by RICHARD CLARKE
The bell clangs. Take your time…
turn right out of the school gates
stroll over the railway line
turn right again into bustling Amy Street
saunter past the station and the Lilliputian library
pass the pub and its potent odour of beer and smokes
ignore the newsagent with its Suns and Mirrors
amble across Edwin Street
and now you’re here…
Nola Neville’s cake shop.
Oh, the treasures inside…
vanilla slices glistening with gold
sausage rolls of stupendous size
meat pies, mince pies, apple pies
custard tarts and finger buns to feed a footy side
cream buns oozing riches
fruit scones ripe with raisins
Neenish tarts evenly attired in pink and brown…
And most appealing of all,
apple cheeked Nola Neville,
the baker’s delight-
ful daughter,
hazel eyed, honey skinned,
smiling shyly.
She was never to be my just desserts.
The cakes have been consumed.
The scones scoffed, the vanilla slices devoured.
The oven is cold.
Her cake shop is long gone and Nola Neville is now just
crumbs on the crust of memory.