ROO: Aaah, doesn’t matter. Just a—

He tosses the parcel dismissingly on the table, but he now has OLIVE’s real attention for the first time since his arrival.

OLIVE: No, I’m sorry. Thinkin’ about that stuff of Bub’s, and Emma bein’ so on edge—tell me?

Wanting to make amends, she approaches the table to view his parcel.

What have you got yourself? Thing this size, it can’t be shirts—haven’t bought yourself a suit? Be no better than your army discharge—

ROO: ’Course it’s not a suit. Only got to look at it. Somethin’ special. And not for me. It’s—

As OLIVE looks at him wonderingly:

Oh, wake up, Australia? It’s for you.

She picks up the box to shake it gently, trying to gauge its contents.

No good, that. Open it.

She puts down the parcel to tug at the string.

OLIVE: I’ll get some scissors.

She starts towards the kitchen, but ROO becomes impatient for her to take her place at the table.

ROO: Don’t need any flamin’ scissors. Here—

He snaps the string for her with an impatient tug. But he no longer has OLIVE’s attention. She is staring at a dazed EMMA, who has appeared at the archway.

During the above exchange, EMMA has been on the verandah reading and absorbing the import of the letter she has received. The effect is of shock, the hand holding the apron lap of empty pea pods loses its grip, and the pods slide unregarded down to the verandah. This hand then moves to cover her mouth in a characteristic gesture as she reads the short official letter for a second unbelieving time. It is after this that she makes her uncertain way into the house, and now comes to OLIVE’s concerned awareness.

OLIVE: Mum—you alright?

EMMA makes a vague gesture with the letter in her hand.

What is it?

ROO: She not well? She feelin’ crook?

OLIVE: Sit down.

She moves to draw EMMA in to the room.

Come and sit down—

EMMA: [weakly resisting] Can’t. I’ve got to go out.

OLIVE: Like that? You look awful.

ROO: Do, y’know. Best you sit down.

EMMA: Have to make a phone call. There’s a box around the corner.

OLIVE: You’re in no state to be goin’ out. Makin’ phone calls—

EMMA: Here.

She thrusts the letter on OLIVE by way of explanation, and frees herself to mumble:

I’ll need my purse. [Moving out towards the kitchen] Have to make sure that I got the number—and some pennies—

ROO: [following her up to the archway] Take a sugar doodle, you’re not careful. [Turning back to OLIVE] What’s got her so shook up, for God’s sake?

OLIVE: [immersed in the letter] It’s the telephone—

ROO: Maurie?

OLIVE: No. The GPO. They’ve turned her down.

ROO: Couldn’t—how?