locals

Although thousands of folk reside in my suburb, we encounter few, me and the JRT, when we walk the local streets.

People like Fio and Alvena in Unit 4 drive to work and occupy their house. The only time either walks out the front gate is on bin night. Dan from Unit 2 shambles to the milk bar 100 metres away in the morning to get the small paper but otherwise ventures no further than the bus stop out front. The adult Liberians in Unit 3 only leave the property in cars.

Various dog-walkers pound the pavement at different times. Don we encounter irregularly—perhaps on three consecutive days, then not for a month. I speculate: has the booze got the better of him? Has he just dropped dead? A tall older woman—Dutch?—who leans forward from the waist stalks along with two golden retrievers and a black lab on leads. She looks neither left nor right, says nothing.

   

Nobody beats the mystery woman from a big block of units up the road for regularity. At 8:08 every week morning she steps onto the footpath and sets a brisk pace for the station. Her return is less regular, somewhere between half six and half seven.

She is about my age, perfectly coiffed, elegant like no one else in this part of town. She drapes a swanky bag from a shoulder and carries a more substantial bag by hand. Her clacking heels announce her coming and she leaves a perfume trail the dullest-nosed human could track ten minutes after her passing.

I concoct her story: owns a swish boutique of high class women’s fashions on the upper deck of a large shopping complex, husband confined to a wheelchair in their cosy unit.

This afternoon the JRT and I wander off on a long mid-afternoon ramble. I stop at the top of Mystery Woman’s drive to whistle up the JRT who’s sniffing every blade of grass, lagging badly. And here she is. It might be Sunday but she’s immaculate. We exchange hellos as we do when we pass in the street. She moves off.

“Excuse me. I hope you’ll pardon my curiosity. You leave here at the same time every morning. What do you do?”

She catches the train to the city, the 8:25—“You can always get a seat”—works in sustainability, training people. She goes to the gym on her way home.

I thank her for enlightening me and ask her again to excuse my nosiness. Having got my story so wrong, I decide not to ask after the crippled husband.

  

Rock on.