Chapter 61 Lottie
LOTTIE
NOW, NSW SOUTHERN HIGHLANDS, AUSTRALIA
‘Let’s stop in at the shop,’ says Phyllida. ‘I’ve missed it.’
I hesitate. I have left Sienna in charge and her new approach to keeping shop involves reading every book on witchcraft and pagan practices she can find.
It began as Sienna’s way to rid the shop of all the ‘bad vibe doom clouds from the convict builders who got tortured around here’ but has morphed into preparation for the arrival of Francis tomorrow, who will obviously need some extra witchy help to be successfully reunited with Phyllida.
There is rosemary spray to cleanse the space, a charm jar filled with herbs, and an official playlist packed with reunion songs so that nothing can get in the way of the good vibes Sienna requires to usher Francis and his beloved Dorothea back together.
As I left the shop earlier, I spotted a bundle of pink candles next to some dried sage, which I can only assume Sienna intends to burn to remove residual negative energy. I hope the shop is not yet on fire. ‘Are you sure?’ I ask Phyllida. ‘There’s no need to hurry back to work.’
‘Nonsense. I feel terrific.’
‘All right. You can meet Sienna. I left her tidying up, but don’t hold your breath.’
‘I cannot wait.’
Phyllida is slow on a walking frame, her muscles weakened from so long in bed.
This new version of my grandmother feels strange and confronting.
As we were leaving the hospital I had these spinning thoughts about her being gone, lying in a coffin and me left with a pregnancy I’m trying hard not to think about.
It feels like adulting, right at the cliff face with a landslide threatening. I had to stop and take deep breaths.
As the shop doorbell rings, Sienna looks up from behind the counter, eyes like a possum in a spotlight.
‘Hello, dear.’ Phyllida stands completely still, regarding Sienna with a smile. ‘I’m Phyllida.’
Sienna is speechless, eyes darting across to me, then back to Phyllida.
‘I’ve heard so much about you,’ says Phyllida, approaching the counter.
Sienna is still mute. Her expression appears to be one of pure panic. She gives me an intense look and tips her head slowly to the right, then flicks it right again, her eyes wide.
Through the doorway to the second room, a man has his back to us.
He is tall and grey-haired, and his fingers are running along the book spines at head height as he browses.
Phyllida turns to look at him. She nods and puts her hand on Sienna’s hand, which is clutching her phone.
She says, ‘Put the music on, dear. I believe you have prepared some special songs.’ She nods towards the man, who still has not turned around. ‘Someone important is here to see me.’
The man turns and my breath catches. Francis Fitzhenry is certainly older than the photographs in the newspaper articles, but he is mesmerising in his blue chinos and mint-green shirt.
He has the kindest face, framed by dark pink reading glasses.
He pulls them off, crosses the room in a few strides and leans down to collect Phyllida in his arms.
‘Dorothea.’ He holds her, bent over, silent.
Phyllida’s eyes are closed and she has the most beatific smile on her face. It is an awkward embrace, Francis well over six feet tall and Phyllida barely five, but they stand like that for the longest time.
Eventually Phyllida speaks. ‘Hello, Francis, dear. Welcome to The Bookshop of Buried Pasts.’