‘Hi, it’s me, Eve. Sorry to let you down at such short notice, but I can’t make it today.’

‘Is everything all right?’

‘Absolutely, more than all right. It’s just I’m running a bit late, and now I have to cook breakfast for someone.’ Her voice trailed off to a whisper. ‘Nudge-nudge . . .’

‘Shameless!’

‘Listen, don’t forget to get that holiday booked! Blue skies, turquoise water, remember? You’ve got all day, Shelly, no excuses now!’

Shelly laughed. ‘I will, no worries. See you tomorrow.’ She hung up; the smile still on her face.

‘Who you seeing tomorrow then?’ her father said with a hopeful glint in his eye as he entered the kitchen. ‘Boyfriend, is it?’

‘No, Eve, at work. She was going to come over to help me clear out the spare room, but she’s been side-tracked.’

‘Clear out?’ he exclaimed, the mischief falling from his face. ‘Shelly, you won’t throw any of your mother’s stuff away, will you? I couldn’t bear to part with it, let alone imagine some other woman touching her things.’

It’s been more than twenty years.

‘Of course not, Dad. Don’t worry. I’m sorting it into boxes and we’ll go through each one together, OK?’

His shoulders dropped. ‘That Malcolm’s a nice young man, don’t you think?’

‘The postman? Yes, he’s sweet.’

‘You won’t mind if he comes over once in a while then.’

‘This is your home, for goodness’ sake. You can bring your friends over any time. Listen, did you know Gran Gertie had recorded her memoirs?’

‘I did. They’re for you when you grow up.’

‘Dad, I’m thirty-seven years old. When were you planning to give me the tapes?’

‘I forgot about them. It’s probably safe for you to listen to them now.’

‘Safe?’

‘Well, you need to be a bit, um, broad-minded, like.’

‘Are you blushing, Dad?’

‘No, yer daft bugger!’

*

Gran Gertie had been Shelly’s constant companion in her early years when Mum was postmistress in the village. She recalled the family matriarch’s silver hair, always pulled back in a bun, and her chin lifted so she peered down her nose. Gertie’s soft, freckly hands had oddly shaped knuckles and gentle fingers that dabbed Magic Milk on Shelly’s scraped knees. Gertie removed splinters, sharpened homework pencils, and plaited her long hair before school. Those hands also tucked her into bed before a bedtime story each night.

Shelly smiled, Gran Gertie’s fairy tales always had a naughty elf that said the forbidden words – shit, fart, and bugger. She could hear her great-gran’s voice.

The wind whispered through the treetops like a sprout fart after Sunday lunch.