Page 24 of Birds of a Feather

I was outraged. Again, her financial mismanagement was someone else’s problem to solve. And, again, Dad was bailing her out. I threw my phone a little too roughly onto the passenger seat. I certainly wasn’t going to share the news of my car with my family now. I wouldn’t put it past her to ask to siphon some petrol out.

~

When I arrived at Gran’s and smelled my favourite dinner – pork in mustard sauce, served with rice and green beans – which she made for me on special occasions, wafting from her kitchen, I felt relieved. When she told me she’d made my favourite dessert – rice pudding – I knew for sure she wasn’t mad.

She insisted we eat dinner before sending the message to Gerry. This suited me fine; I’d barely eaten all day. By the time my stomach knots had untangled, it was time to pick up my car, and I hadn’t had a chance.

‘Okay, then,’ I said, after we’d eaten and cleared away the dishes, and I had transposed Gran’s handwritten draft into Gerry’s ‘contact me’ dialogue box. ‘You’re sure about this?’

‘Wait on,’ she said, lifting the handwritten pages towards her face. ‘Just let me read it one more time.’

She had filled two sheets of thin, lined paper. The pages were covered with passages that had been crossed out and rewritten, and single words that had been scribbled out and replaced. The paper she’d written on had yellowed in the years it had been stored in the writing bureau in the corner of her lounge room, and the note looked like it could have been as old as the feelings it conveyed.

Gran’s handwriting was neat and feminine, but not too flowery. I loved the way her S’s began with a severe straight edge but then curved into a soft half-circle, and the way her R’s looped at the top. Even the veggies in her garden were identified by little plaques that she’d prepared with as much care as would be given to the little name cards on the banquet table in the state dining room at Buckingham Palace.

Over the years, her writing, like her voice, had developed an ever-so-slight wobble. Her written strokes were lighter and less confident, and her spoken words had a tiny tremble that was almost imperceptible – except to anyone who hung on her every word, like me.

‘Dear Gerry,’ she read under her breath. ‘I hope my getting in touch will be a welcome surprise. It may seem that I’m contacting you out of the blue, but the truth is that I have thought of you often over the past sixty-or-so years.

‘I was thrilled, but not surprised, to read about your illustrious career. I always knew you had so much to contribute to science. Elizabeth Gould would be proud. I worked in the state’s herbarium for many years and now volunteer there to keep them, and me, on our toes. Coincidentally, I contributed to the Millennium Seed Bank Project in Kew Gardens, which I see you were involved in.

‘I married John Evans, and we had one daughter, Rosie. I have three grandchildren, including Beth who is helping me make contact with you.

‘I’m so glad I’ve found a way to reach you, Gerry. I don’t expect anything from you but want you to know that I’ve thought of you often and with fondness.

‘With love and best wishes, Elise (nee Simpson).’

‘It’s perfect, Gran,’ I offered.

‘Do you really think?’ she asked, sitting back in the chair and removing her glasses. She looked apprehensive. ‘Maybe I should just—’

‘Don’t get cold feet now,’ I interjected. ‘You said yourself you’ve always wondered what happened. This is your chance.’

‘You’re right,’ she said with a decisive nod of her head. ‘Send it.’

I ceremoniously tapped the mouse button before she could change her mind.

‘And now we wait,’ I said with a nod.

‘And now we wait,’ she repeated, rapping her hands on the table and then getting up and walking to the stove. ‘Do you want more rice pudding?’

‘No thanks, Gran,’ I replied, rubbing my uncomfortably full belly. ‘I couldn’t eat another thing.’

After Gran had loaded me up with Tupperware containers of leftover food, I farewelled her with the promise that I would let her know right away if I heard anything from Gerry and the assurance I would return her Tupperware when I next saw her. I effortlessly slid into the driver’s seat of my shiny new car, pushed the button on the dash that engaged the keyless ignition and then tapped the button to fire up the seat warmer. The night was crisp but not cold, so I opened the sunroof and welcomed in the fresh night air to mingle with the new car smell.

It was nice to know I would make it home without needing a call-out to roadside assistance.

Chapter 15

Beth

It had been three days since Gran and I had sent the message to Gerry. Quite understandably, her patience for a response was waning.

It wasn’t uncommon for us to speak on the phone a couple of times during the week as we arranged transport to and from my parents’ house on Saturdays or exchanged work updates. But she’d called me each morning and night to see if I’d heard anything, even though I assured her that I would let her know the second I did.

Despite her agitation, she had an air of sprightliness to her. When I called past on my way home one night to return her Tupperware, I could hear her vocal improvisations before I even reached the front door. She used to always perform operatic acrobatics when she was pottering around the house (occasionally an identifiable tune snuck into her arrangement, but she’d usually moved on by the time you’ve worked out what it was). It was only now I realised I hadn’t heard her do it since Grandpa died. It made me happy to see a lightness to her again. And, for just a moment, I allowed myself to wonder what it would feel like to be so buoyed by the prospect of connecting with someone.

On the fourth morning, I woke to the mechanical chiming of my phone alarm and sleepily looked at the screen to check the time. As I hovered my finger over the snooze button, I spotted a notification of an email received at 2.56am.

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