His voice was familiar, the way a hot bath feels. But it took me a moment to place his face. I hadn’t noticed him enter the café; now he had one of my tea bowls in his hand, turning it as if to catch the light.
Over in the playground a white rabbit in a waistcoat is being chased by a barefoot girl kiwi. Everybody’s got a story to tell, Jim knows. From the deck outside the classrooms he observes the children—all dressed as colourful book characters—gather for the parade in the schoolyard below.
“What shall we do?’ said the boy trepidly. “Bury it,” said the farmer matter-of-factly. Father and son looked down from the high spur overlooking Red Rock Creek to the body of one of the prized merinos.