It was a cloudless autumn day. It was late in the afternoon and the sun was losing the little warmth it had left. But there were still a few hours of sunlight remaining when I closed the front door to the shop behind me and took a detour home through a maze of quiet back streets. I knew that Dora wouldn't mind if I was home a little later than usual, she enjoyed looking after Billy on the days that I worked at the shop and a walk in the fresh air would do me the world of good. The street was silent apart from the crunching of dry leaves underfoot. The coppery, golden leaves had begun their annual pilgrimage and fell from the deciduous trees like shrouds, littering the footpaths and front yards of the small inner city blocks. An elderly couple complained to each other that the leaves were a nuisance and I smiled at them as I quickly walked on, eager to avoid the smoky trail of thin smoke which spiraled up from the gutter.
My curiosity suddenly got the better of me and I turned and looked back over my shoulder at the woman wearing a blue checked apron and clutching at a long handled straw broom. She was sweeping bright piles of leaves into tidy mounds as her male companion sat quietly on his haunches, rocking backwards and forwards, humming to himself as he tendered the smoldering flames. The couple didn’t look at each other but their connection was plain to see, even to a stranger’s eyes.
The route I had chosen was not my usual way home and I soon became disoriented as I passed through a number of streets and dirty, rubbish filled back lanes. A group of school boys chasing a football and dressed in ill-fitting grey uniforms, jostled me as I turned the corner into Cunningham Street.
The street was one-way and I tripped on an empty beer bottle as I stepped off the footpath into the deep sandstone gutter to cross to the other side of the street. I swore silently to myself as I looked down at the bottle’s amber neck poking out from a crumpled, paper bag. I clutched my handbag in one hand and straightened my stockings with the other; suddenly feeling foolish, I looked around to see if anyone had seen me stumble. I kicked the bottle to one side, annoyed by the carelessness of a thoughtless drunk.
I regained my composure, raised my nose to the air and sniffed at the singed, burnt smell of freshly ironed shirts as it wafted and snaked its way towards me. It was a familiar scent, a scent which strangely comforted me and was a homely reminder of what I once had.
A solidly built woman stood on the top of a set of worn sandstone steps in a doorway. Her hands were placed firmly on her hips as if she was about to scold. I expected her to ask if I had hurt myself and wondered why she looked at me in the manner in which she did. Perhaps she was not looking at me at all, but simply taking time to catch her breath, and to contemplate the task which lay ahead.
Muscled, nut-brown arms poked out from her sleeveless shift and her limp hair was tied back with a red ribbon. When she noticed me looking at her, she turned away and returned to her work. With her body slumped over a large pile of clothes, she began to sort and empty drawstring bags. The contents spewed out onto the chessboard linoleum floor and I wondered if customers ever complained of lost articles of clothing.
A hand painted sign on the glass window caught my eye. ‘Lucky’s Laundromat, Washes Whites Whiter With Rinso’ was painted in large, bold letters. I found myself smiling at the alliteration and wondered if Lucky was a person’s name or was a comment on the establishment’s prosperity. I walked on and left the comforting smells of domesticity behind me.
The street veered sharply to the right and disappeared around a bend. I followed it on, past a disused clothing factory which was boarded up with a large ‘For Sale’ sign affixed to the front of the building. I stopped in the middle of the footpath. The way ahead was blocked by a large blackboard sign.
‘Foyle’s Bookstore-Books Bought and Sold’ was written carefully in white chalk on the board. There were flourishes in the writing and it was obvious that the scribe had taken great care with it. The book store reminded me of Dickens’ Old Curiosity Shop and I found myself strangely drawn to it, wondering what I would find behind its freshly painted door. I turned the brass knob and pushed firmly against it. A bell sounded above my head as I entered and a red headed young man dressed in a suit, and a middle aged woman wearing a pale complexion and bright red lips looked up from their books. An elderly man with a toothbrush moustache sat at the sales counter and nodded, the young man frowned, the woman smiled a wide smile and brushed away a strand of hair which had fallen across her cheek. The trio, having accepted my presence, returned to their books. The disruption I had caused, having been forgiven.
