turned the corner onto Myrtle Street. Halfway along, a small row of shops sat huddled under the long fingers of a massive poinciana.
Nicholas felt a tripwire in his gut twang, and he slowed his pace. Something about the sight of the shops disturbed him, though he couldn’t say what. Determined not to let anything spoil his walk, he picked up his pace and strode toward them.
One building housed four shops in a row that faced Myrtle Street from under a wide, bull-nosed awning. The area under the awning was raised half a meter off the ground; it was tiled and its front was separated from the footpath by a galvanized steel rail and a row of potted topiary trees. In his childhood, the shops had been a convenience store, Mrs. Ferguson’s greengrocery, the Magill Fruitbowl, a butcher, and a haberdashery.
He stopped at the two steps leading up to the shop porch. Again, the taut, sly wire inside hummed uncomfortably. And again, he shook off the ill feeling. It was not yet six thirty and the shops were closed. The convenience store was still there, but under a new name and with window stickers proclaiming Phone Cards: 9 cents/min, Anywhere in the World!; the fruit shop’s most recent incarnation had been as a Tibetan takeaway restaurant, the owners of which had clearly overestimated the willingness of locals to enjoy good Kongpo Shaptak, and it was now out of business; the butcher’s had become a computer repairer; the haberdashery, run by an old woman with an odd name, was now a health food shop.
Nicholas’s footsteps echoed on the cold tiles. The dark shop windows sourly reflected the brightness of the new day. Quill, he remembered. The old woman’s name was Quill. And with the name, into his mind’s eye flashed a recollection of being eight or nine, holding Suzette’s tiny hand in his, and walking home from school past the shop and looking inside … and dark eyes set in a pale, wrinkled face looking back. Then Suzette started crying.
Nicholas stepped out into the early sunlight and felt a small flutter of relief. A long time ago, he thought. Childhood would prove to hold much nastier things than a dour-faced old woman in a dark shop. He picked up his pace again.
Laidlaw Street. Madeglass Street. Roads that to his younger eyes had been so long and languorous now seemed cramped and quaint. Jacarandas and liquidambars poked bare fingers into the crisp air. The leaves of callistemons and grevillea whispered benignly. A Labrador watched him from a porch, its tail lethargically thumping the hardwood boards.
Nicholas put cold hands in his cardigan pockets and stepped into the narrow, pleasantly shadowed throat of Ithaca Lane. He realized he was looking not at his feet, or a few steps ahead, but to the crest of the steep lane fifty meters up. He was scanning horizons, looking for ghosts. But there were none. No stooped businessmen stepping in front of lorries, no hollow-eyed street girls crouched in the shadows injecting just a bit too much heroin. He was a long way from London and its ghosts—as far as one could get, really. His memory caught scent of Cate, but he quashed the familiar urge to run and sit by her gravestone and turned his thoughts to what he might do for work. Buying props for TV commercials? Building sets for the state theater company? He could volunteer at the arts college until he found his feet and made some contacts. Shit, he could go back to university and get his master’s. There was money in the bank, so why not take the year and start something new? Learn animation? Write and illustrate a children’s book? The possibilities pleased him, driving the uneasiness about the Myrtle Street shops from his mind.
Winter sunlight winked in the crystal dew on the ridge caps of houses and rippled silver in gutter puddles. The air was raw and clean and things felt … good. Nicholas nodded to himself: yes, things felt quite good. He topped the crest of Ithaca Lane and glanced downhill.
He stopped, rock
Nicholas felt a tripwire in his gut twang, and he slowed his pace. Something about the sight of the shops disturbed him, though he couldn’t say what. Determined not to let anything spoil his walk, he picked up his pace and strode toward them.
One building housed four shops in a row that faced Myrtle Street from under a wide, bull-nosed awning. The area under the awning was raised half a meter off the ground; it was tiled and its front was separated from the footpath by a galvanized steel rail and a row of potted topiary trees. In his childhood, the shops had been a convenience store, Mrs. Ferguson’s greengrocery, the Magill Fruitbowl, a butcher, and a haberdashery.
He stopped at the two steps leading up to the shop porch. Again, the taut, sly wire inside hummed uncomfortably. And again, he shook off the ill feeling. It was not yet six thirty and the shops were closed. The convenience store was still there, but under a new name and with window stickers proclaiming Phone Cards: 9 cents/min, Anywhere in the World!; the fruit shop’s most recent incarnation had been as a Tibetan takeaway restaurant, the owners of which had clearly overestimated the willingness of locals to enjoy good Kongpo Shaptak, and it was now out of business; the butcher’s had become a computer repairer; the haberdashery, run by an old woman with an odd name, was now a health food shop.
Nicholas’s footsteps echoed on the cold tiles. The dark shop windows sourly reflected the brightness of the new day. Quill, he remembered. The old woman’s name was Quill. And with the name, into his mind’s eye flashed a recollection of being eight or nine, holding Suzette’s tiny hand in his, and walking home from school past the shop and looking inside … and dark eyes set in a pale, wrinkled face looking back. Then Suzette started crying.
Nicholas stepped out into the early sunlight and felt a small flutter of relief. A long time ago, he thought. Childhood would prove to hold much nastier things than a dour-faced old woman in a dark shop. He picked up his pace again.
Laidlaw Street. Madeglass Street. Roads that to his younger eyes had been so long and languorous now seemed cramped and quaint. Jacarandas and liquidambars poked bare fingers into the crisp air. The leaves of callistemons and grevillea whispered benignly. A Labrador watched him from a porch, its tail lethargically thumping the hardwood boards.
Nicholas put cold hands in his cardigan pockets and stepped into the narrow, pleasantly shadowed throat of Ithaca Lane. He realized he was looking not at his feet, or a few steps ahead, but to the crest of the steep lane fifty meters up. He was scanning horizons, looking for ghosts. But there were none. No stooped businessmen stepping in front of lorries, no hollow-eyed street girls crouched in the shadows injecting just a bit too much heroin. He was a long way from London and its ghosts—as far as one could get, really. His memory caught scent of Cate, but he quashed the familiar urge to run and sit by her gravestone and turned his thoughts to what he might do for work. Buying props for TV commercials? Building sets for the state theater company? He could volunteer at the arts college until he found his feet and made some contacts. Shit, he could go back to university and get his master’s. There was money in the bank, so why not take the year and start something new? Learn animation? Write and illustrate a children’s book? The possibilities pleased him, driving the uneasiness about the Myrtle Street shops from his mind.
Winter sunlight winked in the crystal dew on the ridge caps of houses and rippled silver in gutter puddles. The air was raw and clean and things felt … good. Nicholas nodded to himself: yes, things felt quite good. He topped the crest of Ithaca Lane and glanced downhill.
He stopped, rock
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