitchen window, she sees Roddy standing with Francis and theyare ensconced in a group of garden club members standing by an impressive bed of white anemones. She wonders if Francis gardens. So much to discover.
