She recalled winter mornings, drinking her coffee at one of the front tables with the sun warming her back, while her husband talked business out on the footpath with the other men, in their casual clothes, their European cardigans. The footpath was always crowded on a Sunday morning. Mrs B called them the Knitwear Brigade, with the accent on the ‘K’ at the front, and pronouncing the ‘w’ as ‘v’. She could still go and visit her friends at the Scheherazade. It wasn’t as though they had rejected her. She could order latkes and a schnitzel. The Scheherazade made the best schnitzel in Melbourne. At one end of Acland Street were the continental cake shops and the restaurants. At the other end were the massage parlours. Mrs B’s was in a back street, in a rundown building. The paint was peeling off the walls. There was a big dip in the floor behind the front door. Denise, who was experienced, told Tony they’d better put up a sign to warn the clients. They didn’t want sprained ankles.
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