Confections

By Giuseppe Leonardo Sorbello

An eclectic collection of bitter-sweet short stories: "The Saga of Old Bill's Bathroom Basin", "The Violent Deaths of Mate and She", "The Trouble with Fred", "To Wake on Firle Beacon", "46 Dollars and 25 Cents", "Last Chance for Lana", "The Rock", "Cutting a Long Story Short", "A Matter of Life -- or Death?", "Little Thief", "Jane Brady -- MI5 Agent 0010", "When Venus Took the Tube"; Novellas: "Whatever Happened to Lola", "The Emancipation of Alice Isobel Butler" and "Johnny and Louise"; and Short Plays: "The Picture of Nothing" and "The Apple Tree".

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lorraine Cobcroft
• Release date: Jun 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9780994530752

Giuseppe Leonardo Sorbello

Giuseppe Sorbello was born in North Queensland. The son of Sicilian emigrants, he grew up in Spring Hill, Brisbane through the 1930s and 40s.He moved to Melbourne in 1956 to study singing, music and acting and started a professional acting career there. In London, he furthered his singing studies at the Royal College of Music Opera School, and he joined the Glyndebourne Festival Opera Chorus in 1965.Working as a freelance singer for five years, he eventually discovered his true vocation as a teacher/director. He worked successfully in London for thirteen years.Returning to his home and family in 1977, with his wife, Sheila, he joined the Queensland Conservatorium of Music (now Griffith University) and founded the opera training course there. In 1997, he retired from full-time teaching/directing to go ‘freelance.’He began writing in 2001. The Bond is his first full-length novel.He lives in Brisbane.

Book preview

ISBN: 978-0-9945307-5-2

First Edition: May 2020

Copyright © 2020 by Giuseppe Leonardo Sorbello

All rights reserved.

Published and distributed by Rainbow Works Pty Ltd at Smashwords.

Please look for other titles on Smashwords published by Rainbow Works:

The Bond by Giuseppe Leonardo Sorbello

Mortgaged Goods by Lorraine Cobcroft

The Pencil Case by Lorraine Cobcroft

Iron Rice Bowl by Tom Kwok

Angela and Her Boys by Helga Parl

Coming soon from Rainbow Works:

The Brighter Side of a Death Threat by Lance Colbert Smith

Fly, Francesca, Fly by Venera Concetta

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Names, characters, businesses, and organizations, referred to in these stories are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance of story characters to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

For information, contact:

Giuseppe Leonardo Sorbello

mailto:[e-mail]?subject=Confections

Disclaimer

Acknowledgements

The Saga of Old Bill's Broken Bathroom Basin

The Violent Deaths of Mate and She

The Trouble with Fred

To Wake on a Firle Beacon

46 Dollars and 25 Cents

Last Chance for Lana

Cutting a Long Story Short

A Matter of Life? - or Death?

Little Thief

Jane Brady - MI5 Agent 0010

When Venus Took the Tube

The Novellas:

Whatever Happened to Lola

The Emancipation of Alice Isobel Butler

Johnny and Louise

Two One Act Plays:

A Picture of Nothing

The Apple Tree

About the Author

All the stories in this volume are fictitious and are entirely a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental, and all incidents described are purely hypothetical. Any business or company named is a fictional entity and similarity to any existing entity is unintentional. Any views expressed are the personal views of the author. Though many of the places mentioned do exist, nothing contained herein should be taken to suggest that named characters ever lived in or visited those places, nor that events described, or events having any similarity to those described, actually occurred there.

The author acknowledges the rights of all holders of trademarks relating to products named in this work.

My heartfelt thanks must go to the various people who gave great assistance in compiling this anthology.

First and foremost is to the members of the Fairfield Writers, for their valuable critiquing of sections of many of the stories.

Nephews Ross and Vin Sorbello, friends Janet Vallino and Judy Cavanagh, all of whom gave me excellent feedback from pre-reading some of the stories.

And to Bob Green for his advice about firearms.

To Lorraine Cobcroft, publisher, who, as well as editing the work also took time to give me instruction in the business of writing.

(Based on an actual happening. Ideally, this story should be read out loud by an Australian Storyteller.)

Old Bill lived in a very nice unit, in a very nice retirement village, among very nice people. It was a new place, with all the mod cons you would expect to find in such a nice place.

Bill was of the old school. You know, the sort that would pass you in the street, look you in the eye, smile and say g’day. He’d been around for a long time. Being of the old school, he still liked doing some things in the old way, despite the fancy gadgets that surrounded him in his new environment.

