Majorca Flats -- 270

“Mrs Ellesmere, we're nearly there. Jace, I'll stop the car just outside the house and you can get out and help your nan to the door while I find parking.”

Lucasta Ellesmere woke up with a start. The car was turning into a street lined with 19^th century terrace houses, fronted with plane trees, their leaves just starting to turn for autumn. The names on the terraces showed the English or at least British origin of their builders and owners. “Surry Court” presumably after the collector earl who spelled his name like that such a bore always being beheaded and attainted though they eventually got their title back didn't they not that it helped those who'd been beheaded poor things what if the blade wasn't sharp enough or the axeman inept? “Devon Place” such a charming county and so much milder climate that the north though she was quite partial to a good winter storm provided the fires were kept up she didn't think she could live in Malaysia with that continuous heat though Lucy seemed happy enough but then you can get used to practically anything.

And then, giving her a start, “Ellesmere Terrace” with three houses in the terrace, each named after a woman, “Emily”, “Betty” and “Mildred” she supposed the builder's or the owner's daughters how charming he must have adored them but that name “Ellesmere” almost as if it were meant though perhaps he was from the Lake District so beautiful she must take Parker there when she got back to England. But the significance of the name bounced around her head and made her feel oddly happy. It was right that Jason might find himself here, in this street, in this outflung post of Empire.

[Author's note and apology.  Alert readers will at once detect that Lucasta Wellbury has morphed into Lucasta Ellesmere.  The pressing reason was that Wellbury, the surname Jason is using, is his mother's maiden name.  But Lucasta is his paternal grandmother.  So that can't be her name.  The other reason is one I prefer to keep quiet about for now.]

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Episodes 1 to 220 (without pictures, 10 episodes per chapter)

Majorca Flats -- 07

The street obviously dated from the late nineteenth century, when a quarter of the globe was imperial red and Victoria had been on the throne so long a world without her seemed impossible. The names on the buildings were drawn from the old country: Lansdowne Terrace, Devon Court, Surrey Court, Edinburgh Mansions. Some were very grand, with façades of stone, though you could see that the sides facing the alleyways were plain brick and mortar. In between these charming monuments to empire were a few ghastly modern structures, so vile Jason wondered how the town planning authorities had permitted their construction. He didn't yet know that Ozzies have been prey to every overseas fashion, no matter how unsuitable or unattractive, because they secretly believed they were provincial and uninteresting. He didn't yet know that Australia lacked the self-confidence of America.

A bar was just opening up. It was called The Lord Grey. Outside there was a picture of that good nobleman, who invented the tea. Jason went inside to see if there was work.

[Here's where I got the picture from.  Note the tree ferns in the garden, and the Elm tree on the pavement!]

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Majorca Flats -- 01

This is a story about the people who live in an Edwardian (or Federation, as it's called in Oz) terrace in Melbourne.  I'll be posting 100-200 words a day.  Bit like a cartoon strip or a soap opera.   Or Tales of the City (Armistead Maupin's wonderful series set in San Francisco).  Tales of my city, Melbourne.

His back-pack was hurting his shoulders. It had too much in it. But he had wanted to escape and still take as much as he could with him. He had been travelling for nearly thirty hours. He had been walking out of the city for an hour, now, looking for somewhere anonymous to stay. His feet hurt. He stank. He hadn’t known which direction he was walking in – any one would do. He didn’t know which suburb he was in. All he knew was that most of the houses he could see had obviously been built before the First World War. On the central gable of the five houses making up the terrace he was walking past, moulded in plaster, was the name “Majorca Flats”. There was a small placard in the window of the fourth house – Room to Let. The lettering was in red, which had faded in the sunlight. It was just what he wanted. Probably there was something wrong with the room – or the writing on the placard wouldn’t have faded so.

But they would never find him here. He went up to the door and pressed the bell.

Majorca Flats 02