They heard his footsteps on the verandah. ‘I was in the district. Asked around. Hope you don’t mind.’ ‘Oh no, not at all. Good to see you. Fancy that. Look who’s here, Irene.’ Irene’s eyes went flat. For once, Rex didn’t give a damn. Instead of asking Irene to make more tea, he went to the pantry and fetched the wicker-covered demijohn that held the sherry they served up as refreshment on card nights. ‘Have some plonk,’ said Rex to his old friend. Glasses were filled, clinked together. The sherry was heavy and sweet, with a pronounced meniscus. At first they talked only about recent events, what they had done with themselves as civvies and the fates of the men they knew. Eventually, they fell to swapping yarns about the war. Rex didn’t resist; he was squiffy from the sherry. The two men talked a blue streak, interrupting and finishing each other’s sentences, as women do. Every now and again, one of them pushed back his chair and went out to the garden to relieve himself on Irene’s crepe myrtle.
