The Westport Whisper ~ Edition 11

GRANDMA MABEL — THE TREE GIVES UP ITS FIRST SECRET

Mabel went back to the Grandmother Banksia on Monday morning. Lizzie drove her as usual and stayed close as Mabel made her way carefully along the path with her walker, taking her time the way a woman who has been gardening for sixty years takes her time — not because she has to, but because she knows that the ground will tell you things if you let it.

What happened next is not usual.

Working slowly around the base of the trunk, Mabel found it on the southern side. Partially concealed by a clump of grass that had been nudged into place with some deliberateness — a hole. Small. Clean-edged. The kind of hole that does not happen by accident and does not happen by nature.

She photographed it. This time the photograph was not of the footpath and even in focus. Kind of.

She also noticed something else. A smell. Faint, chemical, not unpleasant exactly but wrong in the way that chemical smells are wrong when they appear where they should not be. She stood very still for a moment with her nose pointed at the base of the tree like a woman who knows exactly what that smell means and what it does not mean.

She took a soil sample in a zip lock bag from her cardigan pocket — because Mabel comes prepared — and made her way back to Lizzie’s car.

Lizzie asked what she had found. Mabel said she wasn’t sure yet. She was looking out the window as she said it. Lizzie, who knows her grandmother, did not push.

Mabel called Eunice that evening. The call lasted forty minutes. Eunice has told this correspondent that she does not know what was discussed. Eunice’s ears were slightly pink when she said this.

The council has still not sent anyone back to look at the tree. The yellow-tailed black cockatoos have still not returned. And the quiet older man in the grey jacket has not been seen this week.

His absence, this correspondent suspects, is as significant as his presence.

* * *

LEE & BRODY — THE GRINNING DOG, THE SIGN, AND A FEELING THAT WILL NOT GO AWAY

Lee and Brody were seen at the Grinning Dog on Thursday evening. For those new to Westport — Brody is an electrician who lives on Price Lane, and Lee is his father, a man of strong opinions and short stature who purchased the house next door to Brody’s girlfriend Chloe in what he described as a practical decision and what everyone else on Price Lane recognised immediately for what it was. Their relationship is complicated in the way that fathers and sons who are still finding their way back to each other are complicated. They do not always see eye to eye. They do not always agree. They go to the Grinning Dog occasionally anyway, which this correspondent considers progress of a kind.

Thursday’s conversation was different.

It started with the sign. A new sign has appeared on the door of the old shop on the corner of Price Lane — the one that was Tilly’s, before it was Tilly’s. The sign announces new tenants. A takeaway. Opening soon.

Lee saw it on Wednesday morning. He has been thinking about it ever since, not because he doubts himself — Lee does not doubt himself — but because the certainty of what he knows sits in his chest like something unfinished.

His concern is not about the takeaway. It is not about the loss of Tilly’s cupcakes, though he mentioned that too, with feeling. It is about the couple moving in.

Because Lee has seen them before. He is absolutely certain of it. When he was considering buying the house on Price Lane — before he had made the decision, before the house was even officially listed — he saw a man and a woman standing outside the old corner shop. Not looking at it the way prospective tenants look at a space they might rent. Just standing. Watching the street. He remembers thinking it was odd. He remembers thinking it again now.

At the time, the shop was Tilly’s and Tilly was happy there. There was no reason for anyone to be looking at it. No reason at all.

Brody listened with the patience that is his defining characteristic. He pointed out that people walk past shops all the time. He pointed out that the timing could be coincidence. He pointed out that Lee had been evaluating the street at that point and was naturally more observant than usual.

Lee looked at his son across the table.

“I know what I saw,” he said.

Brody said nothing. He looked at his beer. And this correspondent notes — with considerable interest — that he did not disagree.

* * *

GRACIE & AARON — THE BOARDWALK, THE GOOD TABLE, AND WESTPORT FINALLY EXHALES

Gracie Saunders and Aaron Douglas went out for dinner on Friday evening. A reservation. A restaurant. Gracie in a dress that Nancy had strong opinions about, then revised those opinions considerably upward when she actually saw it on. Aaron arrived at seven — on time, in a grey waistcoat that caused at least two people on the street outside to stop and look twice. He did not appear to notice this. He appeared to be staring with goo-goo eyes at Gracie.

They are, for those keeping track, properly together now. This is not a new development so much as something that Westport has been waiting on for rather a long time and is collectively relieved to have confirmed.

They ate at the restaurant on the esplanade — the one with the good view and the candles that are not trying too hard — and were seen talking in the easy way of two people who have known each other their whole lives and are only now getting to live in that knowledge. Which is, of course, exactly what they are.

Afterwards they walked along the boardwalk where the river meets the ocean. It was a warm evening. The water was calm. They walked slowly, which those who know Aaron will note is not his natural speed, but which he appeared entirely content with.

Westport has been watching Gracie and Aaron for some time now — first with suspicion given the family history, then with curiosity, and now with something approaching collective satisfaction. Two families spent a great many years keeping these two apart. It appears that Westport is quietly pleased that it didn’t work.

Nancy, when asked for comment, said only that it was about time. She then returned to what she was doing and did not elaborate. This is, in this correspondent’s experience, Nancy at her most eloquent.

The Westport Whisper sees all, says most, and leaves just enough unsaid to keep you wondering..

Until next time — your faithful correspondent remains, as always, delightfully anonymous. 🕯️