Americans—middle-aged couples, the women with dead-looking hair and the men with leather moneybelts and sunglasses, their bored gazes staring across empty paddocks.
They drove in silence. The girl was back to calling him ‘Mr Harley’. She said she was sorry about the bus. She hadn’t meant to laugh.
‘I don’t see why not,’ said Harley.
Here they were on the back route, passing the spot where Easterman had pulled over to get into his Prince suit. Up on Hilltops Road they passed the place where he and Rex Kirby had discovered the ute in the corn fields. He could hear Pete telling Andrea, ‘Billy Terrell was killed there.’ He was saying that once, years ago, he and Billy Terrell had built a tree fort together.
They came into the main-road traffic. Harley heard the girl breathe more easily.
She said, ‘Well, that was interesting.’
‘It’s a quiet place,’ Pete said.
Harley didn’t say anything.
‘You’ve been very kind, Mr Harley,’ Andrea said. ‘I’m sorry I said that about the bus.’
Harley could see by the look on the girl’s face she was worried about whether there was still a job.
They got caught by the light, so Harley asked the girl what the question was she had wanted to ask.
‘Oh that …’ And she reached for the strand of hair. ‘It’s not important. I was wondering if you ever thought you would end up living here? See, it’s a dumb question.’
‘No,’ Harley said. ‘Never.’
A few minutes later, through the glass of the antiques store, he could see his wife dusting the World War One helmets. There was nobody else in the store. Harley said he would drop them off here. He had a quick errand to do. ‘Go and say hi to Giddy,’ he said to Pete. He looked back in the window and met his wife’s questioning glance. She was looking at Easterman’s car. He doubted she knew the Commodore was Easterman’s. But she would want to know whose car it was, and what he was doing in it.
He watched Pete and Andrea enter the store, about to tell Giddy of his offer of part-time work which the store could not afford. Harley held up his hand to indicate he would be five more minutes, and pulled back into the traffic. He turned by the tea rooms. Bryan Gill was standing in the doorway shielding his eyes and gazing up the road for the bus. In thewindow his wife straightened up the table-cloths, making small last-minute adjustments. Harley was wondering what Easterman would say to him, whether there would be a story, and this time if he would want to hear it.
still lives
The traffic is backed as far as I can see. One shiny car top after another. Now and then an opportunist darts into a gap.
Youth
. We say it with a sad shake of the head, a roll of the eyes. The predicted wind has failed to arrive. The hills. The riffs of quiet cloud. We are all waiting. It is hot so everyone has their windows down. Everyone is tuned to a different radio station. In the midst of the rock-station hysteria comes a violin, delicate, insistent. Gunfire and bomb explosions burst from a news bulletin. Now some canned laughter:
Hey, I’m just an ordinary guy. No, really
. There are jingles for ads. It is hard to tell them apart from the pop jingles, which is what advertiserslike, of course, as well as, presumably, the US State Department, which has just admitted to a policy of disseminating false information, spraying it out there like weed killer to burn off trails to the truth or maybe flush out a mad man, an assassin, a hijacker. The noises of the world are no longer reliable.
The driver of the van in front of me gets out to try to see where the hold-up is. He stands on the toes of his work boots. His shoulders drop and he turns, looking pissed off, in my direction. He is definitely on the wrong side of glamour—long hair, whiskered growth, a rock star’s mo, faded blue overalls. I imagine he got stuck somewhere along the line. I watch him dig around in the back of his van, then he turns and, finding my
They drove in silence. The girl was back to calling him ‘Mr Harley’. She said she was sorry about the bus. She hadn’t meant to laugh.
‘I don’t see why not,’ said Harley.
Here they were on the back route, passing the spot where Easterman had pulled over to get into his Prince suit. Up on Hilltops Road they passed the place where he and Rex Kirby had discovered the ute in the corn fields. He could hear Pete telling Andrea, ‘Billy Terrell was killed there.’ He was saying that once, years ago, he and Billy Terrell had built a tree fort together.
They came into the main-road traffic. Harley heard the girl breathe more easily.
She said, ‘Well, that was interesting.’
‘It’s a quiet place,’ Pete said.
Harley didn’t say anything.
‘You’ve been very kind, Mr Harley,’ Andrea said. ‘I’m sorry I said that about the bus.’
Harley could see by the look on the girl’s face she was worried about whether there was still a job.
They got caught by the light, so Harley asked the girl what the question was she had wanted to ask.
‘Oh that …’ And she reached for the strand of hair. ‘It’s not important. I was wondering if you ever thought you would end up living here? See, it’s a dumb question.’
‘No,’ Harley said. ‘Never.’
A few minutes later, through the glass of the antiques store, he could see his wife dusting the World War One helmets. There was nobody else in the store. Harley said he would drop them off here. He had a quick errand to do. ‘Go and say hi to Giddy,’ he said to Pete. He looked back in the window and met his wife’s questioning glance. She was looking at Easterman’s car. He doubted she knew the Commodore was Easterman’s. But she would want to know whose car it was, and what he was doing in it.
He watched Pete and Andrea enter the store, about to tell Giddy of his offer of part-time work which the store could not afford. Harley held up his hand to indicate he would be five more minutes, and pulled back into the traffic. He turned by the tea rooms. Bryan Gill was standing in the doorway shielding his eyes and gazing up the road for the bus. In thewindow his wife straightened up the table-cloths, making small last-minute adjustments. Harley was wondering what Easterman would say to him, whether there would be a story, and this time if he would want to hear it.
still lives
The traffic is backed as far as I can see. One shiny car top after another. Now and then an opportunist darts into a gap.
Youth
. We say it with a sad shake of the head, a roll of the eyes. The predicted wind has failed to arrive. The hills. The riffs of quiet cloud. We are all waiting. It is hot so everyone has their windows down. Everyone is tuned to a different radio station. In the midst of the rock-station hysteria comes a violin, delicate, insistent. Gunfire and bomb explosions burst from a news bulletin. Now some canned laughter:
Hey, I’m just an ordinary guy. No, really
. There are jingles for ads. It is hard to tell them apart from the pop jingles, which is what advertiserslike, of course, as well as, presumably, the US State Department, which has just admitted to a policy of disseminating false information, spraying it out there like weed killer to burn off trails to the truth or maybe flush out a mad man, an assassin, a hijacker. The noises of the world are no longer reliable.
The driver of the van in front of me gets out to try to see where the hold-up is. He stands on the toes of his work boots. His shoulders drop and he turns, looking pissed off, in my direction. He is definitely on the wrong side of glamour—long hair, whiskered growth, a rock star’s mo, faded blue overalls. I imagine he got stuck somewhere along the line. I watch him dig around in the back of his van, then he turns and, finding my
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