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 town’, but they were attractive nonetheless. Timothy didn’t actually own his cottage, he rented it from Henry Jervis, a real estate investor whose passion for restoring old houses had made him a wealthy man, but Timothy felt as though he owned his cottage. He’d lived there quite happily for the past decade and, apart from a biennial raise in the rent, he’d had no interference whatsoever from his landlord. It was not surprising – Henry Jervis only wished that all of his properties could be leased to introverted pharmaceutical assistants like the grossly overweight, meek and malleable Timothy Drew. Timothy took great pride in his house and his garden, and the community in general. He considered it a privilege to live in Hill Street – such a respectable neighbourhood.
