Free The Road Back by Di Morrissey

to be like coming back down,’ Megan exclaimed.
    â€˜Don’t look down at the drop, look across the canopy. You can see the ocean in the distance, between the breaks in the trees,’ said Susan.
    Then Megan squealed as a B-double truck roared past their car on the winding road. Chris took evasive action by swerving close to the cliff face.
    â€˜Those trucks are damned dangerous,’ he muttered. ‘There seems to be no end to them. What are they doing here? This road is far too narrow for something that size.’
    â€˜They’re taking rocks from the quarry for the highway bypass,’ said Susan. ‘But there have been a lot of near misses. And there was talk they are going to increase the number of trucks. According to the authorities, it’s all about saving money.’
    â€˜A short cut to disaster. As far as I’m concerned, it’s an accident waiting to happen.’
    â€˜ Daaaad , stop that. It’s scary.’
    â€˜It’s okay, Megan. Your father is a very careful driver. Don’t worry. It won’t be long until we reach the top and get to the place where I like to buy something special for my Christmas guests. Then we can have a coffee and look around before we go back,’ said Susan soothingly.
    When they reached the plateau, Megan soon had her phone out, snapping pictures of the glorious scenery through the window. The road now weaved its way through flat, lush, green paddocks where lazy cows, too fat and sleepy to move, dozed contentedly in the patches of shade cast by luxuriant trees.
    â€˜This is beautiful,’ exclaimed Megan. ‘It’s all so green. It’s sort of like how I imagine England to be.’
    â€˜It certainly is lovely. Quite idyllic,’ said her grandmother in agreement.
    In less than ten minutes Chris had parked the car in the main street of the town at the top of the plateau.
    â€˜I’m just popping into this shop,’ explained Susan. ‘I want to buy some of the local smoked trout. I use it for one of my special Christmas Day concoctions. There’s a coffee shop a couple of doors down, but if you’d rather, Megan, there is a great junk shop on the corner. Of course, the owner doesn’t call it that, but the number of things he has in there is amazing. I know you’ll enjoy a poke around in it. How about we all meet there in ten minutes?’
    With her fish safely stowed in the car, Chris and Susan walked into the very large warehouse, looking for Megan.
    â€˜Good grief,’ exclaimed Chris. ‘I’ve never seen so much junk in all my life.’
    â€˜Shhh. Keep your voice down,’ whispered Susan. ‘The owner is very proud of his collection of bric-a-brac. He would be very insulted if he heard it referred to as junk.’
    Chris looked around him. There were so many collectibles that it was difficult to walk down the aisles to inspect them. The walls of the shop were hung with old commercial metal signs advertising things such as ‘Keen’s Mustard’, ‘Caltex’ and ‘GE Electrics’. On the crowded shelves stood cups and saucers, glasses, old vases and boxes of cutlery. Stacked one on top of another were cheapreproductions of artworks by the great masters, as well as ambitious but tasteless amateur paintings. Hundreds of books had been set out on shelves, although there appeared to be no particular order to them. In several glass-fronted cabinets stood dozens of ornaments, mostly poorly made, but Chris suspected that if he had time to hunt seriously, he might find some good pieces.
    â€˜Dad, this is so amazing,’ said Megan as she manoeuvred her way down a crowded aisle towards Chris and Susan. ‘Look what I’ve found.’ Megan held out a set of salt and pepper shakers in the shape of two pandas hugging each other. ‘Aren’t they too cute? And they cost hardly anything. I’m going to get them.’
    Chris shook his head.