The Tunnels of Tarcoola by Jennifer Walsh Page A

the table, her and her sisters. They had a fine old time of it.’
    â€˜Really? Win?’
    Kitty didn’t fancy asking Cec’s wife about submarines or anything else. For one thing, she would have to go into the house, which was dark and smelled strongly of dog, cabbage, urine and other things she couldn’t identify and didn’t want to. For another thing, she had never quite got over her childish fear of Win. It was Martin’s fault. He used to think it was funny to tell her that Win was an old witch who ate little children, and that was why she was so fat.
    â€˜Oh yes, Win was born in that house of ours. Me, I’ve only been here since we got married.’
    â€˜So you didn’t know the person who committed suicide in the Haunted House – Mr Wolf ?’ ventured Kitty. ‘Would Win have known him?’
    â€˜Wouldn’t think so. He was a Jew, you see. From – what’s that place? – Checker-something. Win’s Church of England.’
    â€˜And what about his wife?’
    â€˜I can remember some sort of to-do about that after the war. There was some lady who thought the first wife had been killed over there in Europe, but it turned out she’d been in America all along. Win was quite upset about it, for some reason.’
    â€˜So Win did know them?’
    â€˜She didn’t say much about it. Go and ask her, if you like.’
    Kitty could see she wasn’t going to get any more information out of Cec. She handed over Sweetheart’s leash at the corner and trudged home, lost in thought.

ANDREA hung around the checkouts at the supermarket for a while until her mother noticed her.
    â€˜Hey, sweetie!’ Her mother looked around quickly. ‘Make it fast, you know what bloody Dean’ll say if he sees us.’
    The woman clad in business clothes who was unloading her trolley onto the conveyor gave a little sniff of disapproval. Andrea’s mother glanced at her.
    â€˜God forbid that I should do my parenting in the boss’s time,’ she said.
    â€˜Sorry, Mum,’ said Andrea. ‘I just need a bit of money. I have to go to Leichhardt, to the library.’
    â€˜Just grab my bag. It’s by my feet.’
    Andrea dived under the counter. Her mother watched her with one eye as she passed the woman’s goods rapidly over the scanner.
    â€˜Yeah, that’s right. Take ten dollars, love. The library? What’s this for?’
    â€˜It’s a school thing. Thanks, Mum.’
    She beat a hasty retreat as the shift supervisor came out of a back room, looking askance at her mother.
    The bus to Leichhardt was slow, meandering through back streets and going around in circles. She had been hoping to see something that was obviously a library, but finally, reluctantly, she realised that she would have to ask the driver.
    â€˜It’s in the Italian Forum,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you when to get off.’
    When she got there, Andrea realised that she had been to the Italian Forum before. On the way in there was a row of little shops, one of them specialising in masks. The exaggerated faces were decorated with jewels, brilliant colours, glitter and feathers, some with long, bird-like noses. She could not imagine what sort of people would buy them, and where they would wear them.
    She wandered past a fountain . From one of the tables nearby came a peal of laughter and she flushed, imagining it was directed at her. The sound came from a noisy group of girls in private-school uniform, eating gelato from little silver dishes. There was one she vaguely recognised. What was her name? Vanessa? Samantha, that was it.
    As Andrea stepped back out of sight she noticed a sign pointing to the library.
    A grey-haired man sat at a desk. Andrea approached him confidently, flashing Kitty’s library card.
    â€˜I’m looking for information from the nineteen-forties, like stuff that happened in Balmain that might