As I cycled towards the gates, my hair streaming out behind me in the cold wind, my head swam with memories: cars, parents and children crowding this same narrow street at pick-up time; the Friday afternoons when I was given a few coins to spend in the sweet shop; walking home with friends’ mums for play dates, good as gold and slightly nervous; the last day of school when we all came out, our shirts inked with messages from our friends. There was a time when this tiny part of Woodside had been the centre of my universe. The high metal gates where Mum used to wait for Graham and me each afternoon now sported huge padlocks and a notice outside explained that, for safety’s sake, they were locked during school hours. Still out of breath from the sudden burst of exercise, I peered through the wire fence at the classrooms where I’d learned to read and write; at the gritty playground where I’d cut my knees too many times to count. It was paved with that multicoloured rubber stuff now, and I hoped it was impossible to rub people’s knees in it till they bled.
