The Long Prospect by Elizabeth Harrower Page B

who ate and walked, might have been exorcised by a few words from a judge, that old idea each had of the other gradually took possession of the future and was not to be eradicated.
    Dislike, warped passion, non-comprehension—nothing could outweigh the inner, unconscious, fabulously romantic idea of marriage—themselves the hero and heroine: to part would have been to live life deprived.
    Due to return to Coolong tomorrow, his leave at an end, he had come last night to Ballowra to pay a duty call on Emily and her grandmother. As was his custom on these infrequent occasions he stayed over-night with the Stevensons, old friends, and for many years next-door neighbours.
    Passing the red-brick house where he had been born, he felt nothing. Some family of strangers lived there now. He saw the old bamboo trees by the side fence thrashing in the hot wind. For no reason he could think of they reminded him of his mother and the old days more than anything else about the place.
    He continued down the hill, noticing the changes that had taken place since his last visit, gradually worked on by that recurrent, surprised regret that infects those in their thirties and forties when confronted with places, or people, or thoughts from the past—from a past so recently present, and present to those who remembered no past, for who would be younger than twenty?
    After years in the country, this subjection to industry, the smoky sky, the matured deterioration immanent at the birth of such towns as Ballowra left him oppressed and indignant. He was unwilling that it should be so bad.
    Below him, acres of flat land were covered by low wooden houses in front of which swayed sappy knee-high grass. Paint was lavished only on the giant advertisement hoardings that bestrode the numerous vacant allotments. There were no trees. The steelworks which, at a great distance, surrounded the rise where Harry stood were the only reason, and, he was forced to suppose, justification, for the existence of Ballowra.
    Once, for Harry, the depressing plain had been printed with names and emotions: there was the wide white storm-water channel where he and his brothers had played; the picture-show into which, without money for tickets, they had contrived an entrance; there was Russell’s hotel, the most substantial building for miles round, on the corner at the bus terminus. Around these landmarks were situated Joe’s place, Al’s place, Eck’s place, Paula’s place, and finally, one labelled ‘home.’
    Pausing at the edge of the footpath until a horde of grey-clad, black-faced men swept past on bicycles, Harry felt a kind of appalled relief that he had at least escaped that. He was not a doctor: there had never been a chance of that, but he had managed to get into a bank. He was not quite to be discounted, to be put on a level with those anonymous creatures who pushed in a crowd through the heavy morning air, going home from night shift, or afternoon shift, or some other shift he was pleased not to know.
    He crossed the road and lifted his left arm in order that he might be reassured of something by the sight of his new wristwatch. With an effort of concentration he read the time. Self-consciously he rubbed a tanned well-shaped hand over his moist upper lip, and starting a conversation with himself about the coastal heat—so different from Coolong—he strolled down the main street of Greenhills.
    Here on his right was a garage with no visible customers. On either side of it was a patch of land traversed by paths. After that came a few houses, soon to be demolished according to the signs, and farther ahead, the shops, two-storeyed, impressive, on both sides of the street. At Russell’s corner they ended, and more houses and West Greenhills began. Among the houses on the farthest edge of the maze was Lilian Hulm’s.
    Earlier this morning Harry Lawrence had visited the cemetery which, conveniently, was on the crest of