heroic in scale, tapering majestically away to a vanishing point like the exercises in perspective they had done in Technical Drawing.
You could see that Karakarook had once taken it for granted that it had a big future. Wool and beef had poured out of it, along the old highway or down the barges on the river. The founding fathers who had wanted to show off their classical education would never have guessed that the river would silt up, the new roads leave them marooned, the price of wool make it hardly worth shearing the sheep.
The narrow shops were jammed up along Parnassus Road in an irregular wall. Each one had done something different in plaster: there were swags of flowers, pointed urns, furled brackets, wreaths, pediments. There were little niches and meaningless piercings and fluted columns holding up nothing.
From here you could see how long it was since anything had had any maintenance, except the big shiny Coke sign along the awning of the Mini-Mart. All the fancy decorations were rough with paint that had cracked and weathered into a kind of oatmeal. Something had taken root in the droopy bit of one of the swags of flowers of the closed Karakarook Bakery next to the Mini-Mart, and had even gone so far as to produce small yellow flowers of its own. Grass sprouted all along the gutter, like a fringe that needed cutting, and one of the pointed urn things had fallen off the facade of the shop below him. Standing at the window, he could see where it had rolled down the sloping roof behind the facade and come to rest against a chimney.
In the presence of so much sky, the attempt at grandeur was a mistake. Up beyond the flimsy little shops the hills were very close, very solid. They were a structure of another kind altogether. Up there, dark timeless pelts of bush folded themselves over the curves of the land. Air moved in stately tides. Clouds made large bold gestures in the sky.
He seemed to be the only guest at the Caledonian. He pushed at the big wooden door with DINING ROOM in gilt letters with big serifs, like something engraved in Latin on a public monument. A woman was there, putting knives and forks away in a drawer.
Morning, he said.
He felt conspicuous, standing among all the empty tables and chairs. He sat quickly in the first chair that came to hand.
Morning, she called. The Set Breakfast, love?
He nodded, more eagerly than the Set Breakfast probably called for.
Yes. Yes please.
He wished he had chosen a seat with his back to the wall. Not only did he have his back to the room, but he could not see out the window, and only had the plastic tomato sauce bottle in the shape of a tomato to look at.
But he thought it might look funny to change tables.
The woman pushed at the swinging door that led to the kitchen, and he could hear a fine day being forecast for the slopes and plains, plates being stacked with a great clattering, glasses clashing together, a tap drumming into a sink. A female voice said something that made a male voice laugh.
He supposed he could look rather ridiculous sitting in the solitary splendour of the DINING ROOM. He knew pretty much what to expect from the Set Breakfast. On a big oval plate with a blue rim, there would be the two flabby fried eggs, the watery fried tomato and the brittle bacon. White-bread toast, curled like a scroll, would crack in the toast-rack.
He sat staring at the sauce bottle. Now that the swinging door was closed again he could not hear anything from the kitchen. He wondered if they minded turning everything on, the big stove and the exhaust fan and everything, just to cook one Set Breakfast. He wondered if he should spare them the trouble and go down the road to the Acropolis. But then it might look as if he did not like the Caledonian’s cooking.
Sometimes he felt the urge to apologise simply for existing, much less wanting breakfast.
Head Office had organised for him to meet the road gang’s Leading Hand in the bar. The problem was,
You could see that Karakarook had once taken it for granted that it had a big future. Wool and beef had poured out of it, along the old highway or down the barges on the river. The founding fathers who had wanted to show off their classical education would never have guessed that the river would silt up, the new roads leave them marooned, the price of wool make it hardly worth shearing the sheep.
The narrow shops were jammed up along Parnassus Road in an irregular wall. Each one had done something different in plaster: there were swags of flowers, pointed urns, furled brackets, wreaths, pediments. There were little niches and meaningless piercings and fluted columns holding up nothing.
From here you could see how long it was since anything had had any maintenance, except the big shiny Coke sign along the awning of the Mini-Mart. All the fancy decorations were rough with paint that had cracked and weathered into a kind of oatmeal. Something had taken root in the droopy bit of one of the swags of flowers of the closed Karakarook Bakery next to the Mini-Mart, and had even gone so far as to produce small yellow flowers of its own. Grass sprouted all along the gutter, like a fringe that needed cutting, and one of the pointed urn things had fallen off the facade of the shop below him. Standing at the window, he could see where it had rolled down the sloping roof behind the facade and come to rest against a chimney.
In the presence of so much sky, the attempt at grandeur was a mistake. Up beyond the flimsy little shops the hills were very close, very solid. They were a structure of another kind altogether. Up there, dark timeless pelts of bush folded themselves over the curves of the land. Air moved in stately tides. Clouds made large bold gestures in the sky.
He seemed to be the only guest at the Caledonian. He pushed at the big wooden door with DINING ROOM in gilt letters with big serifs, like something engraved in Latin on a public monument. A woman was there, putting knives and forks away in a drawer.
Morning, he said.
He felt conspicuous, standing among all the empty tables and chairs. He sat quickly in the first chair that came to hand.
Morning, she called. The Set Breakfast, love?
He nodded, more eagerly than the Set Breakfast probably called for.
Yes. Yes please.
He wished he had chosen a seat with his back to the wall. Not only did he have his back to the room, but he could not see out the window, and only had the plastic tomato sauce bottle in the shape of a tomato to look at.
But he thought it might look funny to change tables.
The woman pushed at the swinging door that led to the kitchen, and he could hear a fine day being forecast for the slopes and plains, plates being stacked with a great clattering, glasses clashing together, a tap drumming into a sink. A female voice said something that made a male voice laugh.
He supposed he could look rather ridiculous sitting in the solitary splendour of the DINING ROOM. He knew pretty much what to expect from the Set Breakfast. On a big oval plate with a blue rim, there would be the two flabby fried eggs, the watery fried tomato and the brittle bacon. White-bread toast, curled like a scroll, would crack in the toast-rack.
He sat staring at the sauce bottle. Now that the swinging door was closed again he could not hear anything from the kitchen. He wondered if they minded turning everything on, the big stove and the exhaust fan and everything, just to cook one Set Breakfast. He wondered if he should spare them the trouble and go down the road to the Acropolis. But then it might look as if he did not like the Caledonian’s cooking.
Sometimes he felt the urge to apologise simply for existing, much less wanting breakfast.
Head Office had organised for him to meet the road gang’s Leading Hand in the bar. The problem was,
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