The bookstore was dimly lit and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the room after the hazy, autumn sunlight outside. ‘Foyle’s on Cunningham’ was a small, airless bookstore but I felt safe within its walls. The smell of leather, ink and dusty books was strangely comforting and it was an ideal place to hide away from the world, if only for a short time on an autumn afternoon. I was quietly reassured by the store’s cosy silence and quickly decided on my purchases – a picture book for Billy and a romance novel for Dora. The clip to my purse clicked sharply between my thumb and forefinger as I checked to see if I had enough money for my purchases. A crumpled one pound note poked out from where I usually kept my loose coins and I sighed, relieved at the thought of money in my purse.
My eyes wandered over the books. They were crammed into the ceiling high book shelves and fell at odd angles against each other, like rugby players in a packed scrum and I found myself softly touching their spines, studying their titles and the authors to see if, like old friends, I recognised any of them.
Large piles of books and magazines sat precariously on the timber floor and despite their lack of order, I was impressed by their quality. Behind a row of shelves, I found a wicker basket filled with a collection of old photographs. My father had been a keen amateur photographer after he returned from The War. A large walk-in cupboard under the back stairs of our Ashton Street home had been transformed into a small darkroom and if he was in an agreeable mood and had not been drinking, he would allow me to slide the photo paper into the developer tray and slosh it around until an image magically appeared.
With his Leica camera slung over his shoulder, on most Sundays after Church, father took the 362 bus into town. It was unusual for him to return before early evening and when he finally did arrive home, he disappeared into the cupboard under the stairs and reappeared only when Mother called him for tea.
The photos he took were an exposé of people and their lives, all kinds of people and all kinds of lives. A nervous shudder brought me back to the present as I looked again towards the wicker basket, strangely drawn to its contents by memories from the past.
A cardboard box overflowing with Captain Marvel comics sat next to the basket beneath a timber hatstand. A colourful sombrero sat on top of the hatstand and a black embroidered jacket was draped over one of the polished, brass hooks. A souvenir from someone's travels, I thought, or perhaps it was going to be part of a display on Spanish culture. Books on cacti and Spanish architecture were littered on the dark timbered sales counter and the elderly man, whom I presumed was the owner, sat perched on a stool. He was flicking through the pages of a book and looked irritated as if he was in search of some important fact which he was unable to locate. His steel rimmed glasses slipped and his eyes squinted as he attempted to push them back onto the bridge of his nose. He looked up at me from behind his book and studied me for a moment before he smiled. His eyes darted from me to the hatstand and back again. He moved the book to one side. ‘Do you know anything about Spain?’
I was about to answer, but he didn’t wait for my reply.
‘I’m putting together a display, it’s a fascinating country. My nephew was there in thirty-eight, during the Civil war. After hearing about his experiences, I became obsessed, such a passionate people, such an interesting country.’ He placed his hand gently on the pile of books in front of him and shook his head. ‘Might as well read all I can because I doubt I’ll ever get there now, too old,’ he said, as
he scratched the grey whiskers on his chin. ‘Let me know if you need any help,’ he said almost as an afterthought.
I returned my thoughts and my attention to the wicker basket and the collection of old photos. I sorted through one familiar inner city street scene after another and then a number of construction photos of the Sydney Harbour Bridge. I put them all to one side and dug further into the basket and then I came across a photo of a soldier dressed in an Australian Army uniform. I held the photo in my hands. It was a professional portrait and the size was such that it allowed me to distinguish his features clearly. I was intrigued. What act had he been guilty of that would have him abandoned in such a way? Perhaps he had a falling out with his wife or lover. I examined the photo closely and held it up to the light filtering through the glass shop front. He was about my age and had an innocent look about him, which I found attractive. He looked vulnerable even though he was dressed in a soldier's uniform and, I imagined as I stared into his eyes, that I may have seen him before – passed him in a busy street or caught a glimpse of him as we boarded a train to a shared destination. His dark, wavy hair was neatly combed and parted in the middle, a lopsided grin revealed a perfect set of teeth. I liked that. I decided to take him home.
