Time's Long Ruin by Stephen Orr

on.
    It had started off as an occasional thing. Rosa once told me that it all dated back to their first Croydon summer. It was March 1948. They’d only been in their new home a month. Con was out watering the front garden when he noticed the buds on the ash tree. Every day he watched them, slowly getting bigger and bigger, until 28 March, six years to the day since their son had died. Con got out of bed, hobbled to the window and looked out. ‘Come, look at this,’ he called to Rosa.
    She came to the window, took a deep breath and dropped to her knees. Then she started muttering something about Mary, Mother of Jesus, and a front yard miracle. Con and Rosa went outside, still in their pyjamas, and knelt at the base of the tree, mumbling messages to God, the Virgin Mary and Alex Pedavoli.
    The ash stayed in flower for another two months, until the chill of an Adelaide winter made even God’s work impossible. Then came March 1949, buds splitting out of their skin and miraculously, on the 28th, bright, creamy petals that perfumed the late summer air.
    Days later Con was out with a borrowed spade and concrete mixer, pouring a foundation and hammering in string lines. Dad and Bill and Mr Hessian from number fourteen stood out front and asked what he was doing.
    â€˜A memorial,’ he explained. ‘For Alex.’
    â€˜In your front yard?’ Bill asked.
    But for once Con was silent, choosing not to explain the inexplicable.
    On this particular morning I watched from my front window as Con took out his accordion and strapped it on. Then he began slowly, quietly, as the twelve joined in with ‘Ave Maria’.
    I looked at my watch. It wasn’t even nine. It wouldn’t be long until Mr Hessian came out.
    It started off with Con and Rosa. By the time I was born, Dad explained, there were always a few neighbours out with them. Sometimes it was morning, sometimes evening, depending on Con’s shifts. The evening vigils could last until well after midnight.
    By the mid 1950s the Pedavolis were becoming famous. Local newspapers carried their story and they were interviewed on 5KA. Con got dressed up in a suit and Rosa in a new frock. They waited at their front gate for the taxi the station had sent. Everyone listened. I can’t remember it. Apparently they were a bit hard to understand. The first and last Croydon wogs to hit the airwaves.
    In 1956 and ’57 it all got a bit out of control. Cars would be parked bumper to bumper the length of Thomas Street. The Pedavolis’ front yard would be full, overflowing onto the footpath. Mr Hessian would complain to Con and there’d be an argument and he’d go home and ring the police. The police would arrive and give Con a hurry-up. Sometimes we’d go over and get a seat in the front row. This must have pissed Mr Hessian off – Bob Page, a detective, didn’t he know the law he was sworn to uphold?
    Mr Hessian, who owned the shoe shop on Elizabeth Street, always said we shouldn’t have let the reffos in. Before them, we all got along, he’d say. We all knew each other’s ways and respected them. But those people don’t respect our ways. They just want to do their own thing
    You’d often be walking down Elizabeth Street and hear a few of the Greeks, Italians or Balts speaking in their mother tongue. Next thing, Eric would come out of his shop. ‘Excuse me, do you mind? This is Australia.’ And God help anyone who muttered in wog in his shop.
    Talking about Mr Hessian, just about then he came out. I opened my blind all the way to get a better look. Eric stood out front and called to Con. Con casually walked over and Eric started throwing his hands about. Con didn’t stop playing his accordion. Eventually Eric gave up and went back inside. Con wandered back to the healing tree and continued singing.
    Mum came in to my room and sat beside me at the window. ‘What you doin’ today?’ she