Free The Cartographer by Peter Twohig Page B

called it, though its real name was Dynon Creek. This was one of those creeks that they had just forgotten about and gone ahead and built roads and buildings right on top of, so it was still down there somewhere, sloshing along in the dark like the Lazy River in the song:
    Up a lazy river, how happy we could be
    Up a lazy river with me …
    The canal was full of old car parts and rags. It was a long way down, and I had to grip the handle tightly to stop my fright.
    â€˜What’s all that junk down there?’ I asked.
    â€˜What d’yer mean junk? That’s where we keep our spare parts,’ said the soldier, emerging from behind the truck with a straight face. ‘And you better close it before the sergeant comes in and chucks the both of us down there.’
    â€˜Yeah, righto,’ I said, thinking hard. I had no idea the buildings around here were so interesting.
    Next, I went past a business that made signs, and had a sign in the window of the glass front door that said: ‘Sign-writer wanted. Apply within.’ It would have been far more interesting if it had said: ‘Sign-writer wanted. Reward, £100.’ I reckoned Blarney Barney would have been right onto that. On the other hand, the Lone Ranger would have caught him for free. I wasn’t so sure about Tonto — nobody was.
    I went past the Prince of Wales Hotel and saw a few familiar faces in the public bar, which smelt like beery burps. Then I went past the Miners’ Institute, which Dad told me had nothing to do with miners, the Mechanics’ Institute, which he said had nothing to do with mechanics, and the Temperance Institute, which he said had nothing much to do with temperance. I could see that unless you were particularly careful, people might laugh at your sign. I resolved, right there, outside the Temperance Institute, that my map would tell the truth, no matter what people thought. It would be no laughing matter.
    As I walked I looked up the hill in the direction of Bridge Road and tried to find the twin red domes of the Gala Theatre, my favourite place on earth. The Gala had red carpet that smelt like Luna Park, and dim red lights in the foyer, like the lights of a spaceship caught in a space fog. Inside the Gala, your footsteps made no sound, and when you spoke, you could hardly hear the words. The usherette who took your ticket wore the same colours as the outside of the place, maroon and gold. And if you came in late, she used her torch to find you a seat in the dark, even if you were only a kid. The last time I was there I found a zac on the floor, which meant extra lollies at interval. That was the first time I’d ever been paid to go tothe flicks. The picture was Old Yeller , ‘the story of a boy and his dog’, it said in the trailer. And it was. A lot of kids cried when Old Yeller died, and I cried too. I knew everyone would think I was crying over Old Yeller, but I was really crying about Tom … and me.
    The funny thing about Old Yeller was that Fess Parker was in it, and he had been in my favourite movie of all time, Davy Crockett , which I had also seen at the Gala. All the best things happen at the Gala. I saw Macka McGuire get thrown out for pulling some girl’s hair and then swearing — it was the swearing that did it, I reckon. He’d been asking for that for ages. That was a lovely arvo.
    In the time it took me to walk to the next corner I had that Saturday afternoon all over again, including the movie and half of the walk home — and I met myself right at the spot I had arrived at, if you see what I mean.
    A few yards around the corner, where you can see down into the open part of the canal, I leaned over the rail and sang, loud enough to hear the echo, a bit of the Old Yeller song.
    Old Yeller was a mongrel, an ugly lop-eared mongrel
    Fancy-free without a family tree …
    Reminded me of me.
    I was just about to shoot down Hastings Street, which was nothing more