Chapter 62 Phyllida
PHYLLIDA
NOW, NSW SOUTHERN HIGHLANDS, AUSTRALIA
Phyllida sips the glass of sparkling wine and looks out onto the garden. Dozens of her friends and acquaintances are meandering around lush flowering beds or chatting in the shade of Miriam’s pear trees. Tomorrow is Christmas Day, and Phyllida has been given the most remarkable gift.
‘Are you feeling all right?’ Lottie has been hovering.
She has already asked the question no fewer than a dozen times, worried that this outing might be too much.
But how could Phyllida not be all right?
Her cancer is under control, Francis is here and Lottie is back working in the bookshop after a few days recuperating from her own medical concerns.
Phyllida had been apprehensive on the day of her hospital release; she could not sense the life inside Lottie’s womb that had once been there, and sure enough, later that day, her granddaughter had begun to bleed.
Lottie and Phyllida have talked for many hours over these past days; about her anger, and her grief at losing the pregnancy, and about her huge sense of relief that she is no longer pregnant.
Lottie is adamant she does not want children, and yet she is mourning this loss deeply.
They discussed Lottie’s wish not to mother, and Miriam’s insistence that Lottie will change her mind.
Phyllida has tried to assure Miriam of the profound integrity of Lottie’s choice.
It is brave and deliberate. It frees Lottie to live a life of self-determination; one that will bring joys and sorrows, just as any choice does.
Tears had welled in Miriam’s eyes, perhaps for the grandchildren she will never have.
Mothering is certainly a difficult path, thinks Phyllida.
You work it out as you go along, failing on some days, succeeding on others.
There is no measuring stick. No way to know if you’ve passed or failed.
Your children still might grow up and get addicted to drugs, even though you’d insisted on three serves of vegetables and given all the pep talks about drink-driving and STDs.
Miriam emerges from the kitchen looking beautiful and holding a platter of smoked salmon blinis. This slightly postponed garden club gathering has invigorated her. She glances towards the front gate, and her expression changes. A couple is approaching.
‘Ah,’ she says. ‘Finally.’ She gives them a wave.
The man is tall, and nearing seventy, Phyllida guesses.
He has an interesting look about him. Not handsome, but there is a calm gravity to the way he holds himself.
He is well dressed with a kind face. Beside him is a woman in sandals and a pretty floral dress, a few years younger.
Miriam deposits the tray onto the table and gives them another wave.
The man’s face lights up with an expression that is so familiar, Phyllida immediately knows.
‘Well, long time no see,’ says the man, kissing Miriam on both cheeks. She flutters beneath his gaze. He introduces his companion. ‘This is my wife, Hazel. Darling, this is Miriam Peters, my friend from forever ago.’
The woman smiles and they shake hands. They turn to Lottie and Miriam says, ‘Lottie, this is …’ She hesitates, looking at Phyllida, a fleeting uncertainty in her eyes.
‘Your father,’ says Phyllida gently. She stands, with some effort. ‘How lucky she is to have two of them.’
‘Lars?’ says Lottie.
‘Lars Olafsson. Pleased to meet you.’ He gives a lopsided smile.
There is silence. Miriam looks at Lottie and says haltingly, ‘I thought it might … be good that you meet each other sooner rather than later.’
Lottie releases a huge breath then smiles. She and Lars hug. It is long, warm hug. Well overdue, thinks Phyllida.
Lottie has told Phyllida all about her emails with Lars in recent days.
He was delighted to discover he has a child.
He and his wife hadn’t been able to conceive, so Lottie turning up on his DNA matchmaker notifications had made his pacemaker miss a few beats, apparently.
(Genetic issues with the heart. Good for Lottie to be across the facts.)
‘Your mother thought she’d take the initiative,’ Lars says. ‘Save us from an awkward meeting in a coffee shop. I hope you don’t mind the surprise.’
‘It’s wonderful to meet you,’ adds Hazel. ‘Lars has been like a cat on a hot tin roof, waiting for today.’ She laughs, and they all find themselves laughing with her.
Judy Dingle approaches. ‘Will I hand these salmon things around, Miriam?’
‘No, I’ll do it,’ says Miriam. She nods at Lars and Hazel, then gives Phyllida a small smile. ‘I’d better get back to my hostess duties.’ As she passes Lottie, she squeezes her arm and a look passes between them that, to Phyllida, feels like a beginning.
Phyllida waits, comfortable in the silence that settles over their little group. Hazel says, ‘So, Lottie, I hear you work with your grandmother in the bookshop here in town?’
‘Yes.’
‘A dream job,’ exclaims Hazel.
‘She has the perfect instincts of a bookdealer,’ says Phyllida. ‘A keen eye and the historical curiosity one needs in our trade.’
‘How interesting,’ says Lars, beaming.
‘Lars and I love history,’ says Hazel. ‘We’ve restored four old houses over the years. We love anything with a story.’
‘Wonderful,’ says Phyllida, liking her immediately. ‘And do you work together in that field?’
‘No,’ says Lars. ‘She’s the heritage expert. I’m a lawyer, I’m afraid. By far the more boring profession.’
‘Necessary, though,’ says Phyllida. ‘And I’m sure quite interesting, depending on your speciality.’
Phyllida listens to them chat for a while, then makes her way to the kitchen to give them some privacy.
Through the kitchen window, she sees Roddy standing with Francis and they are ensconced in a group of garden club members standing by an impressive bed of white anemones.
