in period style. There were no signs promoting modern products, only hand-painted wooden tiles. I wandered along the boardwalk, inspecting the shops. I found one that sold scented cedar roses, and bought a bag of lilac ones for Kate. I held one in my hand and surreptitiously sniffed it from time to time. It reminded me of Nanna.
Perambulating in the sunshine was unexpectedly pleasant. The earthy scents, the absence of twenty-first century noise, the sound of my shoes on wood and the clop of horse hooves on soil. The world of wall-to-wall consumerism and people shouting to be heard was far away. Not even the visual cacophony of advertising hoardings disrupted the serenity. It was hardly a surprise Alberto preferred living here to inhabiting the twenty-first century.
My mobile phone rang, jarring the peace and making me feel ashamed of the disruption. I usually try to set it on a discreet buzz, but Amisha from the library keeps sneaking it off me and changing the ringtone. I was currently scrabbling for a phone that was loudly singing the Inspector Gadget theme tune. I seized it and pressed the button. "Yes, Lissa here."
"Melissa, baby, hi! How's my little bookworm?"
The sudden happiness at the sound of my father's voice spiked and dropped in about a nanosecond. I couldn't remember the last time I'd spoken to him when he was sober.
"What do you want, Dad?"
"Can't I call to talk to my own little girl? My lovely little librarian?"
Oh, he loved the sound of himself when he was like this. I took a steadying breath. "Do you think you can call back later?" Like, when you're sober? "I'm busy right now."
"Aww, don't be like that, baby. I'm coming to Melbourne soon. I thought I'd take everyone out to dinner." He sounded so reasonable, despite the slur. "I want to meet Kate's mysterious Anthony."
"Anthony isn't mysterious, Dad. He's a lawyer."
"I haven't met him, and I should," he continued. "I'm Katie's daddy and I should know any man she's going out with. Are you going out with anyone, honey?"
"No, Dad." My last potential boyfriend was slaughtered by a vampire. Kind of puts you off.
"That's a shame, sweetie. You're lovely. A lovely librarian."
"Dad, you're drunk."
"I know, sweetheart. I'm sorry."
Apologies were nothing new, either
He lurched onto a new bad subject. "How's your Mum, by the way?"
How the hell was I supposed to answer that one? "Fine. Last I heard." In fact, the last I'd seen of her was on a departing tram after I'd threatened to set her on fire if I ever saw her anywhere near my sister again.
"Yeah, well. She's a survivor, your mum."
"When will you be in Melbourne?" Anything to change the subject.
"I'm coming this week." He sounded more cheerful, "I thought we could all go out to dinner."
Argument was fruitless. Kate must have already told him it would be all right. She's the peacemaker in the family. Which makes me the guerrilla insurgent, I suppose.
"Fine."
"And if there's anyone you'd like to bring along…" Hint, hint. I imagine he is where I get my subtlety from.
Yelling at him for not listening would not have helped, so I ignored the comment. "I suppose I'll see you when you get into town," I said. "And Dad, it would be good if Anthony could meet you while you were sober."
A moment of silence ended with the bitterly spoken: "You're so much like your mother."
Sticks and stones are nothing to words. He hung up. My hand fumbled with the cancel key and I clumsily tucked the phone back into its pocket.
Deep breaths tamped down the tears that threatened. These things were done and past and I was getting on with the now. I deliberately put my father out of my head. If he kept with tradition, he probably wouldn't show up anyway.
My Nanna Easton always told me that there was nothing like keeping your hands busy to keep your mind off upsetting things. This no doubt explained the prodigious amount of knitting, sewing and baking she did.
I'd always preferred distracting my emotions with my brain. Only one diversion came to mind. I had to find Gary and Alberto. I suspected it was not a good idea, but I was desperate to override my sudden distress.
When Gary had traced his finger over his map, looking for his rendezvous point, I'd only vaguely registered where he was looking. Consulting my own map now, I tried to correlate my memory with the locations labelled so clearly. He had traced the upper street, as I recalled, at the farthest end from the entrance.
Right. I jammed the map into my bag and strode up the dirt road. Delicious scents wafted from a bakery as I passed, and my stomach spasmed with nausea. Distress had that effect on me. Further along, the warm, waxy smell of the candlemakers was more soothing. Both stores were full of people and I couldn't imagine any undead tete-a-tete occurring within. I kept going until I had run out of stores.
I looked at the last shop on the block, then back at the map. Then back at the shop. At the undertaker's shopfront, with unfinished coffins displayed artfully in one window, next to a tiny ornate black coffin.
"You've got to be kidding me." I actually said that aloud, figuring that one good cliché deserves another.
It was as well that I knew that vampires didn't actually sleep, let alone in coffins, or I would have wondered what kind of cheesy, teeny creature of the night was loitering in the vicinity.
The door swung open easily, but the workshop was empty. The space was festooned with exhibits of nineteenth century funerary props on one side and planks of wood and carpentry tools on the other. A rear door led to a darkened space which stored a couple of replica funeral carriages from the gold rush era. One carriage was obviously for the posh people, being all glass sides and black velvet curtains. The other, a plain black wooden vehicle, was for everyday wear. Murmurs emanated from the shadows behind the posh one.
Announcing myself would have been sensible and polite, but I was struck, belatedly and acutely, with the awareness that my presence was an intrusion. What I wanted was to back out undetected and leave Gary to his secret vampire business, which was certainly none of mine.
I stopped moving and held my breath. A swift glance assured me I wouldn't trip over anything as I turned.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" That was Gary, with the faintest of doleful notes in his voice.
In a dither of concern and damned curiosity, I hesitated.
"I would hardly have written to Mundy if I didn't," replied a man's peculiarly-accented voice.
"Well, no."
"Since Mary died, I am tired of it."
"Do you really need me?"
"What else? Self-immolation?" The sneer in the voice was half-hearted.
The reply was a silence that was almost palpable. I could imagine Gary staring at his feet. Both the concern and, regrettably, the curiosity
