The Idea of Perfection Read Free Page A

fabric and the arm beneath, and he flailed out to steady himself, hitting her on the shoulder. Then they were both standing in the beer-smelling current of cool air from the doorway, apologising.
    The man had a look of hysteria around the corners of his mouth. He wanted to blame himself.
    My fault, he kept saying. Completely my fault. Stupid.
    She had a feeling it was the man who had watched her from the window, but with his hat on it was hard to be sure.
    Totally stupid. Not thinking at all.
    So clumsy, Harley said. Oh, me, I mean.
    She did not look at him, but at the ground, where their shoes were arranged on the footpath like ballroom-dancing instructions. His were elastic-sided bushman’s boots that looked brand-new.
    Did I hurt you? Hitting you?
    She looked at him, surprised.
    Hurt me?
    He pointed but did not touch.
    I hit you, he said, humbly. There.
    No, no, she said, although now he had mentioned it, she could feel the place hurting.
    She looked at her own hand, large and plain, the one that had clutched at him, and wondered if she should ask whether she had hurt him.
    Well, he said, and laughed a meaningless laugh.
    A moment extended itself into awkwardness.
    Well, he said again, and she said it too at the same moment.
    Their voices sounded loud together under the awning. She felt as if the whole of Karakarook, behind its windows, must be watching this event that had burst into their silent afternoon: two bodies hitting together, two people standing apologising.
    Sorry, he said again.
    He was backing away from her now, making little meaningless movements with his hands. She went on along the footpath, trying to make her mouth less stern, her walk jaunty, casual, as if nothing had happened, but the dog spoilt it, running along beside, looking up anxiously into her face.
    She did not want anyone to look up anxiously into her face. She strode out hard, ignoring it.
     
     
    The same unsteady hand that had done COBWEBBE CRAFTE SHOPPE on masonite had done another just inside the door. SOUVENIRS OF KARAKAROOK — GATEWAY TO THE FOOTHILLS! A long wobbly dribble had slid down from the exclamation mark.
    There was a smell of pot-pourri and a dense muffled quality to the air, padded around with shelves piled with soft shapeless fabric things. There was a rocking-chair draped with crocheted blankets, and shelves of jams, and face-washers with KARAKAROOK NSW done by hand in cross-stitch in the corner.
    It was much hotter in here than out on the street, and stuffy. A fan laboured away in one corner, turning its big face this way and that without effect.
    Over behind a table with a cash register a small middle-aged woman was counting a stack of doilies.
    Forty-one, forty-two, forty-three.
    She raised her voice so she would not be interrupted.
    Forty-four, forty-five.
    She flipped the last doily on to the pile and looked up.
    Help you at all?
    Her eyes took in the unravelling shoulder seam, the big unadorned face.
    Harley smiled, then remembered too late that when she smiled broadly her eye-teeth looked like fangs.
    Hello, she said, and modified the smile.
    Her voice was unnecessarily loud for such a quiet shop.
    I’m Harley Savage, she said more quietly. From the Applied Arts Museum. In Sydney. You wrote to us.
    She went on smiling, but carefully. There was a pause.
    Here for your Heritage Museum.
    The woman behind the table cried Oh! in a long falling sound that started surprised and ended dismayed.
    You’re Harley Savage!
    There was an awkward little moment. Harley went on smiling, but felt that her smile had congealed. The woman behind the counter was small and sharp like a bird, with red glasses and red lipstick that matched the glasses, and hair that had been dyed so black it was almost purple.
    It took her a moment, but then she bustled out from behind the table and it looked as though she was going to make up for staring, and the sound of that disappointed Oh, by shaking hands.
    I’m Coralie, Coralie Henderson. I’m the