knew when everyone else heard the call of nature. It gurgled, gave a final spasm that jangled the chain, then died away. Lisa, as composed as if she had come from the powder room at the Savoy in London, said goodnight to Mr. and Mrs. Malone.
“That was the best dinner I’ve had since I left Holland,” she said.
“Just what we always have,” said Brigid Malone, not taken in by diplomacy.
2
“They didn’t like me,” Lisa said as she and Malone drove away in the Holden. When he had come out he had seen the finger-scrawled message in the dust on the boot: Get stuffed, copper. He hadn’t said anything, but had helped Lisa into the car, bade a quick goodnight to his mother and father and driven away before some public-spirited citizen yelled a vocal postscript to the message. He had to educate Lisa gradually into what it was going to be like to be a copper’s wife.
He drove down Erskineville Road, a childhood trail, threading his way through the cars pulling away from the corner pub at closing time. He hoped there were no mugs out tonight to thumb their noses at the breathalyser test; he had too much on his mind to get caught up with a drunken driver. He swerved to avoid a car pulling out sharply from the curb and was thanked with a yell of abuse for his caution.
“Mum’s a little bit, well, conservative.” Then he made a confession that was also an excuse: “Actually, I’ve never known her to take to anyone first time up.”
Lisa put her hand on his knee. “Darling, I know it’s not going to be easy. But I’m marrying you, not your parents.”
“How d’you reckon your parents will go for me? Do they hate coppers, too?” Her parents lived in Melbourne and he had met them only once, when he had gone down to Melbourne on holiday a year ago and introduced himself to them. At that time they had not seen him as a possible fiance for their daughter, and they had been politely friendly but that was all. Hans Pretorious was the Australian general manager for a big Dutch textiles company, and though he and Mrs. Pretorious had been in Australia almost ten years they had given Malone the impression that eventually they would re-
tire back to Holland. They had written him a polite note when he and Lisa had become engaged and told him how much they were looking forward to seeing him again when he and Lisa went down to Melbourne for Christmas.
“That worries me, you know/’ he said. “You marrying a cop. Do you know what you’re letting yourself in for?”
“I know that isn’t going to be easy, either. I’ve had a long time to think about it. I was thinking about marrying you long before you asked me. But someone has to marry policemen.” She smiled and leaned across to kiss him on the ear.
“That takes a load off my mind,” he said with gentle sarcasm. “You’re marrying me as a public duty.”
“That’s right. So we can have lots of little policemen and keep up the supply.” She moved her hand further up his leg, squeezing it.
“Don’t do that, or you’ll have me running us up a pole.” He cast a quick glance at her and smiled, and she smiled back. She wore a moderate mini-skirt that, though several inches longer than the fashionable mini’s, had raised Brigid Malone’s eyebrows a corresponding distance. The knees, to Brigid, were what ankles had been to her mother: no decent girl exposed them. As for the thighs that one saw walking the streets of Sydney these days, she kept her eyes averted and prayed that Sodom and Gomorrah would not burn down before she got back home to Erskineville. Lisa’s skirt had now crept up as she sat back in the car seat and Malone was seeing enough thigh to make him wish that Sodom and Gomorrah, Lisa’s flat, was only at the end of the street instead of another ten minutes’ drive.
He looked back at the road, drove for a while in silence, then said, “Is that the first time you’ve been to an outside toilet?”
“Yes. Do you want me to say I liked
“That was the best dinner I’ve had since I left Holland,” she said.
“Just what we always have,” said Brigid Malone, not taken in by diplomacy.
2
“They didn’t like me,” Lisa said as she and Malone drove away in the Holden. When he had come out he had seen the finger-scrawled message in the dust on the boot: Get stuffed, copper. He hadn’t said anything, but had helped Lisa into the car, bade a quick goodnight to his mother and father and driven away before some public-spirited citizen yelled a vocal postscript to the message. He had to educate Lisa gradually into what it was going to be like to be a copper’s wife.
He drove down Erskineville Road, a childhood trail, threading his way through the cars pulling away from the corner pub at closing time. He hoped there were no mugs out tonight to thumb their noses at the breathalyser test; he had too much on his mind to get caught up with a drunken driver. He swerved to avoid a car pulling out sharply from the curb and was thanked with a yell of abuse for his caution.
“Mum’s a little bit, well, conservative.” Then he made a confession that was also an excuse: “Actually, I’ve never known her to take to anyone first time up.”
Lisa put her hand on his knee. “Darling, I know it’s not going to be easy. But I’m marrying you, not your parents.”
“How d’you reckon your parents will go for me? Do they hate coppers, too?” Her parents lived in Melbourne and he had met them only once, when he had gone down to Melbourne on holiday a year ago and introduced himself to them. At that time they had not seen him as a possible fiance for their daughter, and they had been politely friendly but that was all. Hans Pretorious was the Australian general manager for a big Dutch textiles company, and though he and Mrs. Pretorious had been in Australia almost ten years they had given Malone the impression that eventually they would re-
tire back to Holland. They had written him a polite note when he and Lisa had become engaged and told him how much they were looking forward to seeing him again when he and Lisa went down to Melbourne for Christmas.
“That worries me, you know/’ he said. “You marrying a cop. Do you know what you’re letting yourself in for?”
“I know that isn’t going to be easy, either. I’ve had a long time to think about it. I was thinking about marrying you long before you asked me. But someone has to marry policemen.” She smiled and leaned across to kiss him on the ear.
“That takes a load off my mind,” he said with gentle sarcasm. “You’re marrying me as a public duty.”
“That’s right. So we can have lots of little policemen and keep up the supply.” She moved her hand further up his leg, squeezing it.
“Don’t do that, or you’ll have me running us up a pole.” He cast a quick glance at her and smiled, and she smiled back. She wore a moderate mini-skirt that, though several inches longer than the fashionable mini’s, had raised Brigid Malone’s eyebrows a corresponding distance. The knees, to Brigid, were what ankles had been to her mother: no decent girl exposed them. As for the thighs that one saw walking the streets of Sydney these days, she kept her eyes averted and prayed that Sodom and Gomorrah would not burn down before she got back home to Erskineville. Lisa’s skirt had now crept up as she sat back in the car seat and Malone was seeing enough thigh to make him wish that Sodom and Gomorrah, Lisa’s flat, was only at the end of the street instead of another ten minutes’ drive.
He looked back at the road, drove for a while in silence, then said, “Is that the first time you’ve been to an outside toilet?”
“Yes. Do you want me to say I liked
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