Chapter 5
LOTTIE
NOW, NSW SOUTHERN HIGHLANDS, AUSTRALIA
It’s only a ten-minute walk to the bookshop, but it’s already unusually warm for a Highlands’ summer morning and I have no desire to get sweaty, which is how I justify driving to work.
And anyway, you never know when the van might be needed.
These days we don’t seek out much stock, but now and then a lawyer Phyllida knows will get in touch, asking her to come and assess a book collection from a deceased estate.
Or a collector gets sick and needs to offload their collection in a hurry. The van is handy on those days.
These aspects of running the shop fill me with a jittery sensation; an anxiety that I haven’t felt since I was facing my end-of-year exams in second-year law school, just before I dropped out.
That sense of personal incompetence and a future brimming with the type of disaster I could probably have avoided if only I had paid more attention.
I’m running late because I overslept then couldn’t work out what to wear (I landed on bold to stave off depression: faded vintage T-shirt with a beach print, swirly patterned skirt, retro sneakers, pink acrylic hoop earrings).
But it’s now after ten and my mind is scrambled.
I need to talk to Roddy. I’m so grateful we have both ended up moving home to the Highlands at the same time, although Roddy is living in Bowral, fifteen minutes away, suffering through summer in Donna’s backyard hotbox.
The massive influx of tree-changers since Covid has killed some of Bowral’s country-town charm, but here in Brookbank we’ve been saved by the heritage planning laws and the protected forests that prevent the village from expanding.
I park behind the row of shops between the gaol and the bookshop.
The old sandstone gaol was decommissioned decades ago and now hosts specialty shops.
It’s beautiful, with its yellow block walls aged with algae and its massive stone entrance flanked by curved pillars.
I walk past the fourteen-foot perimeter wall and run my fingers along the dozens of birdlike pick and chisel marks made by convicts as they quarried the sandstone from the earth.
It’s impressive, if you don’t think too hard about the way they must have been heaved here by starving men with iron shackles around their ankles.
I head towards the old granary, the sandstone building next to the gaol that houses the bookshop. Ian Binder, one of the real estate agents in a nearby office, falls into step with me.
‘Morning, Lottie,’ he says. He smiles a little sadly. ‘Sorry to hear about Phyllida’s stroke. How’s she doing?’
I look away, aware of my swollen eyes. I have been preparing for this.
Everyone in the village will have heard about Phyllida being carted off in an ambulance.
There are only seven hundred residents in Brookbank, many of whom are retired and have plenty of time for neighbourly discussions about other residents’ illnesses. ‘Not great,’ I say.
‘Well’—his lips move into a gentle curve of sympathy—‘keep us posted, won’t you?’
‘Of course. Go sell some houses.’ I force a smile as he moves off.
I feel heavy with sadness and terrified about Phyllida’s prognosis and yet I still manage to push my key into the door of the shop as if everything is fine. I feel overwhelmed at the idea of facing these questions, and I wonder what Phyllida was up to with this unfathomable request in her letter.
Inside, I am hit by a wall of cool air. The granary’s huge slabs of stone are great for insulation.
I turn on the lights and take out the wooden signboard that announces our shop.
I move the legs until it balances across the uneven pavers.
The old-fashioned gold font on dark timber is enticing for collectors and curious literary types, or those who like fossicking for second-hand treasures.
The Bookshop of Buried Pasts
Opening Hours: Monday to Saturday: 10 am–4 pm
I stop to breathe in the beauty of the summer morning. The exterior of the shop faces a patch of grass that is home to an old oak tree. Magpies warble. I close my eyes and catch the staccato duet of a pair of bellbirds.
I hurry back inside, immediately cocooned in echoes of my childhood.
The dusky blue bookshelves, the contemplative air, the silent slumbering of thousands of books.
I move between the rows of shelves to the back of the shop.
There are three connected small rooms and stairs to the upper level, which has lovely exposed beams and small circular holes in the walls, used as ventilation for grain storage two centuries ago.
Now they function as tiny porthole windows set a metre deep into the stone.
I turn on the lights and head back down.
Monday will be slow, which is good because I don’t want to face people today.
Sunday is the busiest day in the village, when hundreds of tourists from Sydney tootle through the countryside and wander up to Brookbank’s quaint little cheese factory (a converted weatherboard house) that is strangely famous for its ice-cream scoops.
They poke around in the gift shops and art gallery and move on to the antiques emporiums scattered through the district.
Organic takeaway coffee is sipped upon timber park benches beneath the shade of huge deciduous trees that are straight out of an Enid Blyton novel.
People are nostalgic for an earlier, simpler time (albeit a cleaner version with gourmet offerings and designer handwash in the bathrooms) and Brookbank is pleased to provide it for a price.
But for as long as I can remember, Phyllida has refused to open the bookshop on Sundays, despite the bounty of trade.
Perhaps it was because she was a single mother raising David when she opened the shop in the seventies.
But I’m not sure why she hasn’t taken advantage of the trade in more recent years.
She has a way of smiling and changing the subject when she doesn’t want to discuss something.
I wheel our bargain bin of old books outside. A flock of white cockatoos screeches in the branches of the oak, shimmying and swaying. Tammy is arranging a display table in front of her gift shop next door. ‘Morning, Lottie. Any treasures in there today?’ She points to the bargain bin.
‘Actually, I got in a few new books on witchcraft last week. Haven’t sorted them yet. But they’re right up your alley.’
‘Oooh,’ she says wistfully. ‘I wish. But I can’t even afford to look in case I’m tempted. Nobody’s buying candles at the moment.’ She gives me a gentle look and takes in my bullfrog eyes. ‘We’re all keeping our fingers crossed for Phyllida. You okay?’
‘Allergic reaction,’ I say, blinking quickly. ‘New mascara.’
Tammy is not fooled. She pats my shoulder then disappears into her doorway.
Inside the shop I am alone again, hollow, overwhelmed by the musty scent of old books in faded tones of burgundy and green and blue.
I switch on the lamp behind the counter and watch the dust motes rise through the gloom and dance along the timber shelves, landing on embossed leather spines.
I feel untethered, and yet pierced by the knowledge that Phyllida Banks, a woman far more like a mother to me than my own, was trying very hard to tell me something important in the letter she left.
Find Francis. You will soon have the means at your disposal.
Who on earth is Francis?