Chapter 47 Lottie #2
I look down at my hands. I am holding a book sealed inside a padded bag.
It’s an urgent order for the one o’clock postal collection.
‘Listen, I’ll be twenty minutes. Just ducking to the post office and I’ll grab us something from the bakery.
While I’m gone, jump online and search me flights to London.
Cheap ones. Like on China Eastern or something.
No big layovers. Twenty-four- or twenty-five-hour flight time max. ’
‘When for?’
‘Tomorrow. I need to find Francis, for Phyllida’s sake.’
Sienna’s eyes sparkle. ‘Slay.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, as she grins at me. ‘You’re a lifesaver.’
I shove the parcel in my bag and hurry out, thinking about whether my passport is still valid.
I’m pretty sure it still has nearly a year left on it.
I feel nauseous from the adrenaline shooting through me as this crazy travel plan develops.
I pass the shopfront housing Little Bird Funerals and am thrown by the idea that, if Mary hadn’t found my grandmother in time, I might be there today finalising a service.
The idea sticks in my throat. More tears well up and I wonder if I am having some sort of breakdown.
Inside my handbag, I finger the thick texture of the envelope that holds Phyllida’s letter. Miriam would have been looking for it if I was still at home: it is one of those sure things. Death, taxes, Miriam’s snooping.
Not that the letter says much, but there is a bit of herself Phyllida has always kept back, and it is partly in the letter, and it feels private.
I emerge from beneath a row of crepe myrtle trees that throw welcome shade over the pavement.
The sun hits me and I realise I am both starving and nauseous, which is an odd combination, but something from the bakery might fix that. I have a craving for blueberry scones.
I look down and notice that, for some reason, I am now holding Phyllida’s letter.
My mind is befuddled from lack of sleep.
A tourist bus has pulled up in front of the pub and is disgorging a stream of very elderly tourists.
They meander in groups of two and three across the pedestrian crossing at the other end of the main street, near the bakery.
Some have walking sticks and frames, and their progress is glacial.
A line of stationary cars and trucks is building up on both sides of the zebra crossing, as drivers wait for them to shuffle across the road.
The nausea roils in my gut again and, still, I have this odd surge of hunger.
I should walk down to the crossing, but a sticky welt of heat hits me and I feel light-headed.
The traffic on my side of the road is banked up, waiting for the crossing to empty, and the lane going in the opposite direction is empty for the same reason.
I step out onto the burning bitumen between the traffic idling right in front of me: a Volvo station wagon and a huge semitrailer.
The cab of the truck is so high off the ground that I barely reach the top of the engine grille, which is throwing off heat like a barbecue plate in full sizzle.
The driver is invisible, high up in his air-conditioned cab.
Later, people will tell each other several things happened then, almost simultaneously: I stepped out and seemed to wobble.
A letter I was holding blew out of my hand.
I reached out to grab it, then clutched the front of the truck as if I was going to faint, and at the same time the truck driver looked up from his phone, saw the traffic ahead had moved off, and put his foot down.
It was like a terrible movie, they told police in interviews later.
They embellished with each retelling—my neighbours and fellow shopkeepers and the lucky tourists who had been hoping the village would provide some unique and Instagram-worthy memories to take home, but never imagining they’d be delivered the flashing lights and cordoned-off carnival parade of a combined emergency services response in the middle of the main street.
Essentially it came down to this: the huge semitrailer let out a grunt and jerked forward, and to their utter and supreme horror, the girl in the colourful skirt disappeared under the truck.
The letter in her hand caught the wind. It danced across the street and disappeared behind a line of rubbish bins.
29 November 2025
Miss Charlotte Peters-Banks
‘Magpie House’
23 Sprouts Lane
Brookbank, New South Wales
Dearest Lottie,
Books have been a constant in my life, almost as much as the whispering hum of the secrets I’ve had to keep. Mistakes, regrets, buried truths—they add up, my dear. The happy ending doesn’t appear; the final chapter seems disappointing. But have faith. It may be exactly as it’s meant to be.
I found a little lump recently, a herald of my final season. I long to be with David again, and this feels like the right time. I am curious to discover what lies beyond the veil.
What a life I have had. Truly astounding. You’ve made up for the hardships, my dear. Know that you were loved by my darling David, and always by me.
Family is important, and family need not be blood. But I believe, with this DNA test you’ve sent away, you may get more family than you bargained for. Apparently, these genetic connections all come out in the end, with this new technology.
So, if your mother is right, your family tree will take you across the world, to my homeland.
There, you will find a man called Francis.
He shares your bloodline. So, this is my request for you, and my urgent and most profound wish: find Francis.
You will soon have the means at your disposal.
I hope he will help you discover the real me.
Please tell Francis I have loved him always. Tell him I’m sorry I left him and only stayed away because I felt there was no choice.
I shan’t reveal the whole story now, Lottie, because you, like me, enjoy a deftly woven mystery. The story has been written, and you shall discover each chapter at the right time.
And please don’t worry about my own last chapter or the manner of its arrival.
If it doesn’t deliver me to David in some distant realm, I’ve popped in a request for God to send me over to the reincarnation room.
I’m considering coming back as one of those ice-diving baby penguins.
Or a daughter in that French family who design the very comfortable orthopaedic footwear I once tried on in David Jones and have coveted ever since.
Free shoes and trips to Paris sound more than acceptable.
I was grateful to your mother for letting David experience great love before he died. They loved each other dearly. It’s sad that your mother and I never became close, but we both loved you very much.
Go well, my dear, and consider buying Lily Beedle’s house with your inheritance. I have a feeling you will probably enjoy it, although there is a big world out there that awaits you. You have plenty of adventures ahead.
In more pedestrian matters, I have left some spreadsheets of my investments in an envelope on my desk. Do with the money as you wish. Roddy will no doubt be able to assist.
Look after the books. They are all yours now. Don’t forget to empty the shop dehumidifier every day and enjoy the buried pasts. I suspect there are few as diverting as mine.
Yours ever,
Phyllida