candle that seemed at times to flicker out entirely. ‘Bugger, we’ll never make it home tonight.’
They did, but not for hours. The walk home was confusing, creepy and boring all at once, and both were thoroughly tired and cranky by the time they reached Puce’s Bend. Back in her room, Skip dropped into bed and fell asleep instantly, knowing that morning – and school – would come too soon.
Chapter Five
Everything in Crater Lakes was old.
That wasn’t really true, of course: Coles New World was a new world, with soup cans and soap powders in Warholesque banks; Coca-Cola Bottlers had built a plant in town; the new block at the high was what the Education Department referred to with pride as an open space unit. But half close your eyes on Volcano Street and time slipped back: gone was Chickenland with its fibreglass chicken rearing hugely over the parking lot; gone that XR Falcon, that Torana HB among the battered Yank tanks and utility trucks that looked as if they lodged in barns with hay and horseshit, when not running into town. Life was black and white: it was 1939, and those men with short back and sides, lining up at the betting shop, were jug-eared boys anxious to enlist. There were places in the Lakes where time seemed calcified, ready to crack: at the Federal, where Sandy Campbell, shitfaced, leaned at the bar and told the one about the Dago, the Kraut and the Aussie; at the bake sale in aid of Crater East Primary, where leathery ladies with plastic teeth shrieked ecstatically over lamingtons; in the dingy clutter of Hill’s Newsagency, where that Advertiser , framed on the wall, which saidthe Yanks had landed on the moon, might have been some bloke’s idea of a laugh. Nowhere was this impression stronger than in the library that occupied the ground floor of the Crater Lakes Institute. Skip had taken to going there every Saturday morning while she waited for Marlo to finish work at midday.
The Institute Library was like a church: the stone arch of the entrance, the double doors, the dark bookcases that suggested pews grown weirdly tall. In the Juvenile section, by a window looking out on Volcano Street, Skip perched on a rickety wooden chair. Books in plastic covers glimmered from the walls of shelves around her and across a central table. The table displayed, laid out like offerings, sometimes standing half-open, the worthy books a grown-up might approve: The Humpy in the Hills by John Gunn, Ash Road by Ivan Southall, Storm Boy by Colin Thiele. In the shelves – sardine-squashed, faded, dog-eared, broken-spined – were books that made grown-ups shake their heads: Trixie Belden, Biggles, Bobbsey Twins, Billy Bunter, Chalet School, Nancy Drew, Famous Five, Hardy Boys, Jennings, Malory Towers, Rover Boys, Secret Seven, Tom Swift; the Island, Castle, Valley, Sea, Mountain, Ship, Circus, River of Adventure.
Of most interest to Skip were the papers in yellowing stacks beneath the window. The institute allowed no Yank rubbish, no Superman or Batman, but English children’s weeklies were another matter. This particular morning, Skip had followed a Trigan Empire adventure in Look and Learn , eagerly riffling through the musty pile for the next week’s issue, and the next and the next. When the last episode was missing she was dashed, but then she turned to ragged copies of Lion , a comic for boys, and was soon contented again, reading one page-long strip after another about Mowser, a cat who lived in a castle, and his enemy, James the butler. Always James was trying to get the better of Mowser, the ‘tatty old furbag’, as he called him, throwing him outside or denying him food; always Mowser got the better of James, ending up with a roast chicken, or a plate of kippersand cream. There was something comforting in the Mowser cycle. It wasn’t that good triumphed over evil – Mowser was greedy, selfish and cunning, James treated abysmally by his employers, Lord and Lady Crummy, and often blamed for
They did, but not for hours. The walk home was confusing, creepy and boring all at once, and both were thoroughly tired and cranky by the time they reached Puce’s Bend. Back in her room, Skip dropped into bed and fell asleep instantly, knowing that morning – and school – would come too soon.
Chapter Five
Everything in Crater Lakes was old.
That wasn’t really true, of course: Coles New World was a new world, with soup cans and soap powders in Warholesque banks; Coca-Cola Bottlers had built a plant in town; the new block at the high was what the Education Department referred to with pride as an open space unit. But half close your eyes on Volcano Street and time slipped back: gone was Chickenland with its fibreglass chicken rearing hugely over the parking lot; gone that XR Falcon, that Torana HB among the battered Yank tanks and utility trucks that looked as if they lodged in barns with hay and horseshit, when not running into town. Life was black and white: it was 1939, and those men with short back and sides, lining up at the betting shop, were jug-eared boys anxious to enlist. There were places in the Lakes where time seemed calcified, ready to crack: at the Federal, where Sandy Campbell, shitfaced, leaned at the bar and told the one about the Dago, the Kraut and the Aussie; at the bake sale in aid of Crater East Primary, where leathery ladies with plastic teeth shrieked ecstatically over lamingtons; in the dingy clutter of Hill’s Newsagency, where that Advertiser , framed on the wall, which saidthe Yanks had landed on the moon, might have been some bloke’s idea of a laugh. Nowhere was this impression stronger than in the library that occupied the ground floor of the Crater Lakes Institute. Skip had taken to going there every Saturday morning while she waited for Marlo to finish work at midday.
The Institute Library was like a church: the stone arch of the entrance, the double doors, the dark bookcases that suggested pews grown weirdly tall. In the Juvenile section, by a window looking out on Volcano Street, Skip perched on a rickety wooden chair. Books in plastic covers glimmered from the walls of shelves around her and across a central table. The table displayed, laid out like offerings, sometimes standing half-open, the worthy books a grown-up might approve: The Humpy in the Hills by John Gunn, Ash Road by Ivan Southall, Storm Boy by Colin Thiele. In the shelves – sardine-squashed, faded, dog-eared, broken-spined – were books that made grown-ups shake their heads: Trixie Belden, Biggles, Bobbsey Twins, Billy Bunter, Chalet School, Nancy Drew, Famous Five, Hardy Boys, Jennings, Malory Towers, Rover Boys, Secret Seven, Tom Swift; the Island, Castle, Valley, Sea, Mountain, Ship, Circus, River of Adventure.
Of most interest to Skip were the papers in yellowing stacks beneath the window. The institute allowed no Yank rubbish, no Superman or Batman, but English children’s weeklies were another matter. This particular morning, Skip had followed a Trigan Empire adventure in Look and Learn , eagerly riffling through the musty pile for the next week’s issue, and the next and the next. When the last episode was missing she was dashed, but then she turned to ragged copies of Lion , a comic for boys, and was soon contented again, reading one page-long strip after another about Mowser, a cat who lived in a castle, and his enemy, James the butler. Always James was trying to get the better of Mowser, the ‘tatty old furbag’, as he called him, throwing him outside or denying him food; always Mowser got the better of James, ending up with a roast chicken, or a plate of kippersand cream. There was something comforting in the Mowser cycle. It wasn’t that good triumphed over evil – Mowser was greedy, selfish and cunning, James treated abysmally by his employers, Lord and Lady Crummy, and often blamed for
Similar Books
