Undecided on which way to turn, he does neither. Instead, he pulls out his all-but-useless mobile phone and takes a photo of the digger on his pedestal. He looks about him. The soldier, standing atop his column, constitutes the centre of Riversend. Looking down at him from behind, from its prime position at the crossroads, is the Commercial Hotel, its facade as fresh as on the day it closed. Across Hay Road from the pub is the Bendigo Bank, and diagonally opposite the Commercial is the red-brick solidity of the old council chambers. The soldier is facing the chambers. The other corner is taken by Jennings Dry Goods, closed on this Sunday morning. Martin walks over and peers through the windows. Clothes, hardware, household goods, small electrical appliances, some toys: everything except food and perishables.
An idea is forming in Martin’s mind. Somewhere in his feature there may be room for a descriptive passage on Riversend, capturing the town’s decline. It could start here at the crossroads, with the memorial to dead soldiers and the bankrupt pub, then proceed down Hay Road, past the op shop’s sad window, past the closed hair salon, to arrive at the wine saloon, with its forlorn interior and its dusty ghosts. Martin walks out from under Jennings’ awning into the glare of the midday sun. God it’s hot. He quickly takes a photo of Jennings, noticing that above the awning, on the rendered facade below the peaked roof, JENNINGS DRY GOODS 1923 is written in raised letters. Brilliant. He makes a mental note to return on a working day to interview the latest generation of the Jennings family.
He looks at the Bendigo Community Bank on the other side of the intersection and is rewarded by a similar revelation. It’s a solid building rendered with concrete, the architrave of its entrance dressed in stone. The building carries the russet and gold livery of the franchise, but above the awning, wrought-iron lettering spells out its origins: THE COMMERCIAL BANK OF AUSTRALIA LTD. The bank is still operating only because locals have formed a community bank under the Bendigo umbrella; the big banks can no longer extract sufficient profit out here.
Martin captures more images; more grist to his mill. He crosses Somerset Street to the council chambers, set slightly back from the street on a large block of land. This time it’s a plaque that tells the story: This building housed the Riversend Council Chambers from 1922 until 1982, when the council was merged into Bellington Shire Council. Unveiled 12 June 1991 by Errol Ryding, Last Mayor of Riversend. A wry smile and more photos. A sign on the door communicates the building’s current purpose: RIVERSEND ART GALLERY AND STUDIO. OPEN TUESDAY AND THURSDAY MORNINGS 9 AM–1 PM. Martin imagines walls covered in gum-tree paintings, shelves of brown-glazed pottery and hand-spun wool, all gathering dust. As a nod to its municipal past, there’s a community noticeboard attached to the wall by the door. He reads a council notice setting out draconian water restrictions, a homemade flyer for the Black Dog Motel, a fly-spotted note advertising babysitting services from someone called Gladys Creek. The bottom of the ad has Gladys’s phone number repeated on thin fingers of paper designed to be ripped off by prospective customers. None have been taken. Martin collects another photograph. There are a couple of lost pets: a collie called Lassie and a moggy called Mr Puss, both with photos. The owner of Mr Puss is offering a small reward for the cat’s return. There are ads for old cars, for a harvesting contractor; a note that the footy team, having missed the finals, will resume practice in March on the primary school oval.
Martin returns to the middle of the intersection, looking again at the bronze soldier. He rather likes the pose. The soldier does not appear heroic. He’s not gazing off at some far horizon, towards some glittering future. Instead, his head is bowed, eyes directed downwards, mourning his fallen comrades. Martin steps back a few paces, captures a couple more shots of the memorial, with the old pub in the background.
He’s putting his phone back in his pocket when a movement catches his eye, up on the wraparound verandah of the Commercial. He focuses, trying to shield his eyes from the sun. Yes. Movement. A flash of colour, someone in a checked shirt, yellow and black, a fleeting impression as the person moves off the verandah and into the building. Someone is in the old pub. Martin chuckles; maybe Snouch has moved in, qualifying for the front bar at last.
Martin crosses the remainder of the intersection and gains the shade under the verandah. The main door on the corner is locked and padlocked. Above the door is the obligatory sign: THE COMMERCIAL HOTEL. AVERY FOSTER. HOTELIER LICENCE NO. 225631. A red CLOSED notice hangs in the window of the door; no doubt there’s a green OPEN sign on its reverse side. Martin walks beside the pub, stopping to press his face to the window, using his hands binocular-style to reduce the glare from the street. He can make out the front bar, with tables and chairs near the window and stools by the bar. There are no bottles behind the bar, but inverted glasses are still arrayed along some shelves. Apart from the missing bottles, it looks as if the place has been shut for the weekend, ready to reopen come Monday. Martin wonders if Avery Foster’s licence is still active or whether it’s been sold off to some suburban beer barn.
It occurs to Martin he’s distracting himself, wasting time, delaying the walk to the police station and the inevitable confrontation with Herb Walker. Nevertheless, he continues. There’s a service lane running along the back of the pub, extending the whole block between Somerset Street and Thames Street, where Herb Walker had parked momentarily the day before. Martin walks down the lane to where the fence ends in a pair of five-bar steel gates, chained shut. The gates prevent vehicle entry to a small gravel car park behind the pub, enough for three or four cars. There’s a low porch devoid of handrail: a delivery platform designed for reversing trucks. There’s a stack of wooden pallets, blue paint faded and peeling. And a car, one rear tyre flat, the other on its way down. He wonders if the closure of the pub might have been a sudden thing, its owner taken ill, leaving his car behind, the hotel left largely untouched.
Martin can see the swing doors to the old cellar, and a wooden stairway leading up to the accommodation on the top floor. He climbs over the waist-high gates, moving as quickly as possible to keep contact with the scalding metal to a minimum. He mounts the concrete stairs onto the delivery platform, finding the door locked. He doesn’t bother trying the cellar doors; the padlock looks resolute enough. He climbs down from the platform and walks over to the stairs and starts ascending, past a sign: STRICTLY HOTEL GUESTS ONLY. The green paint on the handrails has wrinkled and bubbled under the solar assault, and Martin keeps his hands to himself.
At the top there is a short landing and a door, its upper half a window. There’s a hole punched in the bottom left-hand corner of the window near the handle. Martin tries the door. It’s unlocked, opening outwards. Inside, his feet crunch on broken glass as he pauses to allow his eyes to adjust. He’s in a short passage, running into another corridor about five metres in front of him. At a guess, the passage between the door and corridor separates two hotel rooms. The air smells stale and musty. Martin moves to the junction with the other passageway. The main corridor is lined by the doors of the hotel rooms, left open with sunlight spilling through them. To the left the corridor goes only a few metres before ending in a closed door with the word PRIVATE in old-fashioned gold paint. The door boasts three serious-looking locks: private indeed. Martin surmises it’s the owner’s apartment. He walks along, tries the door. It’s locked.