Trudi shook her head and the man looked disappointed. ‘Pity. I wanted to shake his hand. Seen his picture in the paper. Bloody hero, that man. Got any drop sheets?’
Gary had come back into the office with a sandwich bag in his hand. ‘What?’ he said.
‘Drop sheets to cover all this stuff while we work. You’ll get dust in everything, otherwise.’
‘We’ll move what matters into the passage.’
‘No way. We’ll be tripping all over…’
Trudi touched my arm. ‘Let’s leave them to it and get something to eat. We’ll eat in the park-Peter’s pro parks and sunshine.’
****
3
January’s office was on the corner of the main road and a broad, tree-lined street that looked as if it was just waking up from a 50 year sleep. The houses that had been green and fawn were becoming white and mission brown. The straggly oleanders in the front yards were being rooted out in favour of ground covers and slender-trunked gums. There was a parking problem-the street was crammed with cars even in the early afternoon and a couple sat out from the kerb in a highly illegal two-abreast. The terrace houses didn’t run to parkable driveways, otherwise the middle class wasn’t having too much trouble adapting.
Trudi and I blinked in the strong sunlight and we put on dark glasses simultaneously.
‘What about the pub?’ I said. The Duke of Wellington was right across the road. I knew it had a snack bar. Unfortunately, it also had pinball machines.
‘No,’ Trudi said firmly. ‘Along here you can get the best health food sandwiches in Sydney and the park’s just a bit further.’
‘Sounds like a mineral water situation.’
‘Right.’
The main road was busy and smelly with trucks and cars jostling for position on the bitumen and the pedestrians ducking between them from delis to bottle shops.