Saving Billie by Peter Corris

lot of the outer suburbs didn’t apply. As Terri had said, there was a big open parkland and recreational space in the centre of the area and although the schools featured mainly demountable buildings, that isn’t uncommon from Bermagui to Byron Bay. I drove around for a while to get the feel of the place and some of the realities became clear. The houses were clustered close together and their construction had been made with economy chiefly in mind. The early settlers knew how to build for this climate— overhanging eaves, wide verandahs. But such things are expensive and Liston’s planners had cut shade and outdoor living area to the bone.
    A good many of the residents had tried their best by planting trees and contriving add-ons of one kind or another but the trees mostly hadn’t flourished, and the addons had been pressed into service as carports and storage areas. There were unroadworthy cars gathering weeds in a good many of the minuscule front yards and some examples of that distinctive feature of disadvantage—broken furniture left out in the open.
    The picture wasn’t altogether grim though. Some of the closely packed houses had small but well-tended gardens and what looked to my ignorant eye to be vegetable and herb plots. I drove the perimeter and noted the signs of a major up-market development named ‘Shetland Hills’ taking shape to the west of Liston. A major road separated the development from Liston and all the residents of Shetland Hills would be able to see of their neighbours were faded colourbond fences. A few towering Shetland structures were up already and I drove back to the centre of Liston with a new perspective. A lot of the houses looked okay, but how many people lived in them?
    The bus shelters were heavily graffitied and a good few of the graffitists were hanging about—loose clothes, big sneakers, caps reversed. Many of them had dark faces and some had the big, bulky Polynesian build. There were a lot of young children in the streets and a lot of women pushing prams. Another sign of disadvantage—almost half of the women and children were fat.
    Nobody paid me much attention as I wandered around: too occupied with their own concerns. I strolled across some scruffy parkland to a low brick building where there seemed to be some activity and sound. As I got closer I could hear the singing. It had that tuneful, plaintive note I’d heard in Fiji and New Caledonia in my few Pacific sojourns.
    I went as close as I could without intruding and saw that the hall inside was packed with Islanders, men, women and children, being led in song by one of their own. Unlike them, he was wearing smart clothes that didn’t conceal that he was enormously fat. Sweat glistened on his bald head, and when he raised his arms I could see dark patches. At this rate his suit was going to need dry-cleaning after every singsong.
    When you hear the singing in the islands, you seem to be able to catch the sound of the sea on the reef and the wind in the palm trees. Not here. All the cadences were of the Pacific, but the words were from a militant Christian hymn, promising salvation for the faithful and misery for sinners. It reminded me of the Methodist Sunday school my father had vainly tried to make me attend. I went once, and every time thereafter nicked off to the beach and spent the collection plate money on lollies.
    The commercial hub of Liston was a long, low-slung building on the edge of the open space fronted by a car park that wouldn’t have held fifty cars. I parked and walked down steps to the building that resembled an extra long and wide Nissan hut partitioned to form shops. There was a liquor outlet at the east end but it was shut and heavily padlocked. A sign warned that alcohol was not permitted to be consumed on the premises or in the adjacent area. At the other end was a health centre where about twenty people were congregated. I could hear coughing and