arm across Sylviaâs waist. âWe can whisper,â she said. âThey wonât hear.â Light from the window outlined Sylviaâs features and her spread hair. âTell me all about your little flat,â Esme whispered. âItâs not little. The sitting room is as big as all this house.â Mindful of the rule about not talking Esmeâs gasp went inward. âAs big as this house except for the kitchen,â Sylvia amended. âAnd where you work?â Esme whispered. âItâs big too. Everyone has their own desk. I have the best.â âHow do you know what to do?â whispered Esme and the heads of Rose and Yvonne rose like fish from a lake. âI know. I show the new girls when they come.â She lifted her hands from the bedclothes and held them up to catch the light and arranged them as if they were to be painted. âYou typewrite, donât you?â whispered Esme. âIâm fast too,â said Sylvia. âAre there boys?â whispered Esme. âMen!â said Sylvia too loud and the larger bedroom heard. âI warned you!â called out Mrs McMahon and Mr McMahon winced. âItâs natural sheâd talk,â he said. âSkite!â said Mrs McMahon. She wriggled her body so that Jackie fitted into the curve between stomach and thighs. Mr McMahon wriggled too. âPut him on the other side of you,â he whispered. âTheyâd hear,â said Mrs McMahon. Through the wall Esme put her lips close to Sylviaâs ear. âDo they want you to you-know-what?â she whispered. âOf course,â said Sylvia. Esme drew back to study Sylviaâs lovely remote profile. âYou donât?â she said. Sylvia was silent. So was Mr McMahon with his profile also outlined by the moonlight. Across Jackie Mrs McMahon saw. His lips tucked in at the corners were finely sculptured like Sylviaâs. She rose slightly in bed but he did not turn his head. Angry she pulled at her pillow. âIâll get her working tomorrow!â she said. âSitting about with her hands in her lap! Lady Muck! Sheâll work the same as the others do!â âSheâll probably do it well too,â said Mr McMahon. Very still he felt he was about to leave his warm bed and step into the icy flooded current of Berrigo Creek. âSheâs a housemaid.â âA what?â shrieked Mrs McMahon and to quieten her he put a hand across Jackie and laid it on her thigh. He felt it quiver like the flesh of a young horse he was breaking in. âSheâs got an office job!â said Mrs McMahon. âShe couldnât get one. Bess wrote and told us.â âUs? Why donât I know?â âBess wrote when she left there and said it was a good place. Itâs not to say she wonât get an office job when times get better.â âBess pushed her out! She was frightened she might get something better than their Margaret. I know that one! Sheâd be glad sheâs only a maid!â Only a maid, thought Mrs McMahon her flesh no longer quivering. I was a maid. âYou were a maid,â said Mr McMahon, âYou were all right.â Mrs McMahon for a moment wanted to steer his hand towards her inner thigh. But she raised her knees and it slid away to lie indifferently on Jackieâs stomach. âYou knew all that time and you didnât say! I see where she gets her lies and deceit from!â âBess wrote and I got the letter in the mail one day when I picked it up. Just by chance.â Mr McMahon a fairly devout Catholic appeared still grateful to God for organizing this. âAll that blowing and skiting and her a maid! No more than a housemaid. âIâll bowl her out!â cried Mrs McMahon. âFirst chance I get and thereâll be plenty Iâll bowl her out! âIâll bowl her out with pleasure!â cried