‘Not carrot cake,’ I said. ‘Strudel would be lovely. Thank you, Miranda.’
A Tough Little Bird
Darryl R. Dymock
T he plane has just levelled out after take-off when the man in the aisle seat turns to me. ‘Perth your hometown?’ he says pleasantly. ‘Or are you off to see the wildflowers?’
Usually I avoid the artificial conversations at 10,000 metres between two people sitting together simply because they happened to click on a particular seat online. But this time I’m ready to share my pain, and I turn towards my fellow passenger. He’s probably in his early fifties, with crinkly brown eyes in a face tanned by the sun.
‘Neither,’ I say. ‘My mother lives in the south-west. I had a call last night to tell me she’d been taken to Perth Hospital with a heart attack.’ I feel my throat choke up. ‘I hope I get there in time,’ I say hoarsely.
It’s the first time I’ve put the thought into words. I’d been so busy booking the flight and arranging a replacement at school that I’d pushed aside the idea that I might be too late.
The man nods. ‘Sorry to hear that,’ he says. ‘It must be tough being on the other side of the country when these things happen. I’m fortunate that my parents live close by.’
‘Very tough. And the worst of booking a last-minute flight is that you pay top dollar. Not that I begrudge it.’
‘I know what you mean. I only booked last night too.’
I raise my eyebrows. ‘Not a family emergency for you too?’
‘No,’ he says, with a sheepish smile. ‘I’m on my way to Broome, hoping to see a particular species of bird.’
I frown. ‘A bird? What sort of bird?’
He laughs self-consciously. ‘The Kamchatka Leaf Warbler.’
I make a face. ‘Are you making that up? Is that really a bird?’
He smiles and nods a couple of times. ‘It really is a bird,’ he says. ‘A very special bird.’
We’re interrupted by the pilot on the PA telling us that the flight will take just over four hours. I wonder if mum will hang on for that long.
I turn back to my fellow traveller. ‘If you’re heading to Broome to see this . . . warbler bird, how come you only booked your flight last night?’
He smiles again. ‘Well, I got this urgent phone call from the warden at the Broome Bird Observatory.’ He looks at me as if I might recognise the name but it means nothing to me.
‘Yesterday he spotted a Kamchatka Leaf Warbler near his house,’ he continues, ‘and knew straight away I’d be interested, so he gave me a call. Fortunately I have my own business, so I can get away at short notice.’
Me too, I think, thanks to the Principal and a reliable relief teacher. But at least I have a good reason. A bird in Broome? Come on now.
‘What’s so special about this bird?’ I ask sceptically.
He looks at me earnestly. ‘I’m compiling a list of every bird species in Australia, including immigrants and visitors. The Kamchatka Leaf Warbler has never been sighted before on the Australian mainland.’ His eyes are shining. ‘This is an opportunity too good to miss, even though there’s every chance it’ll be gone by the time I get there.’
Like my mother, I think. The man talks some more, but my mind drifts off, reliving yesterday’s phone call from the hospital, and feeling guilty about not being in touch with mum for so long. Even if it is her fault. I try to stay angry about how stubborn she’s been, but all I can think now is that she might be dying while I’m still in the air. I realise tears are running down my cheeks, and I begin to scrabble in my bag for a tissue when one appears in front of me, courtesy of my fellow passenger.
‘Sorry. Thanks,’ I say as I take it and blow my nose.
‘I hope your mother pulls through,’ he says. ‘How long since you last saw her?’
I feel myself flush. ‘Twelve months.’ Then I add lamely, ‘We weren’t close.’
He nods. ‘Relationships can be tricky,’ he says quietly, and for a moment his eyes go into the distance somewhere.
When he turns back to me, I try to make it sound better by telling him I rang mum about two months ago, on her birthday.
‘How’d that go?’
My cheeks are hot. I don’t want to tell him, but I do. ‘It was a stilted conversation from the start and went downhill from there. We ended up having an argument, and I hung up.’
