Ms Featherington-Smythe bent down laboriously, causing Hermes to slither backwards and land on the soiled rug with a flump, and picked up the letter with her pruney fingers. She ripped it open rather unceremoniously and sat down in an unpleasant old armchair to read it.
My Dearest Phyllis,
I hope this letter finds you well. I am writing to you to apologise; though I fear it is rather too late in the day. My lack of contact has been inexcusable, dear sister. It is with the utmost regret that I think back on our falling out; I can only conclude that it was I who was at fault. Though ten years have passed (so quickly, no?) since we last spoke, I could no longer bear the thought of leaving this world without making repairing our bond and embracing you once more. Please accept my most humble plea for forgiveness.
As a token of my wish to repair our broken bond, I have enclosed a return plane ticket to visit me at my home in –
Ms Featherington-Smythe put the letter down, seemingly disinterested, and looked into the envelope. There, sure enough, were the plane tickets. She looked at the dates. The flight departed tomorrow morning. She didn’t bother reading the rest of the letter. It remains a mystery what effect the letter had - such queer indifference she displayed! She revealed no emotion, no intention of any desire to know more. It remains unclear, perhaps even to her, which estranged human being sent these tickets and to which mysterious destination they lead. She heaved herself out of her chair and went upstairs to her bedroom, and, fatigued from her day of doing relatively little, she retired to bed. This was strange even on her part, for it was only thirty eight minutes past five.
She awoke early the next morning and though her elderly mind was quite befuddled as we know, she had made a decision. She peered into the abyss beneath her creaky four-poster, where she found an old leather suitcase, small enough to be taken as hand luggage but more than large enough for her needs. For the next few minutes, she bustled around the house, picking up various items which, separately considered, were rather odd, but when placed together formed an utterly ridiculous collection to bring on holiday. An ornamental ostrich egg, hollowed out and decorated with gaudy flowers. A small jar of rabbit paté. A WW2 gas mask. A bag of marbles. A letter-opener. A bottle of talc. Eau de Chevrefeuille. Included, too of course, were holiday staples. An old camera with a large flash attachment. Insect repellent. Sun cream. Some assorted clothing, none of which would make any sort of socially acceptable outfit, but which at least served as padding for the rest of the contents, which were rather breakable. Next, she went downstairs to give old Hermes his breakfast of tinned mussels, into which she sprinkled some suspicious powder from a brown capsule. As he ate, she dressed, closed the suitcase and brought it downstairs where she put on her filthy old coat, placing the plane tickets and a pristine passport into the only pocket which did not contain smushed Quality Street. She popped her had on her head, wrapped a rather sluggish Hermes round her neck, and, picking up her suitcase, headed out of the door. The suitcase, though padded, rattled; after all, she had left substantial space for a stuffed parrot.
Soon she arrived at Mr Fishwicks. The sign said ‘CLOSED’ but he had been expecting her, though it was still but thirteen minutes past seven.
‘Hullo Ms Featherington-Smythe. Mr Biscuits is ready for you. I hope you’ll be pleased with what I’ve done.’ He handed her a shoebox, though not the one she had given him the parrot in originally. She did not open it.
‘I trust he’s… suitably stuffed?’ She asked, opening her suitcase on the shop counter and placing the box carefully inside.
‘Oh yes,’ he replied. ‘Your taxi is waiting outside, Ms Featherington-Smythe. I wish you the best of luck on your… trip.’ He smiled. The quiet smile of a madman, or perhaps merely that of a taxidermist.
‘Good day, Gideon.’
‘Good bye, Phyllis.’
With that, Ms Featherington-Smythe quitted the emporium and stepped into the waiting taxi. Hermes slept soundly around her shoulders. ‘What an… interesting scarf,’ commented the driver. She smiled and closed her papery eyelids, saying nothing to correct him.
(To be continued...)
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