One of the things Bill enjoyed most was popping out of bed in the morning and having a lovely warm face wash in a basin half-filled with hot water, mixed to precisely the right temperature. Then, having a leisurely shave with Palmolive shaving cream (which had been around for as long as he had) and his new, flash, Gillette razor.

He still had his old Gillette. You know, the sort you opened by screwing the handle and which held an original Blue Gillette double-edged razor blade. He’d had it all his life: made in America in the old days. Remember the old days, when things were made to last?

While the old razor still worked okay, Bill couldn’t find the genuine Blue Gillette blades any more. Sadly, he’d had to give it up and go for one of Gillette’s new-fangled ones. Still, Bill was philosophical enough to concede that even old Gillette himself had to move with the times.

One day, Bill bounced out of bed, as he was wont to do of a morning, trundled into his bathroom for his usual ablutions, which included the aforesaid hot face wash and shave in a half-filled basin of hot water. Now this basin didn’t have the old-fashioned rubber plug that you just stuck in the hole to hold the water. You know the sort. You can buy one at any hardware for about 20 cents, which was about two-bob in the old days.

Now, this plug hole had what Bill could only describe as a doover which you had to push down with a carefully aimed finger. And lo and behold, the thing stayed down and blocked the hole. Bill managed it okay the first time, but was a bit foxed about getting it up again to empty the basin. However, being of the old school, he was not without ingenuity. He soon tumbled to the scientific fact that if you had to push it down to get it to stay down, then perhaps you had to push it again to get it to come up. Sure enough, it worked. Marvellous, thought Bill, such clever design, eh! He put it down to yet another miracle of modern science.

On this particular day, Bill turned on the hot water tap to waste another half a bucket of cold water. When the hot water arrived from the dungeons below, he delicately pressed the doover to half-fill the basin as usual. It was then that disaster struck. The contrary thing decided it would not stay down and all the lovely hot water was running away into the drains.

As an old schooler, Bill was not of a wasteful disposition. He did what anyone who was in full control of their mental faculties would do—he turned off the tap. But no matter how much he tried, the doover would not cooperate and just kept popping up uncontrollably again and again.

Blast, thought Bill, now what? Oh well, he supposed he must have his day ruined by washing and shaving with running water. Bill was not happy about this. It was a serious disruption to his tried and trusted routine, which had served him virtually all his life. Nevertheless, he eventually saw there was no sense in grieving about it and resigned himself to the fact that life is filled with disappointments.

Despite this major disaster, Bill’s nimble brain was already at work while he was shaving. He had figured out how to get the problem fixed. This village had what was known among the aficionados as a maintenance man, (MM for short), whose job it was to rectify disasters of all kinds. Bill figured his was one that qualified, one which the MM could fix in a jiffy, though it might need some ingenuity.

Finishing his shave with great difficulty, he armed himself with his trusty pen and went in search of the maintenance book at the centre of operations. Therein, he wrote the details of the disaster with a request for urgent priority assistance.

Within a week there was a knock at Bill’s door and there stood a middle-aged sort of chap wearing neatly pressed grey overalls.

‘Good morning. I believe you have a problem with your bathroom basin,’ he said.

‘Yeah,’ replied Bill laconically. (Bill did tend to be a bit laconic early in the morning, if things weren’t going his way). ‘Come in.’ And he promptly led him to the recalcitrant doover. Under Bill’s expert guidance, the MM pressed the doover. Of course, it misbehaved just as previously described. After pressing and re-pressing several times, the MM was finally convinced. Speaking in a language Bill understood clearly, he gave his judgement:

‘Ah, I see. Yeah, it’s buggered orright,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid it’s a job for the plumber. That bit’ll have to be replaced.’ He was, of course, referring to the doover.

‘I see,’ said Bill. ‘So what do we do now?’

‘I’ll tell the general manager. She’ll have to order a new part. Might take a few days, but she’ll be right, mate.’

‘Oh! Okay,’ said Bill, ‘Good on ya. Thanks.’ And he imagined his beloved face wash and shave being restored to their former glory quite soon.

Six weeks later Bill was still shaving under the running tap. The doover still sat defiantly above the plug hole. However, by now Bill had decided he was sufficiently fed up with it all. He had further decided to take the proverbial bull by the proverbial horns and take matters into his own proverbial hands.

