matron’s table and the waiter carrying the matron’s tea, and ducked under the brass rail before the cake display case. She draped herself on its glass. She gave a moaning sigh, pressed one pink cheek against its condensation-covered surface.
‘Miss Tiebold,’ said the assistant.
‘Two conversation cakes. With cream and lemon curd.’
‘Certainly. Will that be all?’
‘And a pitcher of mint tea.’
Rose brushed the glass with her nose, leaving a smear. She came back to the table. She didn’t say thank you.
The matron’s daughters were all managing to sit straight in their chairs and eat with their cake forks. They were a contrast to the cousins, who sat in Farry’s prime spot and clearly visible from the street, dusted with crumbs of baked egg white, licking their fingers and staring fixedly, rudely, at the people waiting at the stagecoach stop.
Laura said, ‘It’s nearly an hour late.’
‘Come to think of it,’ Rose said, ‘you haven’t even seen the bluffs at Rifleman.’
‘Your Da took us up to the trig station near there. Remember? It was one of his educational outings. The trig was right on the border to the Place.’
‘Did your Da know about this?’
‘Uncle Chorley lied about it. He said we’d stopped at Tricksie Bend.’
‘I remember that . We bought honeycomb.’
The three girls at the next table had removed their gloves to eat. Between each bite they dabbed at their lips with Farry’s white linen napkins. They were so ladylike, so poised and mild that they only raised their heads when Laura and Rose suddenly dropped their teacups into their saucers and jumped up, shoving their chairs back so hard that one fell over with a clang.
The stagecoach had appeared behind other traffic on the long avenue of Main Street. Its driver was standing up in his seat, his whip flicking and biting above the backs of his horses. The stagecoach sounded its horn, then kept sounding as it made its way through Sisters Beach’s shallow settlement to the stage post. The stagecoach pulled up — a noisy emergency.
The cousins rushed out of Farry’s and across the road. Rose’s kimono billowed open in the wind — its cord detached itself and, unnoticed by her, went awayleeward, travelling along the pavement like a thin, side-winding serpent.
The girls plunged into the little crowd and pushed to its front in time to see the stage doors open and passengers spill out.
A man and woman were clasping each other. She had a handkerchief stuffed into her mouth. Rose leant back on the jostling crowd. She called out, ‘Driver! Have you lost someone?’
The driver and passengers all looked at her.
It did happen that, every so often, an adult might vanish by the cairn that marked the border on the road beyond Doorhandle — might melt from the coach. It would turn out that this person hadn’t, for whatever reason, chosen to Try at fifteen. Hadn’t attempted before to pass across into the Place.
Rose called out her question, and the crowd hushed. People looked from the stage post manager to the driver, to the girl in a kimono and bathing suit. ‘Because —’ continued Rose, managing and informative, ‘— you should go straight to the telegraph office at the station and send a wire to Doorhandle.’
Most of those who fell were missed right away and, when they emerged, were recovered. Some, disorientated, wandered in the wrong direction, deeper In. Rangers were dispatched to find them.
‘Have someone send a ranger,’ Rose said. She gestured at them to hurry.
The driver lifted his hand, the hand with the horsewhip gathered in it. He pointed with his whip, showing something to his employer, the bossy girl in beachwear and the gathered crowd.
Laura saw what was fastened to the roof rack among the luggage on the top of the coach. A long, limp, blanket-wrapped bundle.
She backed out of the crowd.
Uncle Chorley’s cream and chrome motor car had pulled up by Farry’s. Laura’s uncle was at the
‘Miss Tiebold,’ said the assistant.
‘Two conversation cakes. With cream and lemon curd.’
‘Certainly. Will that be all?’
‘And a pitcher of mint tea.’
Rose brushed the glass with her nose, leaving a smear. She came back to the table. She didn’t say thank you.
The matron’s daughters were all managing to sit straight in their chairs and eat with their cake forks. They were a contrast to the cousins, who sat in Farry’s prime spot and clearly visible from the street, dusted with crumbs of baked egg white, licking their fingers and staring fixedly, rudely, at the people waiting at the stagecoach stop.
Laura said, ‘It’s nearly an hour late.’
‘Come to think of it,’ Rose said, ‘you haven’t even seen the bluffs at Rifleman.’
‘Your Da took us up to the trig station near there. Remember? It was one of his educational outings. The trig was right on the border to the Place.’
‘Did your Da know about this?’
‘Uncle Chorley lied about it. He said we’d stopped at Tricksie Bend.’
‘I remember that . We bought honeycomb.’
The three girls at the next table had removed their gloves to eat. Between each bite they dabbed at their lips with Farry’s white linen napkins. They were so ladylike, so poised and mild that they only raised their heads when Laura and Rose suddenly dropped their teacups into their saucers and jumped up, shoving their chairs back so hard that one fell over with a clang.
The stagecoach had appeared behind other traffic on the long avenue of Main Street. Its driver was standing up in his seat, his whip flicking and biting above the backs of his horses. The stagecoach sounded its horn, then kept sounding as it made its way through Sisters Beach’s shallow settlement to the stage post. The stagecoach pulled up — a noisy emergency.
The cousins rushed out of Farry’s and across the road. Rose’s kimono billowed open in the wind — its cord detached itself and, unnoticed by her, went awayleeward, travelling along the pavement like a thin, side-winding serpent.
The girls plunged into the little crowd and pushed to its front in time to see the stage doors open and passengers spill out.
A man and woman were clasping each other. She had a handkerchief stuffed into her mouth. Rose leant back on the jostling crowd. She called out, ‘Driver! Have you lost someone?’
The driver and passengers all looked at her.
It did happen that, every so often, an adult might vanish by the cairn that marked the border on the road beyond Doorhandle — might melt from the coach. It would turn out that this person hadn’t, for whatever reason, chosen to Try at fifteen. Hadn’t attempted before to pass across into the Place.
Rose called out her question, and the crowd hushed. People looked from the stage post manager to the driver, to the girl in a kimono and bathing suit. ‘Because —’ continued Rose, managing and informative, ‘— you should go straight to the telegraph office at the station and send a wire to Doorhandle.’
Most of those who fell were missed right away and, when they emerged, were recovered. Some, disorientated, wandered in the wrong direction, deeper In. Rangers were dispatched to find them.
‘Have someone send a ranger,’ Rose said. She gestured at them to hurry.
The driver lifted his hand, the hand with the horsewhip gathered in it. He pointed with his whip, showing something to his employer, the bossy girl in beachwear and the gathered crowd.
Laura saw what was fastened to the roof rack among the luggage on the top of the coach. A long, limp, blanket-wrapped bundle.
She backed out of the crowd.
Uncle Chorley’s cream and chrome motor car had pulled up by Farry’s. Laura’s uncle was at the
Similar Books
