#PTP
Story so far:
Gunny, a feisty grandmother with eccentric habits, raised her orphaned grandchild with humour, discipline, and love. Her quirky shopping lists, Batman?themed wheelchair antics, and oddball friends defined their routine. Yet age and frailty crept in, foreshadowing loss. On her final day, she offered tender words and a last shopping list before quietly passing. Her epitaph urged resilience: “Stop dawdling and get on with your life, you goose.”
Dasvidaniya
I walked away from Gunny’s grave with a heavy heart. I wasn’t good at goodbyes. Dasvidaniya wasn’t for me.
The doctors had given Trudy a year. But she was strong, so I thought she’d be good for a few more years.
I wiped my tears and pulled the crumpled paper, her last shopping list, from my pocket.
“6 pounds of minced meat from Afro-Jack’s
3 jars of fresh marmalade from One-eyed Susan
3 pounds of fresh manure from Pac Man.”
The words and numbers were a familiar blur, until a second reading made me stop cold.
6,3,3. Not 2,1,1!
Her lists had been consistent – carved in stone. Why had she increased the items to such absurd quantities?
A mistake? But Gunny was sharp as a knife. Something about the list made me uneasy. I suddenly remembered her last admonition, “Don’t forget the shopping list.” Was it a warning?
I rifled through her battered suitcase. Except for the carefully filed letters from Beth, her best friend, there was nothing.
Afro-Jack and One-Eyed-Susan were her only friends who lived nearby. Beth had moved to rural Devonshire, a few years back.
Susan’s house was locked.
Jack was at the shop. He looked up, his cleaver poised mid-swing.
“She never ordered 6. Always 2”.
He gently put the cleaver down, wiped his hands on a towel and said, “Don’t ask about the list unless you are prepared to be shocked about what Trudy did.”
“She was eccentric, not… whatever you are implying.”
Jack gave a humourless chuckle. “Eccentric? She was the best field agent I ever worked with.”
Even before I could react to that stunning declaration, He grabbed the list from my hands and peered at it.
His countenance suddenly froze. He looked like he had seen a ghost. With great effort, he looked up.
“I think you should go meet Beth. This is above my pay scale. Or rather, the pension scale.” His attempt at humour sounded pathetic.
I tried calling Beth, but the phone was off. The whole night, I tossed and turned thinking about what Jack had said. Gunny, a secret agent!
Many things made sense. The long, secretive trips Gunny took, her guarded conversations with Susan and Jack, the lights that burned inside her room late at night.
The next morning, I passed the butcher’s again and was surprised to see a ‘closed’ sign hanging at the door.
Rural Devonshire nestled among rolling hills and deep valleys. Beth owned orchards and sold her products to the cider industry.
There were no doorbells. But a prominent kennel held two vicious Rottweilers growling fiercely. Beth came out, wiping her hands on an apron and barked an order at the dogs.
Alert eyes, short hair and a slim frame – I could easily imagine her as a secret agent.
She hugged me, and for a second her eyes looked sad and defeated.
She herded me to the verandah and put a glass of sherry in my hands.
“You have found out about her, haven’t you?
“Only that she was a secret agent. Jack refused to say more.”
She sipped on her glass with faraway eyes, as if pondering on how much to tell me.
The sun began sinking over the rolling hills, and her voice held a sense of wonder.
“Those were thrilling days. Filled with danger. The four of us worked for MI6, dealing in secret codes, covert operations, German double agents and the complex world of asylum seekers. We continued to work even after officially ‘retiring’. We remained responsible for a network of safe houses that were used to shelter asylum seekers temporarily and protect high-value whistleblowers.
We all operated under code names. Trudy’s was 211. That recurring number on her list was a private joke – a little stab at herself. Jack’s code was 422, and Susan’s was 633.
A month ago, one of the safe houses was compromised. A key witness was executed. The leak had come from inside our circle. The traitor was amongst us.
I cannot prove it. But I think Trudy worked it out. She narrowed it down to Susan or Jack. Both had earlier served on death squads. Both knew how to kill quietly and without remorse. And they never left loose ends. She tried calling me, but my phone was out of order. Looking back, I am not sure it’s just a coincidence.
Jack panicked when you showed the list to him. He understood instantly what Trudy was trying to say and also that her death was not natural. He drove all night to warn me. He has gone underground since then, determined to stay alive, to find Susan and avenge Trudy’s death.
As for Trudy, I think I can piece together her final hours. She had met both of them to discuss the possibility of a mole in the group. Susan must have sensed Trudy’s suspicions. Trudy was trapped. She could not reach me, could not involve Jack. She chose the simplest solution. She wrote Susan’s code on the list and entrusted it to you.
After you left, Susan must have visited her, poisoned her drink and searched the house and her suitcase thoroughly, looking for any clue that might expose her. She was desperate because she knew Trudy was clever.
She did not realise that the evidence had already walked out of the room. With you, in your pocket.”
Beth walked me out, her eyes shining with unshed tears. They had grown old together, carrying between them a lifetime of secrets, memories and goodbyes.
Watching the countryside blur behind my windows, I thought of Gunny- and that strange word she muttered that night- Dasvidaniya – Goodbye. Perhaps Gunny hadn’t been rambling after all. Perhaps she had simply known, before us, that it was time for goodbye.
