Page 47 of Birds of a Feather

After a few more minutes of Gran pacing and checking her watch, and me imploring her to sit down, the door of the hotel opened. A woman who I immediately knew to be Gerry entered.

Gran was right about Gerry being graceful; she had an air of poise and refinement. The way she carried her head, atop her long, elegant neck, reminded me of how people stood in deportment school when they had a book balanced on their heads. Gerry seemed to personify what people meant when they described someone as being of ‘good breeding’.

Gerry and Gran walked towards each other and hugged without exchanging a word. They lingered in each other’s arms for longer than what you’d expect of two platonic old friends.

They parted from their embrace, but locked hands.

‘Here,’ Gran said, motioning towards me finally. ‘Come and meet Beth.’

‘Oh, Beth!’ Gerry let go of Gran’s hand as she moved towards me with open arms. ‘It’s so good to meet you.’ She hugged me tightly before leaning back to study my face. ‘She looks like you,’ she said, turning to Gran, her voice animated by surprise. ‘I mean, not exactly the same. But there is definitely a resemblance.’ She turned back to study me again. ‘Lucky you.’ She smiled at me in a way that made me feel a bit more special than I had in the moments beforehand; like I should be proud of something. I just wasn’t sure what.

The hotel door opened again, and Nick appeared.

His eyes darted quickly around the foyer, searching eagerly. They stopped when they met mine.

‘Good morning, Beth,’ he said, a broad smile transforming his face. I felt my cheeks warm. I realised I was glad to see him; Gran hadn’t mentioned he would be coming along too.

‘And good morning to you,’ he said, turning to address Gran, which I hoped meant he didn’t spot me blushing. ‘Ready for the markets?’

~

After what turned out to be a lovely walk, with a pitstop for brunch, we rounded the corner into Portobello Road Markets where the pastel hues of the terraced buildings set the tone for the colour and character of the street.

I turned to ask Gran what she wanted to see first and discovered she was no longer nearby. I scanned the area around me and spotted her and Gerry standing together at a stall that sold candles in all different shapes, colours and sizes.

Gran held a candle to her nose and inhaled deeply, before holding it out for Gerry to sample. Gerry cupped her hands around Gran’s, drank in the scent and then leaned in and whispered something. Gran smiled and shook her head gently.

While their movements were slight, and their words hushed, their casual intimacy spoke volumes. It was obvious just by looking at them that their connection was as deep as the history they shared.

‘They seem to be having an awful time together,’ Nick said sarcastically as he sidled up next to me.

‘I’ll say,’ I responded, unable to take my eyes off them as they laughed and whispered as if they were alone in the universe, despite standing in a heaving crowd of market-goers.

‘Why don’t we set a place to meet up later on?’ he suggested. ‘That way they can do their thing, and we can do ours.’

‘Good idea,’ I replied, impressed again at Nick’s thoughtfulness.

As we approached Gran and Gerry, Nick made a loud, fake coughing sound to break them from their moment.

‘We were thinking,’ Nick started, ‘that we should agree on a place to meet later on. Aunt Gerry has dragged me through enough antique stalls to last a lifetime. It’s your turn now, Elise. I am happy to hand over the baton.’

Gerry rolled her eyes in defeated agreement as Nick bowed deeply in faux submission.

‘Besides, there’s a stall down there where an old hippy sells antique bongs, which I know Beth is going to go crazy for. And I’m keen to see if I can add to my collection of wigs.’

He winked at me, and I laughed. We agreed to meet for lunch at a pub at the end of the road, and Nick and I set off, leaving Gerry and Gran to debate whether patchouli had any business being in a scented candle. Definitely not, according to Gerry.

We meandered through the stalls that sold everything from second-hand clothes and jewellery to records and prints to antique silverware and signs to vintage boxing gloves. The stall owners were as diverse as the wares they were selling.

A few shops in from the start of the road, a woman in her seventies (give or take a decade or two adjusted for hard living) spun large bundles of hot pink fairy floss the same colour as her long dreadlocks. A few stalls along, a man with an impressive Dali-esque moustache sold a compass to a couple of pretentious-looking hipsters, who appeared to be pleased with themselves for embracing vintage tools while googling how to use them on their smartphones. Further along again, a crowd had gathered around a shop that sold antique clocks, where a street performer dressed as the White Rabbit jokingly berated the shopkeeper that every clock was on a different time.

Nick and I made fun of the Instagrammers we spotted, who were insisting their friend/boyfriend/girlfriend/mother/father/sister/brother/significant other take photo after photo as they perfected their best unposed pose. And we stopped to watch an Elvis impersonator who was belting out ‘Blue Suede Shoes’ while being completely and delightfully upstaged by a little girl who was dancing along with him.

‘Ever been on a blind date?’ Nick asked as we stopped outside a bookshop. ‘With a book, I mean.’

Nick pointed to a table of brown paper-wrapped book-shaped parcels. A sign advertised: ‘Let the universe decide your next literary adventure’. There was an asterisk at the end of the line that corresponded to a clause of small print that warned: ‘Just like in life, refunds and exchanges will not be provided. Any purchase is final’.

‘Oh, that’s right,’ Nick said, giving me a gentle nudge on the arm. ‘You don’t believe in fate.’

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