which gave a lie to the idea of it being some separatist movement.
We need a shop, or some kind of cafe,' Heather said, driving slowly. We need people.'
'There's one,' Nigel murmured. A woman was out the front of her house washing her doorstep. She stopped as their car passed, watching them. Nigel checked the rearview mirror as they pulled away. The woman continued to look. He guessed the road into town, pockmarked and battered, was barely used and rarely repaired. He checked Heather's face and saw the first signs of apprehension.
The town itself was neat and well ordered, organized into an almost perfect grid. Nigel had half-expected it to be clapboard shacks with tin roofs, barefoot inbred urchins playing in open sewers, while wild prairie dogs roamed seeking scraps for food. Instead, although his experience of smalltown America was strictly limited, Liberty did not seem that different from Llewellyn, only reduced in scale.
Heather drove towards the centre of the grid, through identical white streets and past identikit white houses that made reference points difficult. Eventually she turned into a small square, overlooked by a larger building that Nigel guessed to be either some kind of town hall or civic building, a small fountain in the middle. The centrepiece was a tall dazzling temple, which towered over the square. On its roof a cherub blew into a trumpet. Like all the other buildings it was white, but it seemed to gleam.
There was a small parking bay filled by a few other vehicles and Heather pulled slowly in beside them. Nigel checked his watch -- 9 a.m. He looked around. There must have been some form of recent celebration. Small white flags lined one side of the square; a small marquee and a few stalls lined the other.
Nigel did not notice Heather switch a silver band from her right ring finger to her left. She scanned the square: no more than a dozen buildings. Nigel was forced to squint, as the bright winter sun glanced off the pure- white buildings to create a dazzling glare. He now understood what Pettibone had meant when he advised them enigmatically to take their sunglasses. He did not have a pair.
Heather did, and put them on before sniffing the air. 'I can smell bread,' she said. Sure enough, in one corner of the square there appeared to be a bakery. As they walked over, Heather's boot heels clip-clopping loudly, Nigel felt as if he was being watched by eyes from every window overlooking the square. He looked up but the glare hurt his eyes. They saw no one. It was like the bright morning after Armageddon.
A painted sign above the door said 'Liberty Bakers', and the smell was enticing. Loaves were stacked in the window.
A woman and a man were behind the counter in white hats. The store itself was empty. Flour hung in the air.
Heather walked in, bold as brass, Nigel in her slipstream, happy to give his aching corneas a rest from the fierce, reflecting light.
'Good morning.'
The man's face didn't change from its stony setting; the woman, however, smiled a rictus grin. 'Good morning,'
she said. There was a period of awkward silence. 'Can I help?' the woman finally asked, grin still fixed.
We're lost,' Heather said. We're hoping you could help.' SYou don't sound like you're local,' the woman said, still smiling, her eyes unblinking and wide.
'No, we're on a bit of a road trip and we needed to make a stop.'
The man dead-panned. 'Isn't much to see round here.'
'On our way to Oregon. Pinot Noir country.'
The woman kept smiling. 'I love your accent.'
'Thanks. English. My husband here is a wine connoisseur.'
Nigel
nodded eagerly, wondering inside, 'What?'
Well, you won't find any of that here,' the woman said, a hint of disapproval in her voice. We're a dry town.'
Heather held up her hand. 'That can wait for Oregon.
We're just after a place to wash and rest for a day before heading on. Made the mistake of driving through the night, miscalculating how far we had to go and everything.'
'A major miscalculation,' the man said, not even turning to look. 'The Oregon road is eighty kilometres north.
You're way off track.'
Heather turned to Nigel. 'See, I told you we'd taken a wrong turn,' she said, rather too theatrically he thought.
She shook her head. 'Is there anywhere in town we can stay, maybe get some help with directions? Lord knows we need them.'
The woman's smile never wavered as she gently shook her head. 'I'm afraid not. We have very few facilities for visitors here. But there's a motel nine or ten kilometres on the way out of town, back towards the Interstate.'
Nigel had seen it on the way in. Small and downtrodden.
Not quite Bates Motel material, but not too appealing.
'OK,' Heather said. 'Is there a cafe of some kind? We're starving.'
The woman just stared and smiled. The man said nothing. 'There's a diner,' she said eventually. 'Just follow the road to the left and you can't miss it, just off the square.
I recommend the omelette.'
'Thank you,' Heather said. 'I'll take you up on that recommendation. And when we're done, we'll pop back and buy some of the bread. It smells terrific'
The woman nodded, the painted-on smile even wider.
'Have a nice day.'
They left, blinking in the whiteness. Both Nigel and Heather shared the feeling the town wires would soon be humming with the news that lost, alcoholic English tourists had landed. They followed the directions to a simple diner called 'Orson's'. Inside there were a few beaten leather chairs and banquettes, and -- a rare sight -- ordinary people. They entered and made straight for a table by the window to one side, watched by those eating breakfast, the air heavy with the smell of fried food. A waitress came over and tossed two menus on the table, the dishes typed out crudely and protected from stains by clear plastic. Nigel glanced around. They were still being watched.
'Can I get a mushroom omelette and some orange juice?'
Heather asked immediately.
Nigel was momentarily startled, not just by Heather's adroit adaptation of the American vernacular. He'd not even had a chance to look at the options. 'The same,' he said, handing back his menu.
The waitress turned away without a word. Nigel continued to look. The regulars' attention returned to the contents of their plates, bar a few who continued to stare.
A young, pretty blonde came over with a coffee percolator jug. Her hair was tied back to reveal a proud, handsome face spoilt only by a toothy smile. The jug's contents weren't coffee. For a start, it was green.
'Herbal tea?' she said haltingly.
Yes, please,' Heather replied eagerly, pushing her cup forward.
The young woman was about to pour but stopped. She looked at Heather in a state of shock.
'Yes, we're not from round here,' Heather added by way of explanation. We're English.'
The girl continued to stare. Eventually, she poured, hand visibly shaking. Then without saying anything, or offering Nigel any of the tea, she turned on her heels and returned swiftly to the counter.
'Now I know what it might be like to be a little green man from Mars,' Heather said, taking a sip of the tea and wincing. 'Hmm. Not sure about that.'
Nigel watched the girl disappear into the kitchen. She didn't come back. Instead the older waitress who took their order came over a few minutes later with their food. She set it down. It looked and smelled good but he didn't have much of an appetite. He made a polite effort and realized he was hungrier than he thought and the food was good.
Watching them eat seemed to loosen up the waitress. She came over when they'd finished.
'You people were hungry,' she said softly, smiling at last.
