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matter.
    RYAN : Oh, yes they do.
    DOROTHY : My family are straitlaced, Ron.
    RYAN : Your old man’s the Mayor of Hawthorn, isn’t he?
    DOROTHY : A man has to do something with his time.
    RYAN : My love for you is something of my time.
    DOROTHY : Do you love me?
    RYAN : I do.
    DOROTHY : Even though you work at Olympic Tyres in Footscray?
    RYAN : Especially because.
    DOROTHY : I love you, Ron, I really do. You’re peculiar.
    RYAN : I will keep you in the furs that you are expected.
    DOROTHY : God bless you, Ron.
    RYAN : Someone has to.
    They walk off, arm in arm. RYAN looks at his cigarette and stamps it out.
    One day they won’t be Turf.
    It is Sunday tea at Mr and Mrs George’s palatial residence in Brighton. GOUGH serves Hermitage, chilled Riesling. Those present at table include MR GEORGE , MRS GEORGE , DOROTHY george and RYAN , in his best threads. The atmospherics are not exactly George Formby. It is boiling hot. A fan twirls deliriously.
    GOUGH : Riesling, Ron?
    RYAN : How do you pronounce it? Riesling or Rhysling?
    GOUGH : With a hard ‘e’.
    RYAN : Riesling. Alright, I’ll partake of a white Riesling, Gough.
    GOUGH : It’s Riesling or Reez-ling.
    RYAN : Make it Hock. [ To everyone ] It’s all the same to yours truly.
    MRS GEORGE : A superb cut of garment, Ronald dear.
    RYAN : Not a bad bag of fruit.
    MR GEORGE : And how are your chums at Olympic Tyres?
    RYAN : For black men they are white men.
    RYAN laughs, sips his wine. DOROTHY holds RYAN ’s hand as he sips his wine.
    MRS GEORGE : And what exactly do you do with your Olympic Wheels?
    RYAN : I’m a moulder.
    MRS GEORGE : I beg your pardon?
    RYAN : I mould.
    MRS GEORGE : You are a moulder?
    RYAN : We mould the shapes. Ever heard of recaps?
    DOROTHY : Recaps, Mother.
    MRS GEORGE : I assumed that was a dental term.
    DOROTHY : I think this conversation is becoming a trifle strained.
    RYAN : Give us a hoy, Mr George, and I’ll get you some recaps for one of your hearses. Winter treads. You’ll be able to do a wheelie in them.
    MR GEORGE : We import our tyres. From Bendigo.
    RYAN : Dorothy reckons you knock up a top hearse, Mr George. Maybe I’ll get a ride in one one day.
    DOROTHY : Don’t say such things, dear. We have only just met.
    RYAN : That’s right. Lovely, isn’t she? You are! What a pearl, Girlie.
    MRS GEORGE : Minted lamb.
    RYAN : How do you get ’em to eat the mint? Force it down ’em, do you?
    MR GEORGE : Do you long to improve your station?
    RYAN : As long as I can get on the train I’ll be right.
    DOROTHY : [ whispering ] Don’t try so hard. Why are you?
    RYAN : They make you try hard. Jesus, this Bonox stuff is corker. Oi. Gough. Sling us up another bowl of it.
    They consume their minted lamb with Mozart.
    MR GEORGE : Do you like Mozart, Ron?
    RYAN : He’s alright, for an Abo.
    MRS GEORGE : How many work at Olympic Mould?
    RYAN : Not many. They’re all bludgers.
    DOROTHY : Ron is saving for a car.
    RYAN : [ whispering to DOROTHY ] A getaway one. Let’s get away!
    MR GEORGE : And how are things at your boarding house?
    RYAN : I was first at the family pie last night and got eleven forks in the back of the hand.
    DOROTHY and RYAN laugh like anything.
    MR GEORGE : It’s competitive then.
    RYAN : You might say that, Mr George. Gee, isn’t it hot in here? Can we open the windows?
    DOROTHY : Yeah.
    MRS GEORGE : [ correcting her daughter ] Yes.
    MR GEORGE : Don’t pick on her.
    MRS GEORGE : Are you of a rural origin?
    RYAN : Dad’s a timber cutter when he hasn’t got the horrors.
    MRS GEORGE : How fascinating.
    RYAN : Not really. He hates it when he sobers up. Been doing it too long.
    MRS GEORGE : Work is such a bore.
    RYAN : He taught me to do anything. Tree felling. Charcoal burning. Timber cutting. Fox skinning. Hob nobbing.
    MRS GEORGE : Is there much demand for fox skinning?
    RYAN : [ whispering to DOROTHY ] It’s getting a bit tense,