Winter had always been his favourite time of the year. There was something magical about the changing of the seasons from the warm and balmy months of summer to the cooler months with their crisp temperatures. Bailey loved everything about the winter months—rugging up in warm woollen jumpers, lazy mornings spent snuggled up in bed, or afternoons reading by the fire. It never got anywhere near cold enough for snow, but he didn’t need much of an excuse to put a match to the logs, or when he’d moved into the studio apartment, turn on the gas so he could watch the flames flickering. He hated the new-build houses that seemed all the rage with their ducted air conditioning and lack of cosy heating.
Bailey liked spending his weekends doing nothing more strenuous than taking a brisk walk before returning home to indulge in a movie or escape into a book. During summer he felt guilty about indulging in his passions, feeling like he should be outside enjoying the sunshine and fresh air. When it was cold and blustery, he didn’t need to make excuses to stay inside his apartment; he could read to his heart’s content guilt-free.
He knew the guilt was a hangover from his childhood. He thought back to all the weekends when his old man would drag him from the warmth of his bed early in the mornings. The sun would barely be over the horizon when his dad would be pounding at the door and bellowing at his son. Bailey could still hear the words echoing in his head. “Up and at ’em, boy. Get your lazy arse out of bed.” Or “Most boys your age are out playing. Why don’t you go hang out down the street with the Howell boys?” Bailey cringed at the remembered thought of the vicious teenagers he’d been glad to escape. Plus there had been his dad’s constant plea for Bailey to sign up to play sports. He didn’t give a fuck what sort of sport Bailey played—soccer, cricket, hell, even skateboarding—but Maurice McCreedy had no time for a son who didn’t participate in the usual Aussie weekend pastimes. Thank Christ, his brother Stuart had shared their father’s love of sports. All three of them would sit in the living room watching the rugby league, his dad and Stuart side by side on the lounge, cheering for the Dragons. Or they watched the cricket during summer. They hardly paid any attention to Bailey, huddled into the corner of the armchair, pretending to watch the match while reading the latest book he’d brought back from the school library and hidden in the pages of Stu’sMen’s Healthfitness magazine.
Bailey shook his head to clear the memories.
It didn’t do any good to think about how things had been—he was better off focusing on the present, or better still the future. He swallowed back the melancholy and focused instead on the view of the garden. From his warm position inside the small flat, he looked out the window at the blazing display of ambers, reds, and browns, watching the gentle fall of leaves onto the lawn, thinking that the real bite of winter wasn’t far away. It really was a beautiful sight, as the colours of the trees provided a continuously changing picture, but soon the branches would be bare, their outlines stark against the sky.
Pulling his attention back to the task at hand, Bailey bent and picked up another box, placing it on the chair beside him. Inside were books of all descriptions and his task was to sort them into piles that reflected their genre. He started adding the new books to the existing piles that sat on the battered dining table—mainly thrillers, mystery, romance, but there were some self-help, a few biographies, and a small pile of non-fiction. The thrillers were the most popular, but there were a couple of kids who were happy to look at the more obscure topics, so he didn’t like to make too many assumptions about what they would or wouldn’t like.
Once all the cartons were empty of their contents and the sorting complete, he reused the same boxes to hold his haphazardly catalogued books, taking a black marker to label each box on the outside with large block letters. He stacked the five boxes against the wall, deciding to take them down to the van later—the boxes filled with books were heavy, surprisingly so, and his back was aching from the lifting he’d already done. Besides, he thought he deserved a break and was looking forward to the treat he’d discovered in the bottom of one of the boxes. An hour or so spent lying on the couch reading a recent Matthew Reilly novel sounded like heaven.
It was rare to find recent releases in the collection of donated paperbacks. The books came from a variety of sources: people Bailey had put the word out to and people who had found out about his endeavour by word of mouth and were willing to give up a couple of books to a worthwhile cause. He door-knocked at libraries and charity shops, asking for any old or spare books. He’d also created a donation drop-off point in the break room at work, and a few of his friends also gathered books on his behalf. He didn’t need a huge volume to come in each week, because surprisingly, the good majority of the novels were returned to be exchanged once they were finished. Bailey smiled as he thought of the customers visiting his “library.”
Bailey had been operating his small mobile book service for nearly a year now. A couple of nights a week, when he wasn’t rostered on to work, he loaded the van with boxes of paperbacks and visited the areas in the city where homeless and disadvantaged kids hung out. He usually parked in a couple of locations, staying for an hour or so at each, giving the kids time to search through the boxes to find the perfect story. Most of them were regulars, young people he’d come to know over the months, with a few new kids coming along each week, and some who only appeared once, never to be seen again. He didn’t really know if the kids were truly homeless or if they lived in homes with their families and just wanted out for a couple of hours. Or maybe they just couldn’t afford books. But whatever the reason, he loved to see the joy his books brought, and the camaraderie as the kids chatted amongst themselves over the boxes. The books seemed to be an icebreaker, the young adults and teenagers giving each other recommendations and discussing the books they’d read.
