One of the best jobs I’ve ever had was at Hayman
Island, Queensland in 1979. I worked in the resort’s laundry for three
months. The boss was a woman called
Birdie. And she looked like a bird, even
sounded like one, sweet and melodious. Birdie never “bossed” us girls as we
sweated away in that Dickensian laundry in paradise. She showed, suggested, and
sighed softly when we girls dropped wet sheets in the sand surrounding the
washing lines.
Birdie carried not an ounce of fat; she was all wrinkled
flesh and withered bone. But Birdie had the most remarkable eyes. They were
brown and outsized within her small frame. Yet they reflected a depth of
tenderness of which I have rarely seen since in another human being.
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