In the morning, the noise of the trucks from the distant freeway has stopped. There is just the sound of the wind blowing on the gate outside my window and, every now and then, a bird tweeting.
I wheel my bike onto the street. There are only five reasons to leave home. Shopping for food is one of them. Exercise is another.
The spokes on the bicycle click as I roll past the primary school. There are colourful pictures tacked in the windows of the portables. A basketball lies abandoned on the court. A scarecrow watches over the school’s vegetable garden. It’s made from an old jumper and a straw hat on a stick. A flock of crows squawk around it.
I turn onto the main street. A young woman is selling coffee. She has dragged a table across the doorway and stands behind it. There’s a hand written sign in the window. ‘Keep your distance.’
Hadfield is home to a Woolworths and the cemetery. On Google it says, “The suburb is basically a cemetery with suburbia around it. Nothing to see or do in Hadfield.”
I hurried past the cemetery last night. It was raining. There was a road-sign at the entrance flashing in yellow: “Stay Home – Funerals Excepted.” The script for 2020 feels bleak and arbitrary. Ten people are allowed at funerals. Five at weddings. More for death than life.
I chain my bike up then pass through the automatic doors at Woolworths. There’s a click as I put my hands under the sanitiser machine and foam soap oozes out. Should I pick up a basket? Who knows?
I pass people wearing face masks. They look down. The pasta has sold out. The toilet paper too. I take two tins of beans. It’s all we’re allowed. “Just stop it. Stop the hoarding,” the Prime Minister had said. “It’s un-Australian.” I guess it sounds reasonable if you haven’t grown up with scarcity. The people of Hadfield must be listening to their stomachs.
As I load groceries onto the counter a man shouts on the other side of the cash registers. The checkout worker turns to watch. He has a green supermarket bag full of food over his shoulder. He’s wearing a red hoodie and sneakers. He is wiry and seems to move on the spot. He’s getting ready to run.
The guard is wearing a black tie and a brand new ‘Wilson’ Security vest. Her hair is in a ponytail and she’s wearing lipstick. She smiles. “Please, let me see the bag sir,” she says but doesn’t step towards him. “I’ll call the police.” “Fuck off,” he shouts and charges out the door. The guard looks back at us, her shoulders down.
The check-out worker sighs. She puts her head down and picks up a tin. ‘Beep.’
The woman behind me is pushing a trolley full of frozen food. She tosses a packet of peas on the counter, her eyes wide. “Does anyone else feel like they’re in a movie about the end of the world?” she asks. Our eyes connect. “Yes.”
Outside, the autumn sun is shining. I stand on the bike pedals and feel the wind on my face. I roll over bumps in the road and pass through intersections without cars. I leave Hadfield behind. The only people on the streets are students riding delivery bikes. They wait on corners wearing face masks and looking at their phones.
Parrots screech overhead. A tram rumbles down Royal Parade and raises dust. There is no-one crammed in the doorways or pulling on the cord for the stop.
The Elm Trees are letting go of their yellow leaves. The wind scatters them down the road. I close my eyes for a second. The world seems full of colour.