I bite my lip at the memory, but I’m saved from making further revelations by the arrival of the meals trolley. We busy ourselves choosing food and drinks, and after the meal I sit behind my rubble-strewn tray-table wondering how mum’s going in Royal Perth. Memories begin to float past like the clouds outside the window—happier times, lying side by side under the faded blue umbrella on holidays at the beach, picking wildflowers, and mum coming to meet me every weekday afternoon at the farm gate when the school bus dropped me off. I close my eyes and let my mind ramble through the past. The tissue gets another workout.
Next moment my seat’s shaking and I awake and look around, trying to work out where I am. Hastily I tighten my seat belt as I realise the plane has hit a patch of turbulence. My tray-table has been cleared and I fold it into the seat back. I look at my watch. Two hours to go.
The bumpiness subsides and the seatbelt sign goes off. In my head I can see mum’s face—not the older one, with grey hair and wrinkles, but the smiling tanned one I knew from those childhood days on the farm. I close my eyes again. Are you still alive, mum?
The man in the aisle seat looks up quickly from the book he’s reading, surprise in his eyes, and I realise I must’ve said the words aloud.
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, then lays the open book face down on his tray-table.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt your reading.’
‘It’s okay,’ he says with a gentle smile. ‘It’s understandable that you’re worried about your mother.’
I dab at my eyes, this time with my own tissue, and suddenly I need to tell him what makes it so hard. ‘It wasn’t a happy parting. My marriage had broken up and I decided to move east with the two kids to make a fresh start. Dad was okay with it but mum couldn’t understand why I’d leave the West. She also seemed to think the marriage break-up was my fault.’
I pause, then stumble on: ‘From the start she refused to come over to see me, but I tried to bring the children back once a year so that they knew their grandparents. Now they’ve both moved on to live their own lives and have their own families—one’s overseas, one’s interstate. Dad passed away five years ago. And I reckon mum’s probably retreated into herself.’
‘So there wasn’t any chance that your mother would have come east when your dad died, or that you’d go back to the West?’
I shake my head. ‘No, I had too good a job, teaching in a private school in Melbourne. Now I’m deputy principal. And mum’s attitude to coming east wouldn’t have changed. Not that we discussed it. It was never on her radar.’ Or on mine, I think to myself. I also think it’s time to change the subject.
‘What will you do if you find that bird you’re looking for?’ I ask.
‘Take lots of photos, record the GPS coordinates, date and time. Then zip it off to all my birding mates.’
‘Why has this one turned up in Broome?’
‘Most likely blown off course. It started its journey in eastern Russia and should have ended in a forest in Indonesia. But it’s overflown its destination, and 9,000 kilometres later has found itself in Australia.’
My eyes open wide. ‘9,000 kilometres. That’s amazing. Will it find its way to where it was supposed to be going?’
‘Without a doubt. Any minute it’ll be heading north. I just hope it waits around long enough for me to get a glimpse of it.’
‘What does it look like?’
He pulls out his phone and shows me a photo of a pretty little white-breasted bird with brown wings and a spiked beak. ‘It’s about the size of a swallow,’ he says, ‘but it’s a tough little b
ird.’
‘I guess compiling that bird list keeps you off the streets,’ I say with a half-smile, thinking I have nothing in my life that stirs so much passion.
He grins. ‘Literally. It keeps me in the bush. You ought to try it sometime. There are groups in Melbourne that welcome beginners.’
‘Well, it’s not something I’ve ever thought much about. We had birds on the farm of course, but I’ve never done birdwatching the way you talk about it.’
He unclips his seatbelt, reaches into a back pocket of his jeans, and produces a business card from a battered brown wallet. ‘This is my work card,’ he says. ‘When you get back to Melbourne, give me a call if you’d like me to put you in touch with a group.’
As he passes it over I notice he isn’t wearing a wedding ring, which might not mean anything. I look at the inscription on the card. ‘You’re a landscape architect,’ I say. ‘Gary Hawkins.’
‘Have to earn a crust so I can indulge my hobby. Do you mind if I ask your name?’
I feel my cheeks grow hot again. ‘Marilyn,’ I say, and we shake hands, which seems weird after sitting next to each other for several hours.
