Chapter 22 LOTTIE
LOTTIE
NOW, NSW SOUTHERN HIGHLANDS, AUSTRALIA
‘Goodness, this place needs a skylight!’ Judy Dingle, village grevillea expert and resident second-wave feminist, is peering through the gloom of the bookshop.
‘It’s heritage-listed,’ I say. ‘You can’t muck around with the structure by putting holes in the ceiling. Anyway, there’s a floor above.’
‘How does Phyllida read anything? It’s so dark.’ Judy has been deep cleaning the kitchenette and is now standing in her rubber gloves, squinting at a modern first I am working out how to price.
‘Ooh,’ she says. ‘James Bond.’
‘Well, sort of,’ I say, holding out the copy of Goldfinger by Ian Fleming.
‘Is it worth much?’
‘A bit. Unfortunately the dust jacket’s had the original price clipped off, but it’s in pretty good condition, apart from a bit of edgewear, here, see?’ I point out some minor damage and a small tear. ‘Still, it’s a first edition, so might be worth a thousand or more.’
‘Good lord!’ she says, shaking her head.
She takes herself back to the kitchen and returns sans gloves, handbag over her shoulder. ‘I’m off to babysit my granddaughter.’
We wave goodbye. It’s Sunday and members of the village historical society, many of whom also belong to the village book club, garden club and craft collective, had wanted to spruce up the shop for when Phyllida eventually returns.
Sienna, sitting cross-legged on the window seat at the front of the shop, looks up from her book. ‘Mum’s going to pick me up soon. I might go to the lolly shop before she comes.’ She takes out her phone.
Roddy places his hands on the worn patina of timber counter that he is currently waxing. ‘Really?’
For the last hour, Sienna has been getting through the pile of sugar packets she stole from the coffee shop; tipping them into her palm and periodically poking her tongue into the pile of white granules. It’s like watching an anteater at work.
‘You’ve overdosed on sugar already today,’ he says.
Sienna glares. ‘Who died and made you sugar king?’
Mary comes out from the kitchen with two cups of tea and hands them to Roddy and me.
She ducks back into the storeroom and returns with a photo album.
‘Phyllida was completely wrapped up in that boy of hers,’ she says, handing me the album marked David—High School.
‘Nice pictures in there. Roddy’s in a few.
Two handsome little buggers they were. Teenage devils. ’
I join Sienna on the window seat where there is better light. Roddy comes over and we flick through the photos. There’s one of Roddy and David in front of the shop as teenagers. Roddy was as short and round as David was tall and thin.
‘You seriously went out in public with that haircut?’ Sienna looks at Roddy incredulously.
Roddy is indignant. ‘What’s wrong with a mullet?’
‘I mean, a mullet’s okay, but’—she considers the photo again—‘that mullet’s sad.’
Phyllida is only in one photograph, standing beside David when he is about twelve years old. ‘He was so sweet,’ I say. ‘And look at Phyllida. She must have been in her early forties by then, but she looked so young.’
‘She was pretty,’ says Sienna. ‘And very small.’
‘I can’t stop wondering about this mysterious Francis person she wants you to find,’ says Roddy.
‘Have you looked for clues?’ asks Sienna, who has given up on the photographs now and returned to her phone screen.
‘I’ve searched her address book. And all through the office but there’s nothing. All she said in the letter is that we’re related, which is kind of wild.’ I look up at their questioning faces. ‘Having relatives overseas, I mean.’
‘Maybe your DNA test will tell you something when it comes back,’ Roddy offers.
‘I guess. But only if Francis or someone close to him has done a test with the same DNA company so we get matched up on their database.’
Mary glances at the clock. ‘I’ll be at the pub if you need me.’ She heads out of the shop, stopping for a quick chat with Big Bill and his wife Trish, who are sanding the window frames outside.
I flick to the final page of the album. The protective overlay of the cover is an opaque blue, and a corner of paper is poking out beneath it. I manoeuvre the plastic and pull out a yellowing old newspaper clipping. I flatten it carefully in case the paper breaks.
‘What is it?’ asks Roddy.
I begin to read aloud.
THE WESTMINSTER TRIBUNE, ARTS REVIEW, 11 January 1994
A Triumph of Noble Design: Lord Fitzhenry and his West End Wizardry
He cuts a dashing figure, walking down Shaftesbury Avenue in his tailored burgundy and gold pinstriped suit, paisley patterned waistcoat and pink silk cravat, but Lord Francis Fitzhenry, The Viscount of Bleddesley, avoids the limelight when he can.