Filled with an appropriate amount of suitable ire, Bill strode boldly into the General Manager’s (GM for short) office, greeted her with his usual amiable politeness, and then popped the question.

‘Any news on when I can expect my bathroom basin to be fixed?’

‘You haven’t been forgotten,’ replied the GM, equally amiably. ‘The plumber is really busy right now, and the part hasn’t come in yet, anyway. But don’t worry, we’ll get there.’

Bill was tempted to ask, possibly with some pique, "six weeks to get in one little doover?" But being a gentleman of the old school, and for the sake of good relations, he kept the peace.

‘Oh! Okay, thanks.’ Resigned to his fate, he quietly left the office and continued to shave under the running tap.

Four weeks later, one morning, the sun shone brightly, the sky was blue, and a pleasant breeze blew. Bill was sitting in his armchair reading the morning paper. There was a knock at the door. Ah ha, thought Bill, I wonder. He beheld there a young man of about eighteen or nineteen tender years. Dressed in a green uniform, a pretty emblem embroidered on his neatly pressed shirt pocket indicated that he was a plumber of some kind. Very nice, thought Bill. Naturally he was referring to the emblem, not the young man.

‘Good morning,’ said the young chap cheerily, ‘I’m told you have a problem with your bathroom basin.’ Bill hesitated. it would be fair to say, with some slight bewilderment.

‘Ah ... well ... yeah.’

‘I’ll have a look at it if you like.’ Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Bill gave in.

‘Okay.’ He led the young man to the bathroom, not exactly by the hand, but you know what I mean. He pointed to the recalcitrant doover and demonstrated the problem himself to avoid confusion. However, the young man decided, for better or worse, to try it out himself. He did so several times.

‘Yep, she’s jiggered alright. No doubt about that.’ Now, readers/listeners, note the interesting change in vernacular here. This young man was obviously of a higher standard of education, where buggered was not appropriate, but jiggered clearly was. It made no difference, Bill understood it anyway.

‘The problem is,’ the young man went on, ‘it needs a new part. It’ll have to be ordered.’

Again, Bill found it necessary to hesitate, but only slightly. Once more he took the bull by the horns. It was one of those times when an instantaneous decision was needed. He decided to come clean.

‘I see. Well, I’ll tell you something, mate. This thing went bung over two months ago, I put in a rekky (short for requisition) to get it fixed. The MM came up, had a look, and told me exactly the same thing. What’s goin’ on, do you reckon?’

‘Two months?’ said the young man, and Bill, who was very sharp about things like this, noticed a distinct note of disbelief in his voice.

‘Crikey! I’ll talk to the boss about it. He can be a bit forgetful sometimes.’

Again, Bill was not one to make unnecessary waves.

‘Oh! Good-o, I’d appreciate that, thanks.’

Not wishing to stand about chatting idly about the old days, the young man left. But then, what could he have known about the old days anyway, unless he could read about them on his iPod (or whatever it is), which Bill thought was very doubtful. He went back to his armchair and the paper.

Three weeks later, there came once more a knock at Bill’s door.

Ah ha, thought Bill again, this time with a definite feeling of expectancy. This is it!

He rushed to the door as fast as he could, which was not very fast, and who should be standing there? The original MM still dressed in the same neatly pressed clean grey overalls. For a moment it crossed Bill’s mind that, in the three months since he saw him last, the poor man had not had time to go home and change.

‘G’day,’ said Bill in his usual friendly fashion.

‘G’day,’ replied the MM. ‘You got a problem with your bathroom basin. Is that right?’

Two distinct things happened to Bill now. First, came a feeling he had been through something like this somewhere before and thought he knew where it might have been. Second, he realised that if he didn’t stop staring at the man, he would go cross eyed. However, he disciplined himself to stop such a drastic reaction and silently led the man once more to the bathroom. After a suitable amount of pushing and poking at the doover the MM again pronounced his verdict.

‘Ah, yes. A few of these been doin’ that lately. We’ll have to order a new part for it. I’ll talk to the GM about it. When it comes in, she’ll send the plumber to fit it for you.’

For the first time in his long and eventful life, Bill was speechless, except for three words which he managed to remember, and which the MM was perfectly able to understand. They were:

‘I—see—okay.’

At the door, Bill, with a superhuman effort, overcame his speechlessness to utter a further two understandable words. One was, ‘Thank’ and the other was ‘you.’

