Chapter 10 Phyllida
PHYLLIDA
When the knock came, Phyllida hurried to open the door.
She looked up and was immediately put in mind of a giraffe, because the poor, dear girl was so very tall and so lanky.
Phyllida herself was only five feet tall and knew what it was to be different; a standard deviation or two away from the norm.
Good lord, yes! She did! And so, her giraffe thought felt unkind.
She pulled Miriam into an enthusiastic hug to show her care and her sorrow at their shared loss of Helena.
Miriam, however, didn’t seem enthused by the hug, but that was probably because she was grieving her mother and because she barely knew Phyllida. And perhaps she was not a hugger.
Phyllida ushered Miriam towards the kitchen. ‘Come in, how lovely to see you, dear. What a terrible fortnight it’s been for you. Poor, poor thing. Sit down. Make yourself comfortable. Would you like a drink? Of course you would.’
David was standing in the open French doors, framed by the lovely colours of her autumn garden.
Phyllida was momentarily distracted by thoughts of snails eating her dahlias and how they had almost defoliated three entire plants overnight, and when she returned her attention to the room, a strange quiet had settled.
David and Miriam were staring at each other and neither seemed bothered by the silence.
She frowned. ‘Miriam, this is my son, David. I think you met at the funeral?’
‘Yes,’ said Miriam.
Phyllida hesitated, watching them. ‘Would you like tea, Miriam?’
David smiled. ‘I’ll make it. How do you take yours, Miriam?’
‘Weak and black. Thank you.’
‘Good. Why don’t we sit in the garden?’ suggested Phyllida. ‘It’s a rare sunny day and we aren’t to waste it. I made a lemon slice. Or would you prefer a plain tea biscuit, dear?’
‘Slice is fine.’
Phyllida led her to the wrought-iron setting next to her ‘everything bed’, currently blooming with joyous swathes of lavender, a riot of rust-coloured sedum and Japanese anemone proudly waving their pink heads. In the centre, her ornamental pear tree was every shade of yellow and red.
‘Mum told me you were a great gardener,’ said Miriam.
‘Oh! Well, I sometimes helped with hers at the end.’ Phyllida understood this must be difficult for Miriam; she had not been here for her mother when she was needed, and Phyllida was just a neighbour who had stepped in when it was clear Helena was becoming increasingly unwell.
They sat, both watching David through the kitchen doors, and Phyllida pondered the odd little eulogy Miriam had given. It was stilted and not terribly thorough. But grief did strange things to a person.
‘I’ve been going through her paperwork …’ Miriam hesitated.
Phyllida waited. She pushed the tray of slice towards the poor waif, sure she might blow away if she didn’t eat something soon.
‘I didn’t realise that the house is mortgaged.’ Miriam tried for a smile as David set tea down in front of them and returned to the kitchen.
‘I supposed it might be,’ said Phyllida, and she was rewarded with a sharp look. ‘Your mother tried hard to overcome her troubles, but she … struggled.’
‘Troubles?’
Phyllida paused. She knew how hard this might be for Miriam. ‘She gambled. Horses. Cards. I’m sure she couldn’t help herself.’
Miriam’s frown conveyed confusion.
Phyllida hurried on, keen to put the poor girl’s mind at rest. ‘She got herself into a bit of a state a few months before she died and told me some of it. I tried to help her sort things out, but she was dying by then, and we moved our focus to managing her pain.’
David arrived with his own cup of tea and Miriam’s face softened.
David should be at his bedroom desk, studying, Phyllida knew. He had an exam this week. But Miriam seemed to have captured his attention at the funeral and he obviously wanted to be here to comfort her. Her boy was so very clever and so kind.
‘Eat something, dear,’ said Phyllida. She couldn’t bear it. Miriam must be starving. Her stomach was concave in that very fitted T-shirt, and her jeans were hugging the tiniest waist Phyllida had ever seen. ‘Please, help yourself.’
‘I just had breakfast,’ Miriam said. ‘I try not to eat between meals.’
‘Leave her, Mum.’ David turned to Miriam. ‘She likes to feed people.’
He didn’t say it unkindly, but the two of them shared a knowing look.
‘I’ll get the tea biscuits,’ Phyllida said. ‘The slice is a little rich.’
In the kitchen, she wondered if she should cut up some fruit.
Helena had once mentioned that she bought a lot of fruit when Miriam visited.
Not that she visited, really. Perhaps only three times in the two years before Helena’s passing.
But Helena had assiduously followed her daughter’s modelling career in the magazines in which Miriam often featured, holding some form of fancy handbag or beauty product.
Helena even bought one of those extortionate face creams Miriam advertised.
Phyllida couldn’t see any of the promised signs of reduced ageing on her friend, and Helena didn’t seem to tell Miriam of these purchases, so it all seemed a little pointless.
But people had different ways of showing love, didn’t they?
Phyllida plated the biscuits. She hesitated.
Perhaps savoury would be better. Yesterday she’d made a lovely zucchini slice.
It was healthy, with the eggs and vegetables.
Lots of cheese for calcium to strengthen Miriam’s frighteningly prominent bones.
She removed it from the fridge and cut very small slices.
Outside, she put the plates in front of Miriam. ‘I thought you might prefer a less sugary option. The zucchini slice is delicious, isn’t it, David?’
David frowned. He looked from Miriam to Phyllida. ‘I was just offering to help Miriam move some furniture around. She needs to tidy up for a house valuation tomorrow. We’re going to head across the road now.’
‘The slice looks lovely,’ said Miriam. She didn’t even look at it, though. She and David both stood to leave.
Phyllida opened her mouth to speak, to urge her to stay and eat, but David was asking Phyllida something with his eyes.
Begging her silence, or her agreement. Phyllida smiled, but her heart lurched at the sight of them, standing so close.
Her boy, so strong and well-built at just twenty, and this woman who must be well over thirty by now.
Phyllida was suddenly back in her own youth, her face as fresh as Miriam’s, and there was a different boy with her, pleading with his eyes.
He was nine years old. As she stared at David now, she saw that his eyes were almost the same colour as the boy’s.
Her heart pattered at the painful memory, and she blinked it away.
Miriam and David headed across the garden, and Phyllida had a sense that something significant had just occurred. She saw a thread of fate unspooling; a fraying at the edge of their story, at the very moment it was being written.
But there was nothing to be done. It was not for Phyllida to disrupt the path. She must let David’s story unfold.