Free 1915 by Roger McDonald

on the brim of her hat, and with the help of her other hand danced the hat ahead, investing it with life. “I’d love to be interrupted.”
    What would Billy have replied to this invitation?
    â€œThen I’ll come and interrupt you,” said Walter gruffly.
    â€œDo,” she pleaded. “I want the whole world to come.”
    Then she ran ahead to fetch pencil and paper from the compartment to give him the address, and at that moment Douggie and John decided to latch on.
    â€œHoi, Wally, what’re you doing?” They swarmed like sly half-backs through a ruck of legs. John braked and stood with hands on hips, a miniature rooster: “Who’s the girl ,” he crowed. Walter grabbed him by the ear and twisted it till he squawked.
    â€œI’m sorry.” Walter squatted. “Look, when you blokes get a bit older you won’t make jokes like that. They get a fellow fighting mad.” He found a three-penny bit. “Here, get some lollies.”
    â€œThanks, Wal, you’re a sport,” said John. But Douggie called back, “Hello Miss!” — Walter stood to find Frances standing behind him holding a piece of notepaper.
    â€œYou can come by ferry.”
    The paper was the colour of butter: the colour of her hat: and the hat shone its buttery yellow onto her bare lower arm. So he folded part of her away when he slipped the note in his pocket.
    â€œI don’t know when it will be,” he shrugged. “Soon, I’m sure. Keep an eye out for me. What if I write you a letter?”
    â€œI’d like you to. I like letters.”
    â€œFrom the whole world?”
    â€œWell, you could write,” she stated. And the words were so quietly inviting that she seemed to be saying, “From this part, especially.”
    Walter just stared at her until she fiddled with her ribbon in embarrassment.
    The whistle saved them: at its summons the stream of men flowed in reverse from the hotel.
    â€œWe’re away,” announced Mr Reilly, “about half a minute to go.” He looked cheerily at the train, smelling of whisky.
    Then Frances’s hand was in Walter’s: “Write?”
    The guard was bad-temperedly slamming doors and Douggie called from farther down the platform: “ Waltah! ”
    He remembered how Billy had looked, stranded on the platform. He stepped back in order to wave and watch for John at the same time. Frances and her father were framed for a moment in the window, a white figure and a black figure in a yellow square. After a second this picture dissolved and the figures swam away in a confusion of glass and varnished wood, their places taken by gliding mantles of molten light.
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    â€œI’ve got a message to deliver,” Walter told Douggie as they drove from the station to the Royal Hotel. There was no message, except what he now told himself: he had captured Frances’s interest.
    The barmaid remembered him: “It’s Walter, isn’t it?”
    The rum shrieked at him and then changed its mood: embraced him fiercely, and rippled aside to regard him with soft kindness. He must have gasped at the start, because the barmaid laughed.
    â€œBlacky Reid was here,” she told him. Walter should have guessed already. This was Blacky’s lair. He imagined a smell, virulence reeking of motor spirit, and heard Blacky retelling the clash with his mother while his mates guffawed. At the end of these thoughts he was surprised to see only a splash of rum left so he asked for another. The spirits no longer bit: he read the name “Bundaberg” on the bottle and breathed the distant sugary air of Queensland.
    She asked him why he was in town, and he found himself telling her about Frances. When he finished she said: “It’s easy to see you’re in love.”
    â€œShe’s good looking,” he boasted.
    On the way home the effects of the drinks wore off, leaving the events of the evening