Chapter 23

We took Patrick marketing. He acted as a 'baby magnet' for every female in every shop and appeared to soak up all the attention. But he was definitely good and didn't even complain until we were back home. I guess he was learning where he could let his (sparse) hair down.

We had a quiet salad lunch, anticipating the meat glut at dinner. "I read Harry Heathcote," Weena said. "It was very interesting. Do you think Queensland was really like that?"

"Yes. Though, as I recall, Trollope gets the geography wrong, he gets the anthropology and the sociology right. It was a hard life and there were range wars. Don't forget this is the 1870s. Trollope's son was burnt out, I think. Did you look at the book on Australia?"

"No. I thought I'd go to John Caldigate."

"You'll be disappointed. There's only a few chapters about Australia. Then he returns to England."

"Oh. You know, I never thought I'd enjoy 19^th century novels. What do you think I should try next?"

"Seriously?"

"Yes, silly."

"One of the Steads."

"Steads?"

"Christina Stead. I like Letty Fox but The Man who Loved Children is better-known. We've got both of them."

I went out and looked at the garden. The shrubbery showed neglect. Well, as it got cooler and with both Rob and Mary and Evans and Willy gone it should recover. Actually, I should give the shrubs a thorough trimming. Tomorrow. I cleaned out the barbie, put in charcoal and topped it with some gum I'd split. It was nearly three. I took the wood off, put on more charcoal and lit it. I went in to rub the meat with whatever looked good.

Rob and Mary arrived and we admired her oval diamond. Rob had gotten passport forms from the travel agency. They'd stopped and gotten photos of Mary. "I thought we'd go down to 17 Exchange Plaza before nine on Monday and see how long it'll be," Rob remarked. "I got tickets for Bastille Day from here to Singapore."

"Over five thousand dollars each! And he just wrote the cheque!"

"Don't want to leave an unpaid credit card bill, dear. We'd get back and find ourselves incarcerated."

"And he paid for the rings, too!"

"Rings?" asked Weena.

"I bought a pair of wedding rings, in case she doesn't change her mind." Mary blushed.

"Rob, you're not supposed to be mean to her until after the wedding!"

"Boys! Stop it, or I'll get Pat and we'll gang up on you!" Right on cue, Patrick fussed.

"I'll tend the grill."

"So ... what have you been doing?" Rob asked.

"Well, I'm running these two committees for the Uni — that's what I got your ... uh ... former VP for."

"What's it like?"

"Well, it's not too bad. But you know what Borges, the Argentinian Nobel Prize winner, said about the Falklands War?"

"No. Tell me."

"He said it was like two bald men fighting over a comb."

Rob laughed. "That's very rich."

"That's what these academics do — or most of them." I fetched the lamb from the kitchen. "About half the folks I've met over the past two years have inferiority complexes and most of the remainder are egomaniacs. The latter know their research is earthshaking, the former are certain the no one will ever recognize their value. The funny thing is that some of the people with a poor self-image are really quite competent."

"Well, after that analysis, you should become government minister."

"No thanks." We laughed. I called out: "Weena! How long to serving time?"

"Oh... 40 minutes to an hour?"

"Great! I'll start the lamb." And I did.

Sunday morning after breakfast Weena and Rob went off for a father-daughter lunch and — after washing up and settling Patrick -- Mary and I sat outside in the sun.