BARNEY: [entering from the hallway] —tied in the middle with a piece of hayband—go on.

OLIVE: Well, you don’t much care, do you?

She skirts around him, in affectionate appraisal.

There’s a stain on the back of your uniform that’s been there for a week.

She moves off towards the kitchen, with BARNEY calling after her:

BARNEY: A good soldier never looks behind.

An unseen OLIVE responds with a dismissing laugh, and a vaguely irked BARNEY collects a pair of gaiters from some corner.

Does he, Private?

ROO: ’Least, you ought to do something ’bout them gaiters.

BARNEY: Who the hell is gunna notice? [He starts to strap on the gaiters.] All them brass at South Ken do is sit around a fire and figure out their pensions and gratuities.

ROO: Still put in reports.

BARNEY: Well, can’t do much to me. And a bit late now to offer you command of the Pacific Forces.

ROO cocks an eyebrow, but BARNEY is seemingly intent on his gaiters.

Be hard enough, when you’re discharged, to get a decent civvy team together. Make the grade again up North.

ROO: You havin’ a go?

BARNEY: Just pointin’ out. Bloke takes orders from these army pipsqueaks long enough, it can get to be a habit.

Hitherto, ROO’s reaction to cracks about his war record have been flatly routine. It is here that we become aware this attitude conceals a quietly smouldering and dangerous resentment.

ROO: Yeh? Well, you hear this. Once I’m back again up North, I’ll have the fastest and the best team ever packed a cane knife. So good that the likes of you’ll be lucky to get a toehold—and I ain’t forgotten what it’s like to be top ganger, and to ginger up some lazy bastard with an order, either. [Rapping it out] You polish up them boots of yours, and get yourself in some sort of a decent bloody shape.

He strides from the room and stands waiting on the front verandah. BARNEY grins widely, pleased with the reaction to his baiting. He seizes an antimacassar from a nearby chair and puts his foot up on a chair arm to polish his boot. OLIVE appears from the direction of the kitchen, carrying two brown paper bags.

OLIVE: Why the grin?

BARNEY: Just had me head bitten off. First time in a month of Sundees.

He tosses the antimacassar aside, to drag on his overcoat.

OLIVE: Way you go on. Here— [placing one of the brown paper bags nearby] —don’t forget your smoko.

BARNEY: Ham and cheese again, is it?

OLIVE: No, it’s not. It’s bacon sandwiches, and fruit cake.

BARNEY: Talk about cut-lunch commandos.

He grabs the brown paper bag, takes his slouch hat from the piano top to jam it on as he leaves the room, shouting upstairs as he passes:

So long, you!