Mike Dixon

„My name‟s Humph Hansen. There‟s a room reserved for
me.‟
A solitary face turned in his direction.
„Dunno about that. Yer better go upstairs and ask Clary.‟
Humphrey picked up his suitcase and made for the stair-
way. There was a corridor at the top and a room with an
open door. He peered inside. The bedspread and carpet were
none too clean but that did nothing to dampen his enthusiasm.
The room was as pictured in the photographs. Same
windows and same molded architrave.
He went inside and looked around.
The wallpaper was ancient and falling apart. The top layer
was covered in parrots and the one below had flowers. He
tugged at it and another layer came into view. It was like an
archaeological dig – peeling back the past. He reached the
fourth layer and Sydney Harbor Bridge emerged. His pulse
raced. The wallpaper was the same as in the wartime photo-
graphs of underage Doris and her middle-aged customers.
He gave another tug and heard a voice.
„What d‟yer think yer doing?‟
Humphrey turned and found a shriveled little man staring
at him. He wore a dirty apron and held a broom.
„My name‟s Humph Hansen. Bill Maxwell phoned about
me.‟
„I didn‟t ask for yer name. I asked what yer was doing.‟
„I enquired downstairs and they said I‟d find my room up
here. I hope I‟ve not inconvenienced you in any way.‟
„Yer‟ve just damaged that wall. That‟ll cost heaps ...‟
Humphrey took a ten-dollar note from his wallet and
thrust it into Clary‟s hand. The little man pocketed the mon-
ey and was about to leave when Humphrey produced a photograph
of Doris and her co-worker – censored to obscure
the full nature of what they were doing.
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