After the fire, a still small voice - By Evie Wyld Page 0,36

a hair too large, her bottom too high and round. Perhaps there was something of Amy Blackwell about her. When the cake was collected, without his father having seen it, no one spotted the difference. His mother put a hand on Leon’s shoulder but said nothing.

He had come to the fruit shop with a list of reasons she could give to her parents, but when he started talking she popped her chewing gum, sucked of all flavour but holding the warmth of the inside of her mouth, into his and it shocked him into silence. An elderly woman stared at the two of them, and Amy smiled and stared back until the woman looked away.

‘There’s no point,’ she whispered, ‘it’s paid for now anyway. Besides, it means I get away from them.’ She touched his cheek and the old woman cleared her throat. ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said Amy loudly, standing up tall behind the counter, and the old woman left the shop in a flurry of shopping bags and disgust. Amy rolled her eyes. ‘Well, I’ll be hearing about that later.’ She smiled at Leon, who could only think that she was leaving.

And soon after, she was gone as simply as she had arrived in the classroom, her finger held up against the sheet of paper. A brown-paper bag holding two peaches that were just on the turn, with the smudged and stained note.

See you when I’m finished x

He felt a wind at his back and turned in time to see nothing at all. Something dragged at his insides, low in his chest, and he took the train to Waterfall and thumbed down to the beach. The weather was filth and no one fished from the rocks. The dark lines made by the creek on the sand looked scummy, it could have been sewage, and a wind picked up loose sand and hurled it at the backs of his legs. There was a weight of disgust on his chest.

After the wedding-cake episode his father stayed mainly in his room, ducking out to the pub regularly for another bottle.

His mother’s hair was back in its bun. ‘Going to town,’ she announced one morning. ‘Get a hairdo, have a bit of mummy fun. You’ll be alright, chicken?’

He nodded and smiled, wondering what exactly she meant, seeing as he ran the shop alone as it was. Her face was pale and so he tried not to look annoyed. The bell rang with her departure.

Not long afterwards his father came down the stairs and made for the door. ‘There’s some things I need to get done today,’ he said, wrapping half a loaf of breakfast bread in a tea towel and putting it in a paper bag.

‘I made some croissants, if you’d like one,’ Leon offered.

‘Bread is good enough. Thank you. Must get going now. Have a good day.’

‘You too.’

He waited until his father had gone out of the door and disappeared round the corner, before jumping the counter and turning the shop sign to closed. He locked up and ran down the street after him, his feet slapping hard on the bitumen. He followed at a distance and was led all over the suburbs. They circled every block of Parramatta, leaving no road uncrossed. They went down every alleyway and under every tunnel, over every bridge. A few times his father went into cul-de-sacs and Leon had to wait anxiously behind a bush for him to come out again, always with his head down, so that he could have stood right in front of him and he wouldn’t have noticed. Finally, with the sun way over west, they came to the train station, which was, on a straight walk, only ten minutes from the shop.

For the first time his father raised his head. He sat on a bench on the platform. Trains entered and left the station but his father’s only movement was to take a hip flask out of his pocket and bring it again and again to his mouth. People were met and seen off, they crowded the platform, then left it and crowded it again. The loudspeaker announced trains to Waterfall, Green Point, Central. People were met and kissed, were waved off, left with luggage, left with nothing. People waited and ate chips, smoked cigarettes, drank milk drinks and left all the smells behind when they went. In the middle of it all sat his father on a red bench, looking straight ahead, bread tucked safely into the crook