She whirled around and came face to face with a large, middle-aged man with shaggy red hair, holding a paper bag and a can of Coke. Morning tea.
He eyed her suspiciously. ‘You’re not one of those bloody protesters, are you?’
‘Oh, no, sorry, I was just passing and I stopped to have a look.’
He frowned as though he wasn’t buying it.
‘I’m doing a PhD on historic buildings,’ she added.
He shrugged, relaxing slightly. ‘Each to their own, I guess.’
‘How’s the redevelopment going?’ she asked. She might as well see if he’d tell her anything.
He shrugged again. ‘Slowly.’
She looked up at the modern apartments above the original building. They seemed high for an old town like this. She was about to ask if he’d show her around when his phone rang. He tucked the Coke can under his arm and pulled the phone out of his pocket.
‘Yep?’ he said into the phone.
As she stood watching him walk away, her stomach growled.
The Apple Tree Café was on the other side of the main street, halfway down, nestled between Stevenson’s Sweet Shoppe (Established 1911) and an art gallery selling mostly pottery, from what Meg could tell.
A bell jingled overhead as she pushed the door of the café open. Behind the red-tiled counter, a middle-aged woman with dark hair in a messy bun looked up from where she was arranging muffins on a tray.
‘Morning,’ she said, with a welcoming smile. ‘Have a seat anywhere you like.’
It was after breakfast and too early for lunch, so the café was quiet. An elderly couple sat at a table by the wall, sharing a piece of carrot cake. A long communal wooden table with red bentwood chairs ran through the centre of the small room. It was the sort of place that made you want to order pumpkin soup. Meg went to a far corner and sat at a table that would have a good view of the room and the street beyond the glass windows.
‘Can I get you a coffee?’ the waitress asked, handing her a menu.
‘Cappuccino, thanks,’ Meg said, studying the woman’s face. Her skin had the weathered look of someone who’d spent too much time in the sun. A few locks of dark hair fell loose around her face, giving her a harried look.
The bells over the door jingled again as a young mum manoeuvred a bulky pram through the doorway.
‘I’ll give you a minute.’ The waitress went to hold the door open. A preschooler dressed as Elsa entered a few steps behind her mum and handed the waitress a white flower she must have picked along the way.
‘Thank you, sweetheart,’ the waitress said, tucking the flower into the hair tie holding up her bun.
Meg smiled. The waitress looked over, catching her eye and smiling back.
Meg opened her laptop, shifting her attention to the reason she was in Hartwell: the story. It was time to find some leads. She went to theSave HartwellFacebook page and read the list of members, then she clicked on the name of the group admin and typed a message.
Thanks for adding me to the group. I’d like to have a chat about the Hartwell Gaol development. I’m in town for a short time. Please let me know if you’re happy to meet with me.
She hovered her mouse over the send icon, checking she was on her fake account.
‘Sorry about the wait, can I get you something to eat?’ the waitress asked, putting Meg’s coffee on the table.
Meg looked up. ‘I’ll have a cheese and tomato toastie, thanks.’
The waitress gave her a nod and turned away. The café was filling up with the start of the lunch rush. Meg watched as the waitress handed menus to a table of three who had just seated themselves, then she moved to the elderly couple, who had finished their cake. As she picked up their plate, she laughed at something the old man said, deep lines creasing the corners of her eyes. The elderly couple stood to leave and the waitress followed them to the door, then she raised a hand at a passing pedestrian and said something. As she turned back, she looked in Meg’s direction and their eyes met. For a moment it was as though a thread connected them.
Meg looked away quickly, back at the screen in front of her. She sent the message, then took out her notebook and started writing a list of things to do:visit Hartwell Gaol site;council chambers;contact protesters.
‘Here you go.’ The waitress put her toasted sandwich in front of her.
‘Thanks,’ Meg said. Maybe this waitress could help her. ‘I read about the protests at the old jail—’
