Tim by Colleen McCullough Read Free Book Online Page A

you in case you wanted to talk to her. Why would you want to talk to her, Pop? I don't see why you'd want to talk to her."
    Ron took the proffered envelope. "I don't want to talk to her, mate. Did youse finish the job?"
    "No, she had too much lawn. If it's all right with you, she wants me to do the front garden next Saturday."
    There were three crisp, new ten-dollar bills in the envelope; Ron stared at them and at the clear, heavy overtones of authority and education in Mary Horton's handwriting. Silly young girls or lonely housewives didn't have handwriting like that, he decided. Thirty quid for a day's gardening! He put the notes in his own wallet and patted Tim on the back.
    "You done good, mate, and you can go back next Saturday and finish her lawn if you want to. In fact, for what she pays you can work for her any time she wants."
    "Gee, Pop, thanks!" He wiggled his empty glass from side to side suggestively. "Can I have another beer?"
    "Why can't you ever learn to drink it slowly, Tim?"
    Tim's face fell into misery. "Oh, gee, I forgot again! I really did mean to drink it slowly, Pop, but it tasted so good I went and forgot."
    Ron regretted his momentary exasperation immediately. "No matter, mate, don't let it worry you. Go and ask Florrie for a schooner of Old."
    The beer, extremely potent as Australian beer was, seemed to have no effect on Tim. Some dimwits went crazy if they even smelled grog, Ron puzzled, but Tim could drink his old man under the table and then carry him all the way home, he felt it so little.
    "Who is this Mary Horton?" Es asked that night, after Tim had been packed off to bed.
    "Some old geezer out at Artarmon."
    "Tim's very taken with her, isn't he?"
    Ron thought of the thirty quid in his wallet and stared at his wife blandly. "I suppose so. She's nice to him, and doing her garden on a Saturday will keep him out of mischief."
    "Free you to skip around the pubs and racetracks with the blokes, you mean," Es interpreted with the skill of many years.
    "Jesus bloody Christ, Es, what a rotten thing to say to a man!"
    "Hah!" she snorted, putting down her knitting. "The truth hurts, don't it? Did she pay him, eh?"
    "A few quid."
    "Which you pocketed, of course."
    "Well, it wasn't that much. What do you expect for mowing a bloody lawn by machine, you suspicious old twit? No fortune, and that's for bloody sure!"
    "As long as I get me housekeeping, I don't give a sweet bugger how much she paid him, mate!" She got up, stretching. "Want a cuppa tea, love?"
    "Oh, ta, that'd be real nice. Where's Dawnie?"
    "How the hell should I know? She's twenty-four and her own flaming mistress."
    "As long as she's not someone else's flaming mistress!"
    Es shrugged. "Kids don't think the way we did, love, and there's no getting around it. Besides, are you game to ask Dawnie where she's been and if she's shagging with some bloke?"
    Ron followed Es into the kitchen, fondly patting her on the bottom. "Cripes, no! She'd look down that long bloody nose of hers and come out with a string of words I didn't understand, and a man would end up feeling pretty flaming silly."
    "I wish God had rationed out the brains a bit more fairly between our kids, Ron, love," Es sighed as she put the kettle on to boil. "If He'd split them down the middle they'd both be all right."
    "No use crying over spilt milk, old girl. Got any cake?"
    "Fruit or seed?"
    "Seed, love."
    They sat down on either side of the kitchen table and polished off half a seed cake and six cups of tea between them.
     
     
     
     
     

Eight
     
    Self-discipline carried Mary Horton through the week at Constable Steel & Mining as if Tim Melville had not even entered her life. She doffed her clothes before using the lavatory as usual, ran Archie Johnson as well as ever and chewed out a total of seventeen typists, office boys, and clerks. But at home each night she found her books unenticing and spent the time in the kitchen instead, reading recipe books and experimenting with