The hinges of the swing door creaked and thumped now and she came out balancing the toast-rack on the edge of the plate, the cup and saucer in the other hand.

There you go, love, she said, and whipped out the local paper from under her arm and spread it open next to the plate.

Seen this?

BENT BRIDGE TO GO, the headline blared, and there was a full-colour picture of the bridge, and next to it the sketch they had done at Head Office, to show what the new bridge would look like. Here in the paper it was called an artist’s impression, but it had only been Bob Partridge up on the third floor. Under the photo of the old bridge was a subheading : Danger to Public, Says Engineer.

He heard himself blurt No! It was like a shout in the quiet room. He wanted to turn the paper face down but the woman was looking over his shoulder.

Should have gone years ago, she said. See, the Main Roads pays for the bridge, but the Shire cops the maintenance.

He nodded. He knew that, about the Shire being responsible for the maintenance, but it seemed polite to make a little hm? and nod.

At least there was no photo of him.

They’ve been a terrible nuisance, the greenies, she said. Troublemakers, the lot of them.

He got to work on the Set Breakfast, bolting down the eggs, slicing hard across the bacon, slurping at the tea. The toast was embarrassing, the way it exploded into crumbs when you tried to butter it, and the watery grilled half-tomato kept sliding off his fork.

Yes, he said, for something to say, but was sorry then, because it sounded as though he agreed with her.

He did agree, they were troublemakers. But it was not as simple as all that. Sometimes, trouble needed to be made.

He had often found there was a grey area between agreeing and disagreeing, as in this case.

The swinging doors thumped again and the publican came out with a tray of glasses that he put down on a table with a clash, and came over to stand beside the woman.

Greenies not giving you any bother?

Um, he said, and swallowed a mouthful of bacon.

About the bridge, the publican said loudly, as if Douglas was deaf. They giving you any bother at all?

Glad to see the back of it, the woman said.

Danger to life and limb, the publican said.

The school bus and that, the kiddies, the woman said.

Standing in the way of progress, the publican said, and like a snake striking, Eh?

Now they were both watching Douglas. His mouth tried out various words. There was yes. That was not quite right. There was no. That was not quite right, either.

There were times when life seemed to be one big grey area.

The woman finally took pity on him.

You’d agree with that, she said kindly. Being a professional.

She turned to the publican.

He’d agree with that.

Douglas got the last mouthful of toast and egg down and slid the knife and fork together. The woman reached in straight away and took the plate.

That’s right, she said, as if he had spoken. We’re right behind you, love. One hundred per cent.

It seemed to take a long time to get himself out of the Dining Room and away from the two faces watching him. He felt them looking at the enormous size of his ears, their blazing heat, their flapping and blushing stupidity. The back of his neck felt exposed, blushing like his ears as he progressed in a zigzag way through the thicket of tables and chairs.

Something about being watched was making his bottom move in a strange way, and thinking about it was making it worse.

Out on the street the air was ruthlessly clear and he seemed to be the centre of Karakarook’s attention. Two women glanced at him as he crossed the road. A man in overalls stopped opening his car door to have a good look. A truck passed and someone stared at him out the window.

He did not think he was imagining it. Undistinguished invisible Douglas Cheeseman was suddenly conspicuous in the hard glare of Parnassus Road. Danger to Public, Says Engineer.

It was fame, of a kind. But like that other kind of fame he was reluctantly familiar with, it was unwanted.