Page 51 of Birds of a Feather

‘They’re this way, I think,’ Gerry chirped as they reached a fork in the path and she tapped at a map on her phone.

‘Who?’ Elise insisted.

‘Two great lovers,’ Gerry replied.

After a few more steps, Gerry pointed to a group of graves to the left of the path.

‘They were separated for decades, before being finally reunited here, at their final resting place.’

The plain-looking grave, situated in a crowded cluster of others, was about six feet long and was adorned with a cross that stretched its length. The corners of the concrete were crumbled and broken away, and lichen mottled much of its surface area.

Gerry bent down to move some of the long grass that was growing up the side of the grave, revealing some faint letters etched into the side.

‘John Henry Gould’, she said as she traced the characters of his name with her fingers, ‘and, of course, his one great love, Elizabeth. Apparently, when it was created, it also said Here lies John Gould, “The Bird Man”, but you can’t make out much of anything anymore.’

A pigeon cooed softly from its vantage point on a nearby grave.

‘My goodness, Gerry,’ Elise exclaimed, ‘this is amazing.’

‘I haven’t been here for years. They’ve even got some new neighbours. Good for them,’ Gerry said, scanning their surrounds. ‘I came here a few times after I got back from Australia. I think I even sat right there and wrote one of the letters you never received.’ She pointed to a spot of overgrown grass at the foot of the grave. ‘I enjoyed the idea that I was sitting alongside such a capable, proficient natural historian. Even if the rest of the world didn’t yet know how incredible Elizabeth Gould was.’

The two women stood silently as they paid their respects to a woman who had brought so much to natural history, with so little acknowledgement, and who had bonded the two of them in their own love for natural history.

‘It seems like such a plain monument, for someone who captured the colour of the natural world so richly,’ Elise said, using her hand to clear away some leaves that had settled on the grave. The pigeon startled and flew off into the nearby trees.

Gerry reached into her bag and produced a parcel wrapped in a tea towel and tied with some kitchen twine.

‘What have you got there?’ Elise asked curiously.

Gerry peeled back the layers of the fabric wrapping to reveal two piccolos of champagne.

‘Gerry!’ Elise exclaimed, looking around guiltily for witnesses. ‘It’s eleven in the morning.’

‘I know,’ she said cheekily, as she handed Eli a bottle. ‘But I thought we owed it to her to have a toast in her honour.’

They each found a space on the grass surrounding the grave and sat down, which for Gerry meant leaning her weight on the grave as she lowered herself to a kneeling and then seating position. For Elise, it involved bending as low as she could before dropping the rest of the way and hoping for the best.

They cracked the twist-top seals on the small bottles in unison.

‘To Elizabeth Gould,’ Gerry said, bringing the neck of her bottle to Elise’s.

‘And women of science everywhere,’ Elise replied.

They sipped the slightly warm champagne through the metal straws Gerry had produced from her bag and welcomed the sun as it poked out from behind the clouds.

After only a few sips, Elise felt the muscles at the base of her neck soften. She didn’t know if it was the champagne, the sun on her skin or being there with Gerry, but she felt an overwhelming sense of peace. It was as though a deep wound, which had resulted in a thick, unsightly keloid scar, was healing.

‘Nice day for it.’ A man bearing an uncanny resemblance to Freddie Mercury shouted to them over the Queen anthem ‘We Are the Champions’, which was blasting from the phone in his pocket.

Elise looked to Gerry in bewilderment.

‘Freddie Mercury is buried here too,’ Gerry whispered by way of clarification. ‘But he’s not wrong. It’s a perfect day for it.’

They soaked in the sun and finished their drinks.

Getting up off the ground was a little more involved than getting down. Gerry hoisted herself up to kneeling and then stood with relative ease. Elise’s manoeuvre would be familiar to anyone who had seen a baby giraffe attempting to stand.

‘Rightio,’ Gerry said, clapping her hands together after they’d both risen. ‘We’d best be going. Part two of our adventure awaits.’

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