For us St. Kilda was like like one of those children's pop up picture books. You know the ones, you turn a page and the enchanted paper forest lifts up, then folds neatly away as you turn the page to reveal the next scene. Our pop up book was called St.Kilda, Architecture, 1850 to 1970, and we were the children.
Jack was a local, the genuine St. Kilda article, a Princess of Princes St. She'd owned the book since she was five and was happy to share hers with me.
We'd walk the streets late at night holding hands. She'd show me all her old favourites, mansions hidden by orange brick apartment blocks, worker's cottages with histories from dock worker to artist to pot dealer's shop front. We'd open dusty old pages she'd nearly forgotten and sometimes discover new treasures for the revised edition we were writing together.
It was like those buildings didn't exist unless we were looking at them.
We'd exchange extravagant gifts of real estate. I'd offer her a grand Victorian mansion, she'd present me with an Art Deco apartment. We'd make foolish plans, balls in the ballrooms, breakfasts in the ingles, cocktail parties in Port Phillip Bay windows. We were the most benevolent of landlords, allowing all to live on our vast estate free of charge from us.
We'd walk the streets late at night, holding hands, the poorest of property tycoons, the silliest of children, then up the stairs to the rented apartment that was really ours, a cup of tea and a cigarette on large cushions on the floor, close the book, a kiss, and so to bed.
For Jacqueline.
Parkstreet
