Boat races.(Short Story)

IN THE LAKES, as Easter approaches, families begin to leave. The fine and careful lawns, one by one, acquire the decoration of a stray leaf, a soggy advertisement. The air cools, and silences of a peculiar sort swell and prosper. Kookaburras still chant loudly each morning at dawn, and rain (it comes infrequently now) rattles the perspex over neat patios and skylights. But our streets gradually empty of cars, school buses deposit fewer high-pitched children at 3:15 in the afternoon, weekends miss the generous roar of lawnmowers and leaf blowers. Then we--and by `we' I mean those of us who choose to take our vacations where we find ourselves--we know that it is almost time for the Boat Races.

Preparations never begin before the last of the movable families have left, though by Good Friday everyone who is going to leave has gone. Then we gather by the Lakes to raise the high platforms from which we will watch the Boat Races. Ours is not wide, but it is quite tall, nearly the height of Mrs Fuentes', and situated in front of hers, a little to the right. From the rafters of garages or behind fences, the struts and scaffolds appear, polished and firm. And …