He closed the door and stared at it without really seeing it. His old mind was blank, until into it seeped two wondrous questions—did that really happen? And—or did I just imagine it? He heaved a great sigh, put it down to yet another of life’s great mysteries, and went back to whatever he was doing, though it did take him some time to remember what it was. But one thing he was sure about: he had more-or-less resigned himself to the fact that he would have to spend the rest of his life washing his face and shaving with a running tap.

Bill was a man disposed to go out frequently during the day on daring escapades. These included going to Coles on exciting shopping sprees, perhaps taking in a movie, walks around the parks and even around the streets if he felt the need for extra stimulation and adventure. Occasionally he even went out at night to dine with friends. You know, really dangerous stuff like that.

About a week or so after the MM’s last visit, he came home very late—at the ungodly hour of 9pm. Exhausted by the day’s excitements, he had a pee, climbed into his jarmies and went straight to bed. Next morning, he bounded out of bed in his usual cavalier fashion, went into the bathroom for his ablutions and turned on the hot water tap to waste yet another half bucket of cold water. However, to his absolute amazement, as he was stripping down, he happened to notice, through his remarkable powers of observation, that instead of the water running away via the recalcitrant doover, the basin was filling up.

Attacked by a sudden bout of alarm, Bill turned off the tap to avert a flood. He gazed down into the water to see what had happened, and, lo and behold, the former recalcitrant doover was firmly fixed down, preventing the torrent from escaping. Bill couldn’t believe his eyes. The rotten buggers, he thought. They came in when I wasn’t looking and fixed it. What a bunch of sneaky sods. Or did they come in during the night while I was asleep? Nah, that would be unlikely, even for them. But what the hell? It’s done. That’s all that matters.

Gingerly, he reached down, delicately pressed the doover with his forefinger, and up it popped, large as life, letting the cold water run away. Turning on the hot tap again until the hot water arrived, he joyfully pushed the doover down and half-filled the basin with lovely hot water.

For the first time in almost four months, Bill luxuriously washed his face, lathered up, and shaved just as he had done for the last seventy years, since the first peach fuzz appeared on his chin at the tender age of fifteen.

And it was, indeed, all … very … very … nice.

The sun had not yet risen. In the day’s first light, standing knee deep in water, shotgun loaded and poised, patient, silent, perfectly still—he waited for the first kill.

Flying low over the trees, Mate and She approached the lake for some pre-dawn feeding. Over the water, Mate flew ahead a little lower.

The double blast shattered the morning silence.

Mate’s body jerked violently. Feathers flying, wings loose, he fell. He was dead, even before he hit the water.

The second shot had missed.

She flew on, faster now. Heading for some tall reeds on the other side, she skidded onto the water and quickly scuffled into them. Hidden within, she trembled with terror.

In a while, She paddled as close to the edge of the reeds as she dared. Looking out from between the stalks, she looked for Mate. All she saw was the black shape on the water where he had fallen.

Across the lake, the hunter, shotgun open, was loading two new cartridges. Then, She heard the splashing. A huge dog was bounding through the shallow water towards Mate. Seizing Mate’s body in its jaws, it bounded back to the master. The hunter took Mate from its mouth, tied his feet together, and hung him, head dangling down, on his belt.

Concealed among the reeds, still trembling fearfully, instinct told She that to emerge into the open water would bring instant death to her also. But then—without Mate—did she really want to go on? She wanted to be with Mate.

When the noise had settled and the water was calm again, complete silence returned. The first glint of the new sun appeared above the horizon. Soon, it rose fully. A gentle breeze began, rustling the reeds and rippling the water on the lake.

She inched her way forward. Then, paddling out into the open water, she took to flight. Up she rose, her wings rapidly working into the breeze as it ruffled the soft feathers on her breast. Swiftly, up into the morning sun-filled sky, she rose.

The blast came. She’s body convulsed in the air. Feathers flew away all around her.

She was not dead when she hit the water. With her neck broken by the pellets, she soon drowned. Instantly the dog was on its way. Seizing her, he bounded back, splashing noisily. His master took She’s body and hung her on his belt next to Mate.

The hunter did not know, nor care. It was just another bird for the table. But it was where She wanted to be, her soft feathers pressing against her Mate.

Re-loading the gun, once more the hunter waited, ready for another kill.

Sitting in his plush office at Parliament House in Melbourne, the Labor Member skimmed through the pages of The Age. Not much of interest there today. However, on page six, the headline of a small article did momentarily catch his eye:

Police Arrest Protesters of the Coalition Against Duck Shooting Inc. at the Opening of the Duck Hunting Season at Kerang Wetlands.

