A clearing, afternoon. Four people wait: AYRE, an old woman, sits on a homemade wooden chair; the others sit on the ground. ANGEL is in her late twenties. She is pale and coughs occasionally. MELORNE, a strong and wiry old white-haired man sits near her. MAC, a twenty-year-old man with blond hair sits by himself. They are dressed in old odds and ends, as though they have been to a Victorian opportunity shop. They seem expectant and their pose is like that of a Victorian photograph. On the ground are some wooden and chipped-porcelain bowls. Some pieces of meat lie near the bowls; there are also seeds, wild fruit and flowers. There is a large washbowl in the centre of this arrangement. They wait some time and then BETSHEB enters, half dragging, half carrying STEF. He grins widely as if at some private joke. She drops him down near the others. Just then FRANCIS and PETER enter. They are startled at the scene before them. All except the boy and old woman rise and bow deeply but stiffly towards the boys. Silence.

FRANCIS: [pointing] We followed that girl.

Silence. Everyone is nervous and apprehensive. As the old woman speaks the words make little sense to the boys.

AYRE: To the greeny pallor o’ thee kingspot; o’ cunty goldy.

PETER smiles, amused. FRANCIS realises it is a welcome.

FRANCIS: Thank you. My name is Francis. This is Peter. We come from Hobart.

Silence. They don’t seem to understand.

[Pointing to himself] Francis. [To PETER] Peter.

The old lady nods and motions to the young woman, who goes to her.

AYRE: Betsheb. [Pointing to the old man] Melorne. [To the woman] Angel. [To the autistic boy] Stef. [To the young man] Mac. [To herself] Ayre.

PETER: Hello.

FRANCIS: Hello.

The pair are amused by the situation. AYRE motions to the others to find their places. There is something of an unconscious parody about the group, as if with their limited means they are giving an upper-class tea party.

PETER: [to FRANCIS] I think we’re invited to a tea party.

FRANCIS: Did you understand her?

PETER: [amused] Not a word.

AYRE stays in her chair.

AYRE: [smiling] I bunter t’ the windy sheet, t’ the arsemine o’ the world. Breathe a vein, breathe a vein. [Shaking her head] Olcers an’ ’ellpain. [Tapping her chair] Starry, shiny, cunty dell o’ me world.

It is obvious she is trying to explain why she can’t join the others. The visitors sit. AYRE claps her hands and motions to ANGEL, who picks up an old-fashioned porcelain doll and shows it to FRANCIS.

FRANCIS: It’s lovely. Very old.

ANGEL smiles and nods. MELORNE walks into the centre of the group, picks up the washbowl and shows it to the two men proudly.

PETER: [looking into the bowl] Gold. It must have taken a long time to collect all those tiny pieces.

MELORNE puts the bowl back in its position.