Maggie hesitated, she was unsure of the “message” from this heavily daubed, near-naked, black man sitting under a humpy, blasting out a dirge to the accompaniment of a rock beat.
For a slice of vaudeville, nothing could beat this walk around the Quay. She managed it frequently in days of yore – sans children. Nowadays, the variety seemed to be more desperate, ranging as it did from Andean pipes, through fire swallowers, to glorious Spanish flamenco, not forgetting the living statue brigade. However, this didge player had THE prime location and more than his share of the shuffling crowd. He and his spruiker commanded the airwaves.
“It’s okay, Jase, it’s only a didgeridoo.”
Maggie knelt on the baking concrete and wiped the dribble from Poppy’s chin. The mesmerised child shook her head, pushing the hand away with a grunt. Maggie understood Poppy’s body language by now.
This may take a while.