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of Avis, who worked at the Commonwealth Bank, and Hans, who was a superphosphate salesman, they were all from farms. They sat around a table, awkwardly at first, in couples, drinking ponies of beer and smoking Craven As, until the first dance, which gave them the opportunity to rearrange the table into a more comfortable configuration, men with men, women with women, teasing remarks batted between the two groups like shuttlecocks.
    At intervals around the hall, doors opened onto purple darkness, allowing the weedy, mud-spiked smell of irrigation water to waft in and mingle with the cigarette smoke. Hans asked Irene to dance, and Rex followed suit with Avis. The band was playing a medley of Johnny Mathis tunes, and Hans amused Irene by singing the lyrics into her ear:
    It’s not for me to say you love me
It’s not for me to say you’ll always care .
    She smiled, moved closer. He gave her a narrow look, assessing her.
    Perhaps the glow of love will grow
With every passing day
Or we may never meet again
But then, it’s not for me to say .
    They came to a door, and Hans dexterously swung her through it. Rex and Avis were up front near the band, a crush of dancers obscuring their view, but so masterful were Hans’s movements, they might not have noticed even if they had been watching.
    â€˜Cha cha cha,’ said Hans, when they were on the other side of the door. They giggled, and Irene stumbled. He righted her, holding her by the elbow. Down the rows of cars they went until they reached the outer edge. In a nearby ditch, cicadas drummed.
    Irene began to chatter – the cicadas, the plentiful stars – but Hans silenced her by pushing her against a car. He rucked up her skirt, pulled down her underpants. It was over in moments, but she reveled in the act, which she found to be deliciously obliterating, and also the adventure of it – the surreptitiousness, the deceit – which made her heart race. Years later she would remember the feel of the cold metal against her bare backside.

13
    Aitape
    I N THE DESK in the living room, behind family documents and income-tax papers, was a pair of yellow ivory chopsticks in a narrow wooden box with a sliding top. It was easily the most exotic object in the house, with far more allure than the trio of ebony elephants on the mantelpiece, bought by Rex in a bazaar in Aden, or the piano stool with legs that ended in claws grasping cloudy glass balls.
    â€˜Found ’em on a dead Jap up in New Guinea.’
    â€˜Did you kill him?’ Girlie and Boy were beside themselves. Dark jungles loomed, populated by Papua-New Guineans with frizzed hair and bones through their noses.
    â€˜No, I didn’t kill him. Go on. Go away. Go and play.’
    â€˜Did you kill any Japs?’
    â€˜Go and play.’
    Rex refused to talk about the war with anyone, not just the children. He marched on Anzac Day, down the main street of Progress, his medals pinned to his chest, but always remained silent when other farmers at the Returned Services League Club reminisced about the war. If Irene played ‘A Wing and a Prayer’ on the piano on those evenings when they invited couples over for cards, he slipped from the room. If pressed, he said, ‘What would I want to talk about that for?’

14
    The Biggest Fool
    G IRLIE AND B OY were at school and Rex and Irene were in the kitchen when an army mate of Rex’s turned up unannounced. They heard his footsteps on the verandah.
    â€˜I was in the district. Asked around. Hope you don’t mind.’
    â€˜Oh no, not at all. Good to see you. Fancy that. Look who’s here, Irene.’
    Irene’s eyes went flat. For once, Rex didn’t give a damn. Instead of asking Irene to make more tea, he went to the pantry and fetched the wicker-covered demijohn that held the sherry they served up as refreshment on card nights.
    â€˜Have some plonk,’ said Rex to his old friend. Glasses were filled, clinked