Shortly afterwards, the pilot comes on again to tell us we’re beginning our descent into Perth. The final approach seems agonisingly slow, however, and once more I wonder if I’ll see mum alive again.
When we land, Gary Hawkins lifts down both our carry-ons from the overhead locker. We stand awkwardly next to each other in the aisle-ful of passengers waiting for the plane door to open, two fifty-somethings eager to get on with our quests. As the queue starts to move, he turns to me. ‘I hope everything goes well with your mother,’ he says. Then he looks at me intently with those crinkly eyes. ‘And please give me a ring when you get back to Melbourne, Marilyn. I’m sure we can fix something up.’
I don’t want to read more into his suggestion than he intended, but I feel my heartbeat quicken when he says my name. ‘Thanks, I’ll certainly think about it,’ I say, and I turn away quickly and pick up my bag to hide my blush.
As he moves down the aisle ahead of me, I say, ‘I hope you find that warbler bird too.’ He waves his free hand over his shoulder in response.
Even before I’m in the terminal I check my phone. There’s no message from the hospital, which I take as a good sign. I think about ringing but decide I’m better off using the time to go straight there, so I pick up the rental car I’ve booked and speed off, guided by the satnav.
At the hospital, I rush to the intensive care unit and ask to see my mother. I try to guess her condition from the look on the nurse’s face when he hears the name. He smiles at me, and moments later, I’m in mum’s room.
She’s curled up on the mattress in a pink cotton nightdress, hooked up to tubes and half covered with a white sheet, her eyes closed. Flickering green dials silently track her progress. She’s always been slightly built, but I’ve never seen her look so frail and tiny. Not much bigger than a swallow, I think. She doesn’t stir when I gently squeeze one of her bony hands. I’m surprised at how papery her skin is.
After a while an impossibly young doctor in a white jacket appears, introduces himself and says he’s the cardiologist monitoring mum’s condition. ‘Your mother’s heart attack was severe,’ he says, ‘and we had to work hard to save her.’
‘Will she be alright?’ I know it’s a question he must’ve heard a thousand times, but this is my mother.
He wrinkles his nose. ‘We’ve done what tests we can and given her medication, but to be honest I don’t know if your mother will regain consciousness.’ He looks across at mum’s sleeping form, her breathing hardly moving her chest. ‘But she’s holding on,’ he says, ‘against all expectations.’
A tough little bird, I think. I wonder if my fellow passenger has arrived in Broome in time to catch up with his avian visitor.
For the best part of two days I sit and sleep at my mother’s bedside, watching for any change, stroking her hands, hoping her eyes will open. ‘Please wake up,’ I say quietly. ‘I want to tell you that I love you.’
Nurses and doctors come and go, but mum stays determinedly the same. ‘I said you were stubborn,’ I whisper to her sleeping face. Then I smile. ‘Like me.’ The thought that we’re alike in that way triggers a bubble of warmth inside me. No one can tell me if she’ll survive.
On the third day, the young cardiologist says it’s unlikely anything will happen suddenly, so if I want a break, now’s the time. I decide to drive down to check on her house.
It isn’t the house I grew up in. When managing the farm got beyond them, mum and dad reluctantly sold it and bought a cottage ‘in town’. As I walk through it now, it seems empty, bereft of life. I wonder if mum will ever come back to it. In my mind I keep seeing her frail little body in the hospital bed.
When I go into her bedroom, it’s dark because the curtains are closed, and I tug them open instead of turning on the light. A shaft of sunlight immediately pushes aside the gloom, illumi- nating a small pile of books and papers on the bedside table.
I go over to them. There’s a novel, a newspaper open at the crossword page, a small book of wise sayings, and a brochure on computing courses for seniors. In the front of the book of wisdom I find a piece of notepaper headed ‘Bucket List’. Below, mum has scribbled: Learn piano, Helicopter ride, Write a book, Northern Lights, Learn to Skype.
I’m gobsmacked. Mum has never mentioned ANY of those things to me in our occasional phone conversations. To add to the surprise, the first three items have a tick next to them.
