The old Rigley Building is prime real estate, as grand as it gets in this town. A run of seven Victorian terraces, it sits just up the hill from the park, so even now there is passing foot traffic, admiring as always, at least until the signs come into focus – the feathers pinned to front doors, as is the new custom. Three on Number-7, one next door on ‘9’. A gap then four, then one again.
Leonora hustles little Orla across to the other side of Garden St. Her promise, that they’ll come back to look at the beautiful blue bear in the window of Number-11 later, rings hollow to her even as she says it. She hates this fucking lockdown.