Isobel on the Way to the Corner Shop by Amy Witting Read Free Book Online Page A

was returning. Soon she would get up and move.
    Then a bus came and she got on the bus. She got on the bus because that is what people do at bus stops. She seemed to have forgotten her purpose in being there.
    The conductor as he took her fare said, ‘Are you all right, love?’
    ‘Oh, yes. Thank you.’
    ‘Well, you know best. You don’t look all right to me.’
    Though she had not meant to take the bus, it seemed after all not a bad idea. Riding in a bus was better than walking. She could get food at David Jones’ basement just as easily and with less walking.
    When the bus stopped at the top of Market Street, she tried to get up and knew that she was facing calamity. She tried again, succeeded and made her way handhold by handhold to the door, down the steps and into the street, where she stood reeling. She clutched at the shoulder of the man ahead of her and clung. He looked round, startled, then astonished and displeased.
    She muttered, ‘Sorry. Sorry. I slipped.’
    ‘Starting a bit early, aren’t you?’
    That stiffened her spine. She let go and stood steady and measured the distance to what looked like safety, the footpath and the shop windows which would offer support at need. She arrived without stumbling and stood looking through a shop window at the plastic reproduction of a gentleman who had never seen trouble in his life and was now ready to go skiing.
    The main thing was to find shelter. She was abominably exposed, conscious even of her nakedness under the sweater and the slacks which had been adequate for that walk to the corner shop. Somewhere to hide maybe for an hour or two, while she got herself together.
    There was the newsreel theatrette down at the George Street end of Market Street. Just about the same distance from this point as the corner shop from that stop where she had so foolishly taken the bus. That theatrette was the place to sit in a comfortable seat in the dark; a rest there would set her up, she would get the strength to come back to the food basement of David Jones, get her supplies—and then a financially ruinous taxi ride back to the building. The expense couldn’t be helped. Survival was now the aim. Survival without disgrace.
    This was going to take effort. She stared at the gentleman with the skis and willed herself into the image of one of those native women walking gracefully, carrying on her head a pitcher of water—though for Isobel the head itself would be the burden to be held upright.
    Bringing that burden erect caused considerable pain, which was an advantage, another reason to hold it steady. She set off, head up. She used the sidling technique, easier with shop windows she could pretend to be studying, crossed Pitt Street as carefully as a tightrope walker, arrived without disaster at the foyer, fumbled stiff-necked for her change purse, bought her ticket while staring over the head of the ticket seller, and went in.
    The usherette who tore her ticket in half looked at her with suspicion. She maintained her lofty stance.
    Lady, I haven’t touched a drop.
    There were not many patrons in the little theatre. In the dark, she did lurch towards a seat in a back row, hoping that the usherette couldn’t see her. She worked her way along the row and, thankfully, sat down.
    She had to expect a reaction after that effort. It was cool in the theatre. She hadn’t noticed the cold out in the street, but now shudders were running down her body, continuous as rain down a window pane, and she had to bite on her sleeve to keep her teeth from chattering. Her breathing came quick and shallow. In short pants. That was a joke from somewhere: her breath came in short pants. Not a bit funny when it happened to you. She was even sorrier now that she hadn’t put more clothes on.
    She stared at the screen. The sound didn’t mean much. It simply hurt her head. There was a procession, people with banners, shouting, but whether in happiness or anger she could not tell. Probably anger. What