Home Leave

The following is an abridged version of a short story I wrote while I was living in Singapore for a few years. The story was a finalist in the 2005 Ada Cambridge Prize. For more details you can visit my website: http://www.alisonstuart.com

Home leave
(Random thoughts from the banished*)

Home leave. A brief return to Melbourne, after the long months in exile. I have abandoned, if only for a short time, the bright sky, the deep, vibrant green and the unrelenting warmth of Singapore, a place with no seasons – only variations of heat and humidity.
In my mother’s house I find the winter clothes, abandoned on our banishment. Three seasons out of date but serviceable. I lace on my boots, my winter boots, my Melbourne boots. I am home.
The cold draught off the Yarra caresses my cheek, winding frosty fingers around my neck, bared by my Singapore haircut. I shiver, hunching down into my old, woollen coat and thrusting my hands deep into the pockets. A grey, drear, Melbourne day just like a thousand Melbourne days I have known. The tread of my boots on Princes Bridge sounds like the soft beat of a drum. She’s home, she’s home!
I have a list, carefully composed in Singapore, of things I must do, must accomplish. Written in invisible ink between the words are instructions: ‘breathe the air’, ‘linger in Block Arcade’, ‘watch the people’, ‘savour a hot chocolate at Richard’s Café’.
The stillness in the air is tangible. The mist clings to the top of the buildings and muffles the sound of the traffic, the trams rattling past. My breath lingers in the thick air as I breathe out.
Every city has its own distinctive smell. Singapore smells of garlic, coriander and curry mingled in the thick, warm air. Melbourne, in winter, smells of wood smoke, car fumes, and of heated metal as the tram wheels grate to a halt, spewing sparks and sand from the brakes.
In Myer, it is sale time. The tables are stacked with strange, unfamiliar winter merchandise – scarves, gloves, hats and boots. I stop and rummage through them, nostalgically. I have no use for such things but I savour the touch and the feel of the wool.
The colours of winter are black or red, red and black. Black – the Melbourne colour - my friends from other States tell me with a sneer.
My list takes me past the Law Courts. It has been a long time since I first tramped this corner of Melbourne, learning the law through the soles of my too high, too expensive Italian shoes bought with a month's salary. So many new buildings crowd the corners of the streets, but some things never change. Human misery will always be the same.
It’s lunchtime and the lawyers flock into the streets. The barristers, so self important in their wigs and gowns, float past on their egos. The solicitors, their faces strained, their bags bulging with papers, trail behind them.
My list is complete. I carry bags bearing familiar names: Myer, David Jones, Paddy Pallin. On Princes Bridge, I turn and look back and smile. Despite the damp and the cold, I wear this city around me like a warm, familiar cloak.
Every lane, every alley, every arcade; a million short cuts, a thousand favourite corners and a lifetime’s experience in every step. My boots, my Melbourne boots, beat a tattoo on the footpath. She’s home, she’s home.