And here it is,the latest Review of Australian Fiction, with stories from yours truly and Mr Dennan Chew.
By Angela Slatter
‘How far down, missus?’
The woman’s staring not at the hole in the wet ground, nor at the tall bearded man who’s asked her a question, but back at the house behind her. She’s half-turned, the top of her torso twisted almost impossibly, almost fluidly, in defiance of the strictures of the steel-stayed corset beneath her plain black dress. The sandstone house is two storeys, wide verandahs running around both levels, walls punctured by doors and floor-to-ceiling windows, all of which are open, their shutters pinned back despite the cold and the rain.
‘Missus?’ His voice is low and rough, still thick with the accent of his native Bristol, but tender.
Fionnuala Farrell’s eyes are pinned on the small group clustered on the lower verandah: an older woman, plump, dark-haired, with a white apron over her navy frock; three small girls, hair as red-gold as their mother’s, not yet in mourning attire because no one had thought to make any for them so early in their young lives.