He gave it a cursory read. Good, he thought. Serves them bloody right. Protesters! Bastards! Always trying to stop people from having some simple enjoyment. What’s a dead wild duck or two, anyway?

With nothing of real interest in the paper, he dropped it in the waste-paper bin and went out for his morning coffee.

First published in the Fairfield Writers Anthology: Love, Eventually, 2019

I met Fred while working with an English provincial opera company. He was well built, good looking and good natured. We shared the same dressing room. I knew nothing of his personal life, but I soon got the feeling Fred was bit of a dark horse.

One for the girls, he would sometimes say. I used to go out with a little dolly from— somewhere or other, followed by vague descriptions. There is nothing wrong with that. Most men have gone out with some little dolly, as Fred like to call them. But one could never be sure with Fred. It seemed he had a little dolly in London to whom he paid regular visits. He would drive there in his van after a performance and return the next morning. Others also did that. They lived there and commuted. But Fred had digs in the local town.

After a performance, he would sometimes come into the dressing room and say, ‘I think I’ll take a run into London tonight.’ This would invariably bring a response.

‘Ah, yes, who is she, Fred? Come on, let us in on it.’

He would laugh. ‘Well, that would be telling, wouldn’t it?’

There was a lot of good-natured ribbing between the chaps, and Fred came in for his share, as we all did. ‘Hey, listen Fred, you should find yourself a nice girl here instead of all that late-night running in and out of London’

Fred merely grinned and answered as if he wasn’t sure. ‘Well, it’s a bit difficult, see. I don’t really like to dabble much if I’m working in a company. It’s not a good idea, you know. I mean … I reckon it’s better to keep it away. Don’t you think?’

I agreed with his philosophy.

Once, some ribbing was going on and someone brought up the subject of a wife, saying he had heard that Fred was married. Fred laughed, but also blushed. Seeing that, the ribbing increased which only made Fred laugh more and accuse his teasers of sabotaging him. But when all had settled, no one really knew if Fred was indeed married or not. It lingered in my mind—and I wondered.

A young blond girl of about twenty called Jill, the company switchboard operator, appeared on the scene. With short curly hair, a pretty face and trim figure, someone discovered she was a good tennis player. Someone else discovered she was a good table tennis player. Fred just discovered her.

Fred didn’t believe in wasting time. It became clear he was going to move in quickly. Nevertheless, some friendly rivalry sprang up between us at the make-up table.

‘Hey what about that little Jilly then, eh?’ he said to me one day, to which I replied: ‘Yes, but you better be quick mate because if you turn your back for one second, I’ll whip her away from you.’

He laughed.

‘You reckon? Well, I dunno. I’ll think about it.’

A bit later I asked, ‘Now listen, Fred. What’s going on? Are you doing any good with that little blondie?’

‘Oh, I dunno, I can’t make up me mind. What do you reckon?’

‘It’s no good asking me. If you’re not going to move in, I might.’

Again, came the typical Fred laugh.

‘Why don’t you give it a try; you never know.’

‘No, I wouldn’t want to cramp your style.’

‘Oh well, perhaps I’d better make a move then, eh?’ he said with a big grin.

‘I’ll let you know.’

The next day rehearsal ended at 5pm. Who should I see driving his van out of the car park? Fred, with Jill in the seat beside him. He had obviously moved in on his Jilly early on.

Fred began to see her on a regular basis. One would see them driving off in his van or returning. They were very close and there appeared to be no reason why they should not be. But Fred’s nocturnal drives to London once or twice a week continued—and I wondered.

Nonetheless, I could not see why the friendly rivalry between us should stop.

‘Now look, Fred,’ I said, ‘I’m not sure about you, mate. I think you’re holding out on me?’

‘How d’you mean?’

‘Well, the little blondie. What’s going on?

‘Oh, I see. It’s a bit tricky. You know how it is. You have to be careful about some things.’

‘Oh sure,’ I said, ‘especially when you have a secret wife tucked away somewhere.’

The moment I said it, I thought I had perhaps gone too far. Many blokes would have been offended at such an intrusion, even in jest, and would have told me to mind my own bloody business. But Fred? He just laughed with the slight blush when someone tried to nail him.

‘Well, that’s it, isn’t it?’ What did that mean?