She wonders if Francis gardens. So much to discover.
Her eyes close. With Francis here, everything feels lighter.
There is something in the experience of forgiveness, of being forgiven.
It switches something on. Like a warm little candle, flickering into the blackness.
The way ahead is still shadowy, but there is enough light to begin stepping forward.
It is lovely to experience this twilight with her firstborn.
Not that she thinks of herself as Francis’s mother.
She would never wrest that privilege from dear Adeline who’d had the terrible misfortune of marrying Edward Fitzhenry.
Oh, that awful man. What pain he’d caused.
What evil. Although, Phyllida doesn’t really believe in evil.
It lacks an appreciation for nuance, which is necessary in almost all things.
One needs to examine the layers that make up a life.
Did anyone lavish love on young Edward when he was a toddler with a malleable little brain?
What violence was meted out at the hands of his masters when he was sent to boarding school, aged five?
What caused him, at age twelve, to enjoy ripping the wings off birds to see if it made them hop?
(Dorothea had occasionally taken tea with Nanny Pam, Edward’s childhood nanny, back in those days at Bleddesley when Pam was living out her final days in the dower house.
Edward had been an appalling child, she’d confided to Dorothea; quite the worst of her Fitzhenry charges over the generations.)
Contrast that to their boy—Adeline’s and hers. He’d had love in those formative years. Until almost his tenth birthday, every day, Francis had someone in his life who loved him. Adeline, then Dorothea. And after that, he’d had Mrs Wilson, if you could measure love in illicit biscuit supplies.
But did Edward have that motherly love?
Was love the missing ingredient in the making of a psychopath? Only partly she supposes. These days they say it’s all in the genetics. Blame the DNA for their faulty non-empathising brains. Still, she ponders, the lack of kindness must do something to transform a regular psychopath into a savage.
She opens her eyes. Dear, dear Francis. He and Phyllida had visited Louis David’s grave yesterday and they had both shed a tear.
The absurdity of it; the cruelty and wonder of life and death and time.
The fleeting beauty. It makes her head reel.
As had Francis’s suggestion about her tainted inheritance.
It’s over ten million Australian dollars now.
That’s what a hundred thousand British pounds could become if you invested it carefully for fifty years.
Francis agrees she should provide for Lottie, and then work with a charity that helps families affected by gambling.
Roddy can continue to administer the capital sum, Francis suggested, as he’d done such a stellar job at making it grow these last few years.
Through the window, Phyllida sees Rupert and Dervla arriving.
Lottie had filled her in on the committee discussions about Rupert and his wandering hands, and Miriam’s desire to ban his attendance today.
But it seems that nobody had told him not to come.
Despite her exhaustion, Phyllida rallies and exits through the side door to greet them.
She leads them towards the drinks table, away from Miriam.
‘Lars, Hazel, I’d like you to meet our near neighbours, Rupert and Dervla.’
Lottie stares daggers at Rupert.
‘It’s a gorgeous village,’ says Hazel to the new arrivals. ‘Have you always lived here?’
Rupert laughs. ‘No,’ he says. ‘We came from Sydney when I retired. I was in banking for forty-seven years.’
‘And you, Dervla?’ Hazel continues.
‘She’s had no need to work,’ says Rupert proudly. ‘She was a lady of leisure. Reads books most of the time.’
‘She raised four boys and without much help from you, I expect,’ says Lottie. ‘I’d hardly call that leisure.’
‘Actually, I wanted to ask you, Dervla,’ says Phyllida, heading off the tirade she can see Lottie is itching to launch.
‘I’m thinking about opening the shop on a Sunday, going forward.
I wondered if a weekly Sunday shift might interest you?
I know Rupert plays Sunday golf, so I’m sure he’d be only too pleased for you to do your own thing.
’ Phyllida turns to Rupert and gives him her most charming smile, ‘Wouldn’t you, Rupert? ’
‘Oh, what a fabulous opportunity!’ says Hazel. ‘I’d love to work with old books.’
Rupert begins muttering something about Dervla’s low energy levels, but Phyllida ignores him and turns back to Dervla.
‘Well,’ says Dervla, eyes flicking between her husband and Phyllida, a tentative whisper of a smile emerging, ‘it does sound interesting.’
‘Brilliant!’ says Lottie, focusing her laser glare on Rupert.
‘Look at us!’ she nods around the group.
‘Three bookdealers, a heritage specialist, a retired banker and’—she looks up at Lars and places her hand on his arm—‘one very accomplished human rights lawyer who does sexual discrimination cases to clean up workplaces run by lecherous old dinosaurs who touch women’s bums. We’ve got it all covered here. ’
Rupert blanches.
‘Indeed,’ says Phyllida, swallowing a smile as the warm breeze picks up and a group of garden clubbers drift towards the drinks table.
Francis appears at Phyllida’s side and puts his arm around her shoulder. ‘Hello, everyone.’
Phyllida beams up at him. ‘And let’s not forget one retired costume designer from the West End.’ She feels relief that he is holding on to her; almost as if he is holding her up. ‘Let me introduce you all to my dear friend, Francis Fitzhenry.’
Hands are shaken and Lars asks, ‘Where do you fit into this picture, Francis?’
‘A question I’ve often asked myself,’ says Francis. ‘I’ve known Phyllida for as long as I can remember. It’s almost as if’—he squeezes her shoulder—‘we’re family.’