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if that didn't turn them off, they soon found out that trying to seduce Tim was a lost cause, since he had no concept of what women were for or about. Ron had trained his son to flee the moment a woman got too excited or tried some sexy little come-on; Tim was very susceptible to a suggestion of fear, and he could be taught to fear anything.
    "Can I have another beer,' Pop?" Tim asked again.
    "Righto, son. Go and ask Florrie-for a schooner. I reckon you've earned it."
    Curly Campbell and Dave O'Brien watched his tall, slender form disappear under the arches.
    "I've known youse for twenty bloody years, Ron," Curly said, "and I still haven't worked out who Tim gets his looks from."
    Ron grinned. "I dunno either, mate. Tim's a throw-back to someone we've never heard of, I reckon."
    The Melvilles, pere etfils, left the Seaside a little before nine and walked briskly down past Coogee Oval to the row of brightly lit milk bars, fun parlors, and wine shops at the far end of the beach park. Ron herded his son past them quickly as they cut from Arden Street across to Surf Street, making sure that the hungry glances Tim evoked in the lolling tarts and trollops had no chance to develop.
    The Melville house was in Surf Street but not in the posh section on top of the hill, where Nobby Clark the jockey lived. They walked up the one-in-three pitch of the incredibly steep hill easily, neither of them so much as breathing heavily, for they both worked in the building trade and were in superb physical condition. Halfway down the other side of the hill in the hollow which lay between the ritzy top and the far hump of Clovelly Road they turned into the side gate of a very ordinary brick semi-detached house.
    The female Melvilles had long since eaten, but as Ron and Tim let themselves in the back door Esme Melville came out of the living room and met them in the kitchen.
    "Your dinner's ruined," she said, without much indignation.
    "Go on, Es, you always say that," Ron grinned, sitting down at the kitchen table, where his place and Tim's still lay undisturbed. "What's to eat?"
    "As if you care when you're full of beer," Esme retorted. "It's Friday, mug! What do youse always eat on Friday, eh? I got fish and chips from the Dago's as usual."
    "Oh, goody! Fish and chips!" Tim exclaimed, beaming. "Gee, Mum, I love fish and chips!"
    His mother looked at him tenderly, ruffling his thick hair in the only kind of caress she ever gave him. "It wouldn't matter what I gave you, love, you'd still think it was your favorite. Here youse are."
    She slapped heaped plates of greasy, batter-coated fish and soft, very un-crisp French fries in front of her men and went back to the living room, where the television set was in the middle of the umpteenth re-run of Coronation Street. That glimpse of English working-class life was fascinating, and she loved it; she would sit there thinking of her nice big house and garden and the fine weather and the tennis and the beach, pitying the inhabitants of Coronation Street from the bottom of her heart. If you had to be working-class, Aussie working-class was the only one to be.
    Tim didn't tell his mother and father about eating the turd sandwich, because he had forgotten all about it; when he finished his fish and chips he and his father left their empty plates on the table and entered the living room.
    "Come on, Es, it's time for the cricket summary," Ron said, switching channels.
    His wife sighed. "I wish you'd stay out a bit longer, then I might get to see a Joan Crawford picture or something instead of sport, sport, sport!"
    "Well, if Tim gets a bit more part-time work, love, I'll buy youse your own TV set," Ron rejoined, kicking his shoes off and stretching himself out full-length on the sofa. "Where's Dawnie?"
    "Out with some fella, I suppose."
    "What one this time?"
    "How the hell do I know, love? I never worry about her, she's too smart to get into trouble."
    Ron looked at his son. "Ain't it the dizzy limit, Es, the