He was up to some curious little tricks, our Fred, some of which were perplexing. Though he had his digs in the local town, one interesting thing was that he carried a tent in the back of his van. One day he came into the dressing room and announced he had found a marvellous spot in the woods nearby where he had pitched the tent and had spent a peaceful night. Naturally, this brought some boisterous reactions. But he took it in good spirit.

As time passed, I got the feeling that Fred had several friendly little dollies in various parts of the local world. I was never certain. Nobody was. Never giving away positive information, he was never able to keep his mouth completely closed either.

It seemed he wanted us to know he had his secrets. But also, that he was a man of many talents, if you see what I mean. His so-called wife was mentioned in the dressing room on occasions which he would just laugh off in his inimitable way. Somehow, I got the feeling that she was not as mythical as he would have us believe. And I still wondered.

The season ended, and we were off to Scandinavia on tour. Brussels, Oslo, Gothenberg and Copenhagen. This presented Fred with what appeared to be an insurmountable problem. He could now not drive to London for nocturnal visits. Nor could he pitch his tent in a forest somewhere overnight.

Except for the principal singers, accommodation had been arranged in twin shared rooms. Nobody minded, except Fred. He thought it was not a good arrangement for the pursuit of certain activities. Another problem was that most of the women were either married or attached. It seemed to Fred it was going to be, as he put it, a dry three weeks. Apparently, arranging friendly terms with any available girls for the duration of the tour was the problem. How friendly could one get with a woman when she was sharing a room? An interesting change came over him in those three weeks.

‘What about that young Janice?’ he said to me one day early in the first week.

‘You can forget about her, mate,’ I replied.

‘Why’s that?’

‘A certain member of the principals has got a hold on her.’ I knew that to be true.

‘Ah, yeah, but you reckon there’s no chance at all?’

‘I doubt it, Fred.’

‘That bad, eh?’ he said despondently. I supposed Janice was the only available one he fancied. But she had been established with one of the principals throughout the home season, who, I might add, was taking great advantage of the situation.

‘I’m afraid, Freddy boy,’ I said, ‘you’re just going to have to behave yourself for the next three weeks.’

‘It looks like it, doesn’t it. The trouble is I can’t see how a bloke would get on anyway.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, this business of sharing rooms. I mean … how would you arrange it?’

‘I would have thought it was obvious. You couldn’t.’

‘It would be a bit awkward if a girl invited you to her room for a drink or something, and you just got yourself set up and her room-mate came home.’

‘I see what you mean.’

‘Yeah,’ he said wistfully, and after a long pause, ‘well, perhaps you’re right.’ And I do believe that’s how it turned out. But you could never be sure about things like that with Fred though he did go through a change in those three weeks. A definite veil came over his spirits. Strain does that to you sometimes, doesn’t it, especially if you’re subjected to it for three whole weeks.

In Oslo, we had a free day except for the performance at night. Knowing that Fred liked the bush, I suggested we might go for a walk together through some forests about twenty kilometres away. He liked the idea. We caught an early morning bus. We walked about eight kilometres to re-join the road and the bus back to town.

It was a pleasant sunny day. Much of our talk was about singing and opera. Fred did most of the talking. There was one aspect of the walk I found interesting. Fred never talked about women. Not even once.

Back in town, we had to walk to the hotel. Soon, we were passed by one of those fabulous female visions one sees frequently in the Scandinavian countries. Tall, lithe, long blond hair almost to the waist, a short dress over a figure that was everything you ever dreamed about. It was almost impossible not to reach out and touch her as she passed by, just to see if she was real.

‘Hey, what about that then?’ sighed Fred.

‘Not bad, mate. Not bad at all,’ said I, also with a long inward sigh.

Well, that encounter seemed to return Fred to what I supposed, for him, was a normal state of mind.

‘I’ll tell you who I reckon would be a nice little dolly to get to know: that little Jane.’

‘Oh yes, she’s a bright one all right.’

‘I reckon I could do okay with her if I had half a chance.’

‘I don’t think so Fred; she’s got a husband she’s very attached to.’

‘I know, but still, I reckon there’s something there just the same.’

‘Why don’t you give it a try?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. She shares a room with that other one, you know, what’s her name?’

‘You mean Molly?’

‘That’s the one. Hey, have you noticed those two never go anywhere without each other? They’re always together. Weird that, isn’t it?’

‘Well, they’ve got husbands who they’re wrapped up in. Perhaps they feel there’s safety in numbers.’

Fred laughed. He thought that was funny. ‘That’s the trouble with being away on a tour of this kind.’

‘What’s that, Fred?’

‘Well, you know, if