Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.
The first time I saw her I knew she had stories to tell.
She was elegant and educated and almost regal. Her name, no surprise, was Elizabeth.
Elizabeth was dying. I was her guide through the process.
As a young woman, Elizabeth had earned a place at Cambridge University…just as the war started.
The next thing she was aware of was the tin hut she went to every day to run endless maths problems and possibilities. Elizabeth was a decoder. No dear, I cannot talk about that...she would say when I asked for stories.
Elizabeth married a fine RAF officer and together they travelled the world keeping secrets and debriefing in quiet rooms and telling no one.
Then India and a tea plantation. A world from her childhood and a world from the tin hut.
What is that smell?
She had not imagined anything could smell like that. But there it was. The smell of a million human souls trying to survive, trying to find meaning and purpose. She stayed. And endured. And then accepted. And finally came to marvel at the joy people could find in nothing but being alive.
Who owns this dog?
She was surprised when the looks she received were blank or slightly bemused.
Own a dog? You have to be crazy.
The dog was an independent being, like the rest of the community, who eked out an existence through hard work, perseverance and occasional kindness from others.
The kindness of others.
Listen.
A noise from the veranda. A tentative look. Animal? Human? A small bundle of dirty rags had been left at the door. What was that?
It moved and then opened up as a small skinny arm pushed aside the cloth and reached for the air and the sunlight and the warmth.
A child? A baby?
Shya was just ten months old when Elizabeth found her. It was a miracle she had survived for that length of time.
She was skinny and dirty and came with a piece of paper that read please love her as much as I do.
That was years ago and Elizabeth is dying and Shya is overseas working on Very Important Matters and there is just the two of us.
Elizabeth says she had a good life, but she does wish she had finished that book. The story of her life. Just to prove she was more than she appeared…more than just a bag of bones and wrinkles and strange odours.
Just to prove that she had once lived.