He wandered to the kitchen area of the small flat and debated between making a cup of coffee or a cup of tea. Five minutes later he was settled on the couch with his mug of English Breakfast and the cherished paperback. It didn’t take long for the story to lure him in and the tea to grow cold on the coffee table as Bailey turned the pages of his book.
* * *
Sydney was a city of contrasts—so beautiful in some places, but dark and ugly in others. During the day, the inner city was buzzing with people going about their daily business—office workers, students, shoppers—crowds of people filling the footpaths and cars congesting the roads. At night, it was like a different place. Some streets were well-lit and the neon lights of restaurants and bars illuminated the people making their way to or from their evening entertainment. But other areas had an almost abandoned feel, with nothing to draw the night-time crowd. The road Bailey was parked on was one such fairly deserted street, quiet and slightly eerie.
Bailey stepped from the van, the slam of the door echoing loudly. The night was bitterly cold. Bailey pulled up the collar of his jacket and wished he'd brought his woollen scarf as a barrier to the wind that was sneaking under his layers of clothing. He shivered as a particularly strong blast whipped past, rustling the leaves and garbage that lined the gutters, and swirled around his feet. The inner city streets acted as wind tunnels, funnelling the easterlies from the ocean between the tall buildings. Nights like these really brought home how tough the people living on the streets had it, reminding Bailey why he did what he did.
Bailey looked around and his despondent mood lightened as he spotted the group cutting across the small inner city park and heading his way.
"Hey," he greeted when they were close enough.
"Hi, Bailey," Cassie said. A large smile lit up her face as she high-fived him. "What's up?"
“The usual. I’ve come to spend some time with my favourite people.” Bailey grinned, genuinely pleased to see Cassie and her friends. “Hey, Jude,” he greeted the gangly youth standing at Cassie’s side. Jude grunted in response, but Bailey hadn’t expected anything more.
“This is Emma,” Cassie said, indicating the slightly older girl who’d accompanied them. Emma looked maybe twenty to Cassie’s seventeen. Her gaze darted around before she nervously raised her eyes to look at Bailey.
“Hi, Emma,” Bailey said, giving the girl a warm smile. She gave him a barely perceptible nod and started to worry at a fingernail.
“So have you got anything good?” Cassie asked, bouncing on her feet, her demeanour in direct contrast to the quiet nature of her friend. Cassie was always excited to see Bailey—or more accurately, always excited to see Bailey’s books. She pulled a paperback from inside her coat and waved it in his direction. “Ilovedthis one. The mystery was brilliant. You were right, I could hardly put it down. Have you got any more like it?” She didn’t wait for Bailey to answer before heading to the back of the van.
“Hold your horses,” Bailey chuckled, hot on her heels to unlock the doors.
Within seconds Cassie was rummaging in the overflowing boxes, pulling out books and flipping them over the read the blurb on the back. The interior light from the vehicle wasn’t strong, so she had to peer closely to make sense of the words. Bailey retrieved a torch from inside the back of van, turned it on, and passed it to Cassie. The torch would provide much better light for reading. Once Cassie was organised, he turned back to the others.
Jude was standing on the footpath, watching Cassie exclaim over each find. Jude was six feet tall and as skinny as a beanpole. Bailey had no idea if Jude was naturally built to have a lean physique, but had a suspicion that lack of food contributed to the lankiness. He just hoped he was only underweight and not too malnourished. Bailey wasn’t sure of his age, but assumed Jude was a little older than Cassie, although not by much. What he did know was that Jude had taken on the role of Cassie’s protector. The young man kept an eye on Cassie at all times and was never far from her side. Jude wasn’t into reading but had been known to accept the odd magazine if he found something that took his fancy.
“Here.” Bailey leaned into the van and wrestled a plastic bag from its depths. Inside the Target bag was an assortment of magazines—Men’s Health, some gossip rags, and a few oldNational Geographics. Jude gave a half-smile as he took the plastic bag and proceeded to look through its contents.
Bailey turned his attention to the young woman he hadn’t seen before.
“Emma, wasn’t it?”
Her gaze flicked to his and she nodded again before looking to Cassie at the back of the van and resuming chewing on her nail. Bailey wasn’t sure if Emma was just shy, or maybe she was nervous. Not that being nervous was a bad thing. It didn’t pay to be too trusting of strangers, not when you were out on your own on the streets where it could be dangerous to talk to the wrong people.
“Did you want to take a look at the books, maybe find something to read?” he offered, hoping to draw her out a little.
“Yeah,” Cassie turned around and gave her new friend a reassuring smile, “there are heaps of good ones in here this week.” She held out a paperback. “Take a look at this. It’s a Tom Clancy.”
Emma didn’t make a move to reach for the book. She shoved her hands in her pockets. “Nah. No thanks.”
