“As her memory’s so bad, it doesn’t make any difference whether you stay half an hour or two hours; so long as she sees you. She looks up from her indifference, which is the past, and in the daze of the present she finds a face – that’s about all. I made a cup of coffee to wake myself up and then drove across the suburbs to the Home. It was intermission at the matinees; children thronged the cinema entrances pushing each other about and eating ice cream in the sun. At a main intersection a down-...at-heel white family hawked hanks of coloured spun sugar along the line of cars. People ran about on tennis courts I passed, and clustered on the bowling greens. The empty red beer cartons were thick on every open space. If I were dumped back in it from eternity I should know at once that it was Saturday afternoon. It was in people’s faces, the pleasure of the weekend, like the sweets clutched in children’s hands. The Home is an old house whose original iron-roofed colonial-Victorian has been knocked out and added on to.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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