She worked steadily and quickly, and by two o’clock had completed the final two patterns. She took a tram to the city and dropped the finished work in to the office. She then decided to take the rest of the day off — an Australian long weekend or, given it was Monday, a case of Mondayitis. She set off through the small streets and bluestone lanes that crisscrossed the city centre. With their tiny cafés and shops, the walls splattered with graffiti, and the smoke-stained bricks — some still punctured with iron rings for tethering horses, with their metal delivery chutes tunnelling down from the pavements, and wafts of delicious food mixed with the stench of rubbish bins and stale urine, these lanes revealed a life stretching way back to when the city was first established. ‘Marvellous Melbourne’, according to the histories she had read.

It was still marvellous to her. These narrow streets and lanes with their jostling life reaching back through the centuries were, she was thinking, a collage of history and memory. And an image came to mind, a picture showing cars and trams and modern pedestrians hovering over a past of horses and coaches and people in period dress. Perhaps there was an illustration to be done, or a series of illustrations. Or perhaps, and the thought was immediately enticing, there might be a book here, a book about this city so different from Leningrad. The stories a city can tell. When Melbourne meets Leningrad, what each might disclose to the other about their landmarks, their housing, their food, their celebrations. What, for example, might Leningrad’s waterways and the Gulf of Finland have to say to Melbourne’s brown Yarra and Port Phillip Bay? And what about the different music and street life, the different weather, the different vehicles, the sports and clothing? It would be a project to bring her past and present together, a picture book: When Melbourne Meets Leningrad.

The following Friday was pleasantly warm. Leonard Morrow’s business was located in a light-industrial area about three kilometres from the saddlery, and with just a small folio to carry, Galina decided to walk. She felt vastly different from the caged squirrel of a few days back. She had already sent off samples of her work to two different publishers, she’d compiled a list of features comparing Leningrad to Melbourne, she had even completed some sketches for the project. She arrived at Leonard’s factory feeling refreshed and relaxed, but well aware of her priorities. This job, if Leonard decided to give it to her, would be a one-off.