“Good! I hate formality. My name’s Parkes. Call me John. Bar open?”

“It’s always open to visitors. Come on in. We can garage your car and bring in your luggage any old time.”

Bony followed Simpson to the veranda, and the great yellow-crested cockatoo in its cage suspended from the veranda roof politely asked:

“Whatabouta drink?”

Farther along the veranda a human wreck in a wheeled invalid chair called out:

“Good day to you!”

“Good day to you, sir,” replied Bony.

The invalid propelled his chair forward and Bony paused on the threshold of the door to gaze down into the rheumy eyes of a man past seventy, faded blue eyes gleaming with the light of hope. The white hair and beard badly needed trimming.

“My father,” said Simpson within the doorway. “Suffers a lot from arthritis. Gentleman’s name is Parkes, Father. Going to stay a few days.”

“Whatabouta drink?” shrieked the cockatoo.

The old man raised his head, failed to obtain the required angle, spun his chair until he did, and then shook a bony fist at the bird. Fury twisted his slavering mouth and his voice was like a wire in wind.

“If I could getouta this chair I’d wringyer ruddy neck.”

To which the bird made a noise remarkably similar to that described as a “raspberry”.

The son chuckled and Bony stepped into a small hall, to be surprised by several large oil-paintings on the walls and a large-scale pictorial map of the locality, which at once promised to be interesting. Part way along the passage beyond, Simpson showed the new guest into a small lounge off which could be seen the bar. Here it was dim and cool, and the floor and furniture gleamed like ebony from constant polishing. Bony called for beer and suggested that Simpson join him. Simpson said:

“Come from Melbourne?”

“I don’t live there,” replied Bony. “Don’t like it and wouldn’t live in a city for all the wool in Australia. I own a small place out of Balranald. In sheep, but not big. Haven’t had a spell for years and I’m enjoying one now, just dithering about here and there.”