Childers from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.
Childers. Small motel town. Made bearable, to the eye at least, by its colonial feel. Historic the sign said. I’d camped a few miles outside. Quiet wooded site. Ventured in ostensibly to pop a few postcards in the mail.
Straddling the familiar Bruce Highway. Constant stream of traffic. Busy. Public Holiday. Easter Monday. Tourists, mostly Aussies, passing through. Drawn briefly into the pricey cafes along the main street.
He despised everyone. Or so it seemed. But especially the French. And the Germans. Both of which there were quite a few at the campsite. If he disliked the English he didn’t say. Far too cowardly for that. Instead, a steady stream of provocative mutterings. Confident in the knowledge that he’d not be challenged by those he lamented.
Deuusi had been staying at the site for some weeks. Fruit picking locally. But soon to return to the Paris suburbs. One week left. And then the park’s cleaner cum gardener consigned to history. Where he belonged. She smiled.