Billy spent his childhood and part of his adult life thinking his father was a hero. I gleaned all the information I needed from past newspapers I found at the library, studied them and recorded the details of a World War II battle in Europe in a small yellow spiral notebook I kept in the top drawer of my bedside table. By doing this, I invented a plausible time line for Douglas’s life, a fabrication based on part truths and my own imaginings of the man I dreamt could have been the father of my son, a father he would never know. I carefully placed the photo in a frame and put it on the timber mantelpiece above the small coke fireplace in the sitting room and called him Douglas, Douglas Ernest Phillips. It wasn’t long before I began to believe that he really was my husband and as time passed, I was surprised that Billy never asked about his father. He didn’t seem to notice that he bore no physical resemblance to the soldier whose photo sat next to the small, blue porcelain dinner bell on the mantelpiece. Billy told me later that as a child, he had felt his father's eyes follow him around the sitting room, passing quiet judgement on him. He ignored the soldier on the mantelpiece and attached little significance to the man I chose to be his father. I often wondered who he was, the soldier who I picked up from the bookstore that day and wove into the threads of my life.
As the years moved on, so did my Billy. He was no longer Billy, but William and I was to refer to him as such, especially in company.
He occasionally invited me to afternoon tea at our favourite tea shop in the city, not far from where he worked. As we sat drinking our tea in ivory coloured porcelain teacups with tiny pink roses around the rim and eating fluffy scones, covered in sticky jam and luscious cream, he said he wanted to do something for me. I didn’t pay much attention at the time - I couldn’t have known what he was thinking.
It was just after Billy married Suellyn that he bought the house in Eden Street. I was surprised when he and Suellyn picked me up in his fancy car one morning and we drove out of the city, away from the boarding house to the leafy suburb. He pulled up outside the house and I sat there for some time looking at the house and the street wondering how I could live here, a place that seemed to me to be so far away from the life I led in the city.
The three of us, Suellyn, Billy and I, stepped out of the car, closed the doors behind us and walked across the grass nature strip, through the timber gate and up to the front door. Whenever I looked at the front door from that day on, I always thought of the day I moved to Eden Street. I couldn’t believe that anyone could be so kind, not even my own son. A wonderful gift to someone who never really expected anything from anybody. Tears welled in my eyes and I remember that I had to wipe them away so I wouldn’t look like the silly woman that I was.
I stood in the doorway and hugged Billy for a long time, so long that I know he was embarrassed. He cleared his throat, moved my arms away gently and led me through the house to the kitchen. He apologised to me that the house was run-down and needed work done to it. Suellyn said she would see to all of that, but she never did. I suppose she never found the time.
People didn’t want to live in the city anymore. There was a real push, especially in the fifties, for families to find a block of land and build a house somewhere away from the dirt and the noise, out in the suburbs somewhere. Living in the inner city was not regarded as a respectable place to live. It had the reputation of being a slum. Most of my friends had already moved of course, there was more money about but I never did understand why people wanted to leave. The city was alive with interesting smells, it was vibrant, full of noise from the traffic and people going about their daily lives.
I was sad to leave the boarding house at first, but Billy insisted, especially as Dora had recently died and the boarding house was on the market, but I soon settled into my new life. I was lucky with my neighbours, especially, Kevin Taggart and Edi and Rhoda Blake.
Kevin Taggert was always a good neighbour to me and I never did say a proper thank you to him. I was embarrassed by his kindness and embarrassed by the circumstances in which I had found myself. He kept much to himself and I kept to myself. A couple of hermits the both of us. Kevin had his painting and I had my crosswords and, of course, I had Astrid.
Astrid was an extremely intelligent cat with a rather unique voice. She was my only true friend, apart from Max Gray. She kept me warm at nights, especially after it turned cold and the electricity had been disconnected. I liked her chatting away to me in her deep, loud voice, more like a dog than a cat. I loved her playfulness and affectionate nature and she was always climbing onto my kitchen table, showing off her long slender legs. Often when she was looking for attention from me she would climb onto my bony shoulders and look into my wrinkly old face with her blue, almond shaped eyes. Suellyn will have her put to sleep after I’m gone. She didn’t care much for cats.
A new neighbour moved in, next to Kevin. She looked friendly with her neat haircut, and designer clothing and I thought she was going to speak to me on the day I died, when I was on my way to the shops and she was returning home. It was a shame that she didn’t have the time to stop and say, ‘Hello.’