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empty sleeve, and did not flinch or stare or give the faintest acknowledgement that there was anything unusual about him. I liked her for that. In fact, she put out her hand and said, ‘Polly Drummond.’ Arthur stood up, took her hand, and gave his name.
    ‘Do you sing?’ she asked.
    ‘Badly.’
    ‘It’s just that I saw a man in Sorlei’s show who looked just like you and he had a beautiful voice.’
    Sorlei’s was a revue company that haunted us. Wherever we went, there they were. They were big and successful, and rural Queensland loved them. They always played the town halls and never to empty houses. They were lowbrow, of course.
    ‘When were they in town?’ I asked.
    ‘A few weeks ago. They were terrific. They had this comic who made me laugh so hard I thought I’d pee. Excuse my French. And like I said there was a man who sang and he looked like Arthur, but he juggled too, so …’
    ‘So it couldn’t have been me,’ said Arthur. Polly’s smile grew into a laugh, and Arthur laughed, too. I had never seen him so at ease with a stranger.
    ‘I’ve come from work. I work in Manahan’s, over in Adelaide Street. Did you find my lipstick?’
    ‘Someone would have said if it had turned up,’ I said.
    ‘Oh.’ She did a good impression of disappointment, but I didn’t believe for a minute that that was why she was here.
    ‘It’ll be dark soon,’ she said. ‘Could one of you walk me home? It’s not far, just up in Richmond Street.’
    ‘I’ll walk with you,’ I said.
    ‘You come, too,’ she said to Arthur.
    I felt a twinge of pique when she said this. It took me by surprise, that twinge. Why should I be jealous of the attention this shop girl paid to Arthur? And yet I was.
    Outside the hotel the air was warm and felt more like the summer ahead than the winter and autumn behind. It was four o’clock. The factory whistle at Walkers Engineering went off just as we began walking up Wharf Street towards the Bank of New South Wales. By the time we reached the corner of Richmond and Kent Streets we were caught in the extraordinary daily spectacle of the twelve hundred Walkers workers hurtling down Kent Street on their bicycles. There were no cars on the road at all. It was clogged with cyclists. Several of them called to Polly, and she waved at them and laughed. One of them drew away from the pack and skidded to a halt beside us.
    ‘Tell Fred I’ll see ‘im at the dance next Satdee,’ he said. ‘And tell ‘im to bring the moolah he owes me.’
    ‘Tell him yourself,’ Polly said.
    ‘Just tell’im that’s all,’ he said, and rode off. He did not acknowledge our presence.
    ‘He’s a creep,’ Polly said.
    ‘Who is he?’ I asked.
    ‘He’s nobody, and I mean nobody.’
    We had to wait several minutes before we could cross Kent Street. It was impossible to do so until the mass of bicycles had cleared. They were like wildebeests on the Serengeti. We walked up Richmond Street until we crossed Queen Street. Not much was said. The meeting with the cyclist had upset Polly and she had fallen quiet.
    ‘We’re here,’ she said suddenly, and turned in at a gate. I had not expected her to live in a large house, and this was a very large house indeed. A broad staircase rose to a verandah surrounded by wrought-iron railings. In the space between the railings and the roof, rectangles of lattice kept the sun out. The central part of the house rose above the roofed verandah and gave the impression of some grandeur. The front door was carved elaborately, and was balanced on either side by windows that extended almost from floor to ceiling. Like most of the houses in Maryborough it was raised on stilts, but these were obscured by more lattice artfully placed all around the base. There was fretwork wherever a verandah post met the roof. What made the house stand out from its neighbours, though, was the lushness of its garden. The front yard of Polly’s house boasted a stand of tall, thin palms on either