管理员
![](data/attachment/common/c4/common_1_usergroup_icon.gif)
性别保密
在线时间 小时
最后登录1970-1-1
|
The Saltimbanques by Terry Dowling FOR DANNY TRUSWELL, HIS WORLD CHANGED FOREVER that day in 1962 exactly one week before he turned fourteen, a hot dusty day in Reardon, one of those blistering Australian summer days just after Christmas when the air shimmers into haze in every direction and the trees hang and it seems no-one is out on the streets. He followed his usual summer holiday routine, got his chores done early, then planned ways to lie low till about 4 pm when the sun was far enough down the sky for life to ease back towards normal. ‘Normal’ was hardly the right term with Danny’s Dad taking a rig across the top of Australia and not due back for six days, and his Mum away in Dubbo visiting a sick sister. Danny was having his meals with Kenny’s folks and sleeping over. ‘Lying low’ was hardly the right term either, for Danny and Kenny (and sometimes Annie), like most other kids, rarely managed to do the sensible thing. It was summer holidays, after all. And Danny liked to think they had something of an advantage over the others. They had the chart. When you saw Reardon from the air with its dozen streets and eighty or so houses (population 434), its two pubs, two churches, community hall, school and library, the co-op up by the railhead near the railway station, the sheds and silos
|
本帖子中包含更多资源
您需要 登录 才可以下载或查看,没有帐号?立即注册
x
|