Birdie

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.