ROO accepts the decision and moves out onto the front verandah.

ROO: Bub—

BUBBA joins him and he whispers brief instructions as OLIVE returns to the verandah.

OLIVE: Haven’t said goodbye to Mum. Hasn’t even seen my cape yet—

ROO: She will—later. Come on.

He sweeps her off towards the street.

BUBBA: Where is it you’re goin’?

OLIVE: [as she goes] Mario’s, we hope.

BUBBA: See if you can bring me back—

OLIVE: —a menu. Somethin’. ’Bye, love.

Other overlapping farewells and laughter from the street: ‘’Night, Bub. ’Bye ’bye, Bub.’

BUBBA stands in a rosy afterglow, watching them depart, then re-enters the house, shutting the street door after her. She moves into the living room and pauses to register EMMA in the armchair. EMMA becomes aware of the scrutiny and turns her head, youth and age taking each other’s measure.

EMMA: So? You’re back, then?

BUBBA: Yes.

EMMA: And what about your lessons? This scholarship they talk about?

BUBBA: Scholarship is not until December. Still got lots of time.

EMMA: Wouldn’t be too sure of that, if I was you.

BUBBA: [a shade defiantly] Anyway, I never did see me as any of those things Nancy said. Matron of a hospital, or that. I mean, it all depends on what you want, isn’t it? And even then you got to strike it lucky.

EMMA: Yes.

BUBBA: [briskly] Know what Roo said goin’ off? He said you were to have a nice hot cup of tea, with buttered toast, and I’m to make it.

She takes control, proud to be in charge.

You’re to sit back, put your feet up. I’m to make it, and to wash up afterwards, and you’re to take it easy. Not to do a thing.

She heads for the kitchen.

Roo said tea and toast. [Out of sight, and a stronger call from farther off] That’s what you’d like, is it?! Mrs Leech? Tea and toast—that right for you?

EMMA: Tea and toast and… put my feet up… right for me, yes. All that…

The response is a cheerful sound of crockery being assembled in the kitchen by younger hands, with BUBBA singing as she works. The tune is ‘She’ll Be Comin’ Round the Mountain’, an unconscious choice and not a conscious effort at singing; she dispenses with the lyrics, and instead la-la-la’s her way through the melody, a blithe young voice clearly happy and intent on the task at hand. The singing changes tone, however, as she becomes involved with her chores, and becomes a preoccupied and drawn-out accompaniment to the sound of tea preparations, as the lighting gradually fades on the scene.

EMMA sits, staring ahead into nothingness, at the close of the early spring day.

THE END

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