‘The wrong boys died at Gallipoli,’ he said, ‘why couldn’t it have been him?’ Shocking words, unforgiveable words, but at least he does not say them in Bartholomew’s presence – for that I am thankful. It is grief speaking of course: Jim remains inconsolable. As indeed am I. Every day that passes ...
Timothy’s house was one in a line of a half dozen or so single-storey terraces built at the dawn of the twentieth century, which now, in 1983, were regarded as fashionable. Brick-rendered and identical, the cottages were not as picturesque as the stone terraces that were a feature of ‘old Hobart ...
Alfred Hoffmann had shifted from London to the leafy county of Surrey, where all forms of glorious flowering shrubs thrived, and yet in the impressive conservatory at the rear of his house he’d chosen to grow nothing but oleanders. A veritable forest of them, in all shapes and sizes. Some remaine...