The renowned costume designer takes the shadowy back entrance of the Palace Theatre and is very much a man behind the scenes.
Hailed as a ‘visionary and a genius’ for his costuming in the recent production of The Heroine’s Gown, Fitzhenry’s innovative use of embossed leather, fibre optics and digital printing techniques to create costumes described as ‘spectacular wearable art’ means he is widely anticipated to take home an Olivier Award for Best Costume Design in February.
In his forthcoming West End production of Baroque, Fitzhenry, who studied at the London College of Design, said costumes will include illuminated manuscripts inspired by his collections of antiquarian books and his love of book plates and marginalia.
Lord Fitzhenry, whose childhood was marred by the tragic deaths of both his parents in separate incidents, refused to comment about whether the costumes are also inspired by his early years growing up in the grounds of the seventeenth-century manor, Bleddesley House in Cambridgeshire, but the crest woven into the costumes is similar to the Fitzhenry family crest. Lord Fitzhenry’s signature use of scarlet silk is prominent in the lavish designs for the ensemble cast. The show will run from March to June, with tickets for the opening week already sold out.
‘Francis Fitzhenry,’ I say. I shiver as I read the name aloud. ‘He collects old books. This article is thirty years old, but …’ I look at Roddy. His eyes lock with mine in understanding.
‘Francis,’ says Roddy.
‘Phyllida never talked about her life in England. I don’t even know what part she comes from.
Or anything about her family there. But he …
yeah.’ I try to process the contents of the article and all the reasons why Phyllida might have kept it.
‘She must have known this guy. This must be him.’ I read over it again, thinking about the implications of my grandmother knowing a viscount.
‘I mean, it’s not impossible. She has quite a posh accent, I guess. ’
‘Maybe she moved in aristocratic circles,’ says Roddy. ‘It’s like a gothic fairytale. Both his parents having tragic deaths. Very intriguing.’ He takes the article gently from me and studies it.
After a few minutes of silence, Sienna says, ‘There’s a Lord Francis Fitzhenry on Wikipedia.’ She is staring at her phone. ‘He got to be the lord because his dad, the old viscount, was murdered back in 1975 at their big-arse mansion.’
‘Really?’ I have an urge to pull her phone out of her hand and look at what she has found, but Sienna is tapping away at the screen again.
‘I need your credit card,’ Sienna says, putting out her hand to Roddy.
He had just taken a large sip of his tea and on hearing this he inhales sharply. Sienna’s hand remains extended, her face perplexed as Roddy begins a strangled coughing fit. He bumps the mug onto the window seat and hurries to the kitchen, presumably to spit out the tea.
He is still intermittently coughing and clearing his throat when he comes back in.
‘I need to access this article,’ says Sienna, as if Roddy’s coughing fit hadn’t happened.
‘What article?’ he squeaks.
‘It’s about Francis Fitzhenry and his dad’s death, back from the newspapers in 1975. Original sources are what they tell us to use at school. So, I need this article.’ She raises her eyebrows expectantly.
She is remarkably brash, our Sienna. Phyllida would be head over heels for her.
‘There’s a paywall,’ explains Sienna to Roddy, as if he is quite obviously a complete idiot.
‘Find a free newspaper archive, then.’
‘I already tried.’ She taps away at her phone again. Eventually she says, ‘Nup. Gotta pay.’ She holds out her hand. ‘It’s The London Standard. So, you can read other stuff too, after you subscribe.’
Roddy opens his laptop. He types something in and stares at the screen. ‘Try the Scottish National Library archive,’ he says eventually.
‘I did. You have to have a Scottish address to get access to the papers for free.’
‘Make one up.’
‘I already tried that while you were choking,’ says Sienna, eyeing him as if he is still at the starting line after the race has been won.
‘I put in some random address from Edinburgh, but it says the address has to be verified. If you stopped being such a cheapskate and gave me your credit card, we could have read this article by now, and maybe we’d know more about Francis. ’
Roddy sighs again and hands over the card and Sienna taps at her phone, then stares at the screen. Long minutes of waiting follow.
‘Anything interesting?’ I ask.
Sienna clears her throat and looks up, eyes sparkling. ‘It’s totally worth the ten pounds a month.’
‘Ten pounds?’ splutters Roddy.
‘Read it out quickly,’ I say, desperate to hear more.
‘Okay. Ready? I do drama at school, so I’m going to bring out the tension in the scene when I read it.’ She raises her eyebrows and wiggles them dramatically.
‘Good lord,’ mutters Roddy.
Sienna begins to read.