An old woman’s fantasies, I think. Poor mum. That is, until I walk into the second bedroom and discover an upright piano has replaced the bed. I scour the bookshelves and find copies of a self-published novel, Murder at Oakhill Farm. Author: Mavis Ascott, mum’s maiden name.
And as I tidy up the kitchen, there’s a photo under the fridge magnet of mum giving the thumbs up from a helicopter. I know that somewhere there’s sure to be a brochure for a tour to see the northern lights.
Driving back to Perth, I know I need to tell mum more than ever that I love her. The image I had of her, hiding away in the cottage after dad died, isn’t her at all. I’m sad, though, that our relationship has spiralled down so badly that she couldn’t share her dreams with me. Deep down I know I’ve been just as much to blame for that but didn’t want to admit it to myself.
I’m surprised to find myself wondering if there are any jobs going in Perth, if I have to stay for a while. Then I think that if the worst happens, when I return to Melbourne I’ll ring Gary Hawkins and see what sort of ‘something’ he can fix up. At the very least I’d meet some interesting people and get to see some birds. And who knows what else might happen? I also want to know if he ever did find that little Russian bird.
As these thoughts are running through my head, I realise I’ve been so distracted by mum’s bucket list that I’ve forgotten to check my phone. It’s in my open handbag on the passenger seat, and with one hand on the wheel I reach over and pluck it out. The screen is black. I’d been so focused on mum, I’d forgotten to charge it. What if the hospital’s been trying to ring me?
I accelerate, hoping there are no speed cameras about. My hands are sweaty on the wheel, my mind imagining that mum’s heart has suddenly given up completely. That she’s dying without me by her side. I keep checking the phone, praying that I’d been in a black spot for reception. Not a flicker. Oh shit, shit!
Still a good way from the hospital I see a public call box in a town I’m passing through. I pull up and hastily push in the coins. In response to my gasped-out inquiry, the nurse says, ‘Oh, thank goodness you rang. We’ve been trying to reach you.’
I close my eyes.
‘Your mother’s regained consciousness, but we don’t know for how long. You’d better get back here right away.’
I leave the phone hanging and leap back into the car. That tough little bird is still going.
‘Hang on, my little Kamchatka,’ I say. �
�Don’t go flying off anywhere before I get there.’
I push my foot down hard, and to hell with the speed cameras.
Emotional Support
Justine Hyde
I dream of hamsters drowning on the night before our flight; submerged, their sodden fur dragging them under water, beady eyes pleading rescue.
I make my way down the cramped aisle of the plane, breathe in to occupy less space; the low ceiling compacts my shoulders, boxed in. I pause as passengers shuffle bags, headphones, devices, children; find the correct pocket to place their every loose thing. Their slack bodies fold into rigid seats, their wings are tucked in.
A woman bursting pregnant struggles ahead of me; tries to lift her luggage into the overhead compartment. The bag weighs heavy; her arms are bowed. Her stomach pushes a hard convex against fabric. Someone please help her. I consider the harness in my hand; too risky to let it go. Here’s a man; he pushes the bump’s bag up with a grunt. Thanks. That’s alright love. Bump lowers herself into the seat, one hand on her lower back. I imagine being wombcurled, carried safe inside another body’s padding; foetal in a chamber thrumming with fluid heartbeat. Percy strides behind me in his harness; swings his weight lazily from left to right, breathes in the recycled air, scans the floor for food discarded. Excuse us, excuse us. I push past a suit, his body half in, half out of the aisle, one highly polished shoe obstructing our way. He catches sight of Percy who distracts him momentarily, then continues talking loudly into his phone: property prices, exchange rates, inflation. All his talk conflating into radio static, no meaning; white noise grating at me.
We pass a small boy sitting, pointing. Mummy. Mummy. Look! Tugging at her sleeve. Yes, dear. Not looking up from her screen. The boy runs his pudgy hand over Percy, from head to tail. Sleek body. A rush of pleasure lights the boy’s face, grinning devil. I imagine an adult fetish flashing back to this moment.
We'll Stand In That Place and other stories Page 8
