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| It's a steep lift out of Frog Hollow, up the dog-legged crannies of Little Riley Street, over Reservoir Street, where the incline gets murd'rous. Neither couple was talking much; muttering was more like it. Corner of the mouth stuff. Accusational. The 'shes' struggled a bit more than the 'hes'; with the incline, but also with keeping emotions in check. I wondered if they had any idea what this patchwork of lanes was like eighty years earlier. What the working class rif-raf got up to down in that there hollow, from whence they had all come. But each couple went their separate ways, and as the sounds of their footsteps reverberated more softly, I took a gulp of air and brought the faded old photographs of life in the area to the front of my mind. |
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