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Authors: Tess Evans
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that boasted vacant accommodation. Across the road was a purveyor of fine antiques and bric-a-–brac (also dry-cleaning). This had once been the Commonwealth Bank—the name was still etched deeply into the stone. Next door was Marisa’s Boutique— ladies and children’s discount fashions—a fish ’n’ chip shop, a pharmacy and the Country Women’s Association Op Shop ( Open Wednesdays , the sign said. Please leave only usable goods in the container. No electrical ). Despite this last plea, an old TV set had been dumped outside the shop, along with a rusty bike and a bulging green garbage bag. Peering at the window, Moss made out a faint gold outline advertising its former life as a barber shop and private men’s club. Three other shops were boarded up, a forlorn testament to the slow dying of a country community.
With time on her hands, she wandered on past the shops to the Mechanics Institute (opened in 1891 by the Hon. Charles Sandilands, OBE). Now, she read on the fading notice–board, it served as a meeting hall and, once a month, as a cinema. It would never again welcome young men, farmers’ sons, doggedly seeking an education after a hard day’s labour. Moss could almost see them, with their bullet heads and overalls and grubby hands, sweating over their books with a faith in learning that was almost sublime; the great-grandfathers, perhaps, of today’s urban lawyers and doctors and accountants. At the far end of the street, on a little rise, stood a small stone Anglican church with modest gothic arches and yellow diamond-paned windows. It was there, she surmised, that many of those boys were christened and married. And buried, too, most likely, under one of the crumbling headstones in the unpretentious little churchyard. Not all of them, of course. There were those whose graves were in Gallipoli or the Somme and whose names were engraved on the cenotaph in the gardens. The sign outside St Saviour’s Church offered services for Anglicans at ten am on the first three Sundays of the month, Catholics at six thirty pm on the first and third Saturday nights, and a Uniting service at ten am on the last Sunday of the month. Moss grinned when she saw this. Even the churches saw the need to diversify.
She turned back and went into the supermarket. There was only one other customer, a woman, who smiled and said good afternoon, further offering the observation that it was nice to see a bit of rain. Moss nodded and moved on quickly. She wasn’t quite ready to expose herself to the eyes of a small town. She loaded her trolley with mince, some salad vegetables, and parmesan in a plastic tub. There was a small delicatessen and bakery at the back of the store where she bought some fresh rolls.
‘We don’t have much call for fancy breads.’ The saleswoman obviously disapproved of her request for rye. She relented a little when Moss asked for an apple-and-rhubarb pie and two 64 vegetable pasties.
‘Nice to see a bit of rain, isn’t it?’ Then: ‘Come in on the bus, did you?’
‘Yes. Good—the rain. Yes. The bus.’ She hurried away to the checkout where a girl—SHARON, her nametag said—was painting her nails alternately black and green, studiously avoiding eye contact.
‘Can you wait till this dries?’
‘What? Yes. I guess I can.’ Moss waited while the girl blew on her nails and flapped her fingers in the air.
‘There. Finished. Nice to see a bit of rain, isn’t it?’
Moss agreed once more that indeed it was, and after being wished a nice day, escaped back into the street. The only other pedestrian was a dog, an elderly kelpie, who trotted along behind her.
‘Hello, boy. Nice to see a bit of rain, isn’t it?’
The dog wagged its tail. It was a country dog. It couldn’t have agreed more.
Meanwhile, Finn was having difficulty concentrating on his work. This hadn’t happened for some time: his self-discipline was usually fierce. But today all he could see, all he could think about, was a
With time on her hands, she wandered on past the shops to the Mechanics Institute (opened in 1891 by the Hon. Charles Sandilands, OBE). Now, she read on the fading notice–board, it served as a meeting hall and, once a month, as a cinema. It would never again welcome young men, farmers’ sons, doggedly seeking an education after a hard day’s labour. Moss could almost see them, with their bullet heads and overalls and grubby hands, sweating over their books with a faith in learning that was almost sublime; the great-grandfathers, perhaps, of today’s urban lawyers and doctors and accountants. At the far end of the street, on a little rise, stood a small stone Anglican church with modest gothic arches and yellow diamond-paned windows. It was there, she surmised, that many of those boys were christened and married. And buried, too, most likely, under one of the crumbling headstones in the unpretentious little churchyard. Not all of them, of course. There were those whose graves were in Gallipoli or the Somme and whose names were engraved on the cenotaph in the gardens. The sign outside St Saviour’s Church offered services for Anglicans at ten am on the first three Sundays of the month, Catholics at six thirty pm on the first and third Saturday nights, and a Uniting service at ten am on the last Sunday of the month. Moss grinned when she saw this. Even the churches saw the need to diversify.
She turned back and went into the supermarket. There was only one other customer, a woman, who smiled and said good afternoon, further offering the observation that it was nice to see a bit of rain. Moss nodded and moved on quickly. She wasn’t quite ready to expose herself to the eyes of a small town. She loaded her trolley with mince, some salad vegetables, and parmesan in a plastic tub. There was a small delicatessen and bakery at the back of the store where she bought some fresh rolls.
‘We don’t have much call for fancy breads.’ The saleswoman obviously disapproved of her request for rye. She relented a little when Moss asked for an apple-and-rhubarb pie and two 64 vegetable pasties.
‘Nice to see a bit of rain, isn’t it?’ Then: ‘Come in on the bus, did you?’
‘Yes. Good—the rain. Yes. The bus.’ She hurried away to the checkout where a girl—SHARON, her nametag said—was painting her nails alternately black and green, studiously avoiding eye contact.
‘Can you wait till this dries?’
‘What? Yes. I guess I can.’ Moss waited while the girl blew on her nails and flapped her fingers in the air.
‘There. Finished. Nice to see a bit of rain, isn’t it?’
Moss agreed once more that indeed it was, and after being wished a nice day, escaped back into the street. The only other pedestrian was a dog, an elderly kelpie, who trotted along behind her.
‘Hello, boy. Nice to see a bit of rain, isn’t it?’
The dog wagged its tail. It was a country dog. It couldn’t have agreed more.
Meanwhile, Finn was having difficulty concentrating on his work. This hadn’t happened for some time: his self-discipline was usually fierce. But today all he could see, all he could think about, was a
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