wed gone down to the water because mr george said i could see the city of palermo but i couldnt so he bought me a bundle of hot chips and we sat among the seagulls. what whiffs. bosis. organs need the help of a. m. rexonola no. 1 in golden or mission oak. centurion phono-radio. is. to. the rich round volume of sound which issues from bebarphone speaks volumes for the genius of the designers of its throatlike sound box. the specially-selected timber used is of the type used in high-grade violins to prevent tonal vibrations and ensure purity of tone. powerful worm drive motor of finest construction. tapered swan-neck tone arm. nickel plated. covered with plush. aeolian vocalian records. s.
you are getting through them fast.
turkish patrol. the mad major. a cup of coffee a sandwich and you. say mister have you seen rosies sister. bye-bye blackbird. cecilia. well never know. the world. pigs guts. throw that away and lets get you washed up. we went hand in hand over the ridge of challis steps. yes, it is like the travelling historian leroy beaulieu said of the eucalyptus globulus. la rapidite de sa croissance en fait par excellence larbre des pays neufs, le seul qui puisse selever aussi vite quune ville comme san francisco ou johannesburg. and the only tree who sheds its own pyre. every blome down. so many of the old great houses have been consumed. cheverelis for david jones and dowlings own brougham lodge and goderich lodge are gone, and sterling cottage is gone, and kellet house or bona vista is as impalpable now as mortimer lewis. w. e. sparke blew up in his bath in maranamah and expired in the bath at mona and you have nothing to tell for it. greenknowe was once the name for the magnificent but faded home of walter lamb and s. k. salting of flower, salting and co. gone are orwell house and roslyn hall with the crystal door handles and the turkey carpets and the polished cedar. even the remaining become mere shells after evacuation, which would be natural enough if not for an ardour whose readiness to let them crumble or be flattened imposes on one a repeated sense of lost tableaux. ah but indeed you must build. monstrous as it is the scenes must pass. tusculum is there but william long the wine and spirit merchant and those of his aspirant family sleeping with policemans rattles under their pillows are in eternal rest. no more the first sisters of tarmons who came in a whale battered ship from ireland hauling an iron black christ. and the coleman sisters have gone from the coach house at the gates of fairhaven, and nothing will bring back the sound of the vaudeville companies clatterring up victoria street in charabancs bound for picnics in the bush, or the sight of mrs hall driving her carriage down macleay street waving her arms as if she were swimming.
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bushells. yass two miles. and the morning glory flowing through the fences. i sit on mothers lap and looked out the window. her legs shifted under me on the pea green seat and she fanned us together with the timetable. dad plays with the rim of his hat and chews his bottom lip. he had heavy bags under his eyes after a late night at the office. listen, mother murmurs at him. watch you dont say hell before my mother.
constance.
try to say cunt or something else she doesnt know what it means.
really, love
i know but when youre tired. just be vigilant.
these trains are getting very modern. can you believe it has been so long. do you think gregory is still driving around in that trap.
im sure theyll be the last in the district to buy a motorcar. dr thane had the first one and he used to have to drive up link hill in reverse. telephone poles flickering through an eyelash forest under their dipping crests. shards of light. shake it chick, were here. yass was connected to the state railway line in eighteen ninety two by the shortest platform in the world. when we got down there on the dusty slope beyond the gabled eaves was grandfather astride his buggy with the reins over one hand waving. i go to meet him with mother while dad gets the luggage. grandfather is already manoeuvring towards the station. he was a tall man, with the cuffs folded and his face moving in and out of the shadow of his hat. he turned his head rapidly on his straight neck, his arm was long and steady. mother held my hand as he brought the buggy in. hello papa.
connie. he reached out with one had towards her cheek and she jumped off the steps onto the buggy and put her arms around his neck. connie did you make this. it got bigger.
come and say hello to grandfather chick. she helped me over the gap and grandfather bent down and said she looks like me and laughed until dad got over to our side of the station with the suitcases. we rode the rest of comur street and over the river where some turtles were basking on a rock and the bank rolled up into folds of wild grass and brittle gum and broadleaved peppermint. dad sat with grandfather and smoked his pipe while mother pointed in her approximate way to the scenery and talked about her childhood. hills hills hills. this is the place she said lying back in the seat and breathing deep. if you ever get sick of the city chick.
grandmother weil was waiting for us in front of the big old stone house. she took the suitcases from dads hands and put them down beside herself and called up to mother as she got out. the little one can take your old room constance and you and peter will have the annex. mother kissed grandmother weil on the cheek and said come and see her. grandmother weil had one eye. she took me in both hands and kissed me smack on the forehead. welcome to alfalfa glades. its overdue. we walked between the yellow crocus borders of the flower beds to a verandah grown over with wisteria and in between a pair of french doors to the drawing room. there was a young man there i never worked out exactly who he was who took my bag and disappeared down a corridor over a layer of cowhides getting duller towards invisible. a grandfather clock ticked in the empty space. i turned back and took hold of mothers skirt. all right well unpack my suitcase first.