Free Currawalli Street by Christopher Morgan

garden and beside it is a square of lawn. In the centre of the lawn is Rose, standing still and looking down the street towards him. He looks at her and, for a moment, remembers how far they have come together. She has said he’s become distant in recent years but that is the exact word he would use to describe her. He laughs to himself then walks along the street towards her. He calls out a greeting but still she doesn’t respond. It is only when he is a few steps away that she seems to emerge from her oblivious state and see him. She smiles.
    He smiles back and says, ‘You look good standing there. Very pretty. Standing still like a statue.’ He knows how to lift Rose out of these blackholes she falls into.
    â€˜There will be a statue here. It will be put here soon.’
    â€˜And who will it be of? The mayor? The bishop? The prime minister? Me?’ He stops laughing when he sees the effect his words have on her. She has stopped smiling. ‘What’s the matter?’
    â€˜I hope it’s not of you.’
    â€˜Why not?’
    â€˜I just don’t know. That’s the thing, Fred. I just don’t know.’
    â€˜Let’s go home and have a cup of tea. I should have made you one before I went out. I don’t do that for you these days. I don’t know why. I’m sorry. I only wanted to get the paper. I forgot to bring it home, after all that.’
    â€˜A cup of tea would be good. Let’s go home. I wish Elizabeth was back,’ says Rose, already tired.
    â€˜So do I. So do I.’
    Eric Dunold walks jauntily home from the railway station. He always feels good after sleeping onboard a ship. The rhythm of a ship tied to a wharf sends him into different type of sleep, different from on land and different from at sea. It has been good to see Jacob. Last time they ran into each other, they were both rushing to leave Hong Kong harbour and neither could spare any time for real conversation. So last night they talked into the small hours and then started again when they awoke. The train left from a platform opposite the wharf and the smoke from the steam engine mixed with the smoke from Jacob’s ship as it manoeuvred away from the wharf to begin its journey back to Portsmouth. Eric hadn’t botheredwaving from the window at first; he assumed that Jacob would be concentrating on the logistics of leaving the harbour and wouldn’t be looking at a train steaming off into the distance. But then he saw a capped figure emerge from the door on the side of the bridge and raise his hand, and he leaned out the carriage window and did the same thing in return.
    And as he walks into Currawalli Street, he sees Alfred and Rose Covey standing together in front of the church. As they begin to walk away from the church towards him, he raises his arm again in a half-wave. Alfred waves back.
    Eric doesn’t know Alfred that well yet; shore life is not like being on a ship where friendships are forged very quickly. On land it is different; everything gets soaked up by the earth or blown away by the bushfire wind and friendships are slow to grow. But Eric has seen Alfred’s maps and they are clearly made by a man who knows the mechanics of travel, even though land maps to Eric have always seemed crowded, overblown, and overly detailed. However, one of the reliable ways to judge a man, besides whether he can pack a bag and sit still on a journey, is whether he knows the workings of a map.
    Nancy opens the door when she hears his footsteps on the front porch. She embraces him long and hard as if he has returned from sea. He comments aloud on this and she pulls back and looks at him.
    â€˜You silly man. It is because you are not coming home from sea that I hug you so. It makes sense, doesn’t it?’
    â€˜Yes, it does. Perfect sense. What shall we do today, my sweet? Anything you desire.’
    Nancy thinks for a moment. ‘Well. I do believe I would like to spend the