Mike Dixon

There was a bandstand and it looked familiar. Visions of
women in long dresses and children in sailor suits flooded
back. Humphrey examined the elegant roof and cast-iron pil-
lars and felt certain he could make a positive identification.
There seemed little doubt that the bandstand featured in the
sepia prints of Tong Yee and his family, dressed in their Sunday
best, posing for photographs as a military band played in
regimental uniforms.
It was all rather exciting. In the space of two days, he‟d
met the last of the Curtin Girls and spoken to some old fellows
who had frequented the Island View when Doris and
Rosie were running a profitable business there. Now, he was
standing on the very spot where Tong Yee‟s photographs had
been taken all those many years ago. He looked round to see
if there was anything else he could recognize from the past.
A statue caught his eye and he wondered why he‟d not
seen it before. It was in appallingly bad taste. A veritable
monstrosity with as much charm as a garden gnome on a
bollard. He moved closer and decided that it looked more like
a badly dressed Santa Claus.
Suddenly, the statue spoke.
„Hullo, little boy!‟
He guessed it was some sort of animated voice, activated
by his movement. Why it was still operating, so long after
Christmas, was a bit of a mystery.
„What do you want from Santa, little boy?‟
The lips moved in a very lifelike manner.
A full-sized Father Christmas, with white beard and red
coat, looked down at him. The coat fluttered in the breeze
but the rest of the figure was motionless.
„Ho! Ho!‟
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