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around Walter wondered why Billy was so interested in her.
    She seemed quite ordinary. Her eyes were very dark, her hair black and unshining. Her nose was rather big.
    She saw Billy and raised a hand.
    â€œThere she is,” said Billy again, as though the two views of the girl had been aspects of different people. He set off along the platform and Walter followed.
    â€œIsn’t it cold.” When she hugged herself Walter could see her body outlined under the overlarge St. Catherine’s jacket and skirt.
    Billy launched into introductions. As he spoke, Walter felt amusement dart from the girl: amusement at Billy, at the cold air, at being a castaway on the next town’s station platform, alone and so young.
    She was more attractive than Walter had at first thought, though he could not see in what way. Her nose seemed even bigger from the side. When she laughed she finished by drawing in her lower lip in ahalf-nervous, half-irrepressible way.
    â€œI’d better climb back or they’ll leave me behind. We couldn’t have that,” she said to Billy, holding his eye for a sober second. Then she swung herself up the two steps in a movement that left Billy stranded. Too late he whipped his hands from his pockets, then jammed them away again in frustration, for he had intended not merely to help her up, but also to squeeze her elbow and watch her face for a sign.
    â€œDon’t forget,” hissed Billy. Walter found himself propelled aloft, with his suitcase skidding in behind.
    â€œHalf a mo’, where’s Douggie?”
    â€œI saw him further back. Hey Douggie! ” shouted Billy, and gave a thumbs up. “He’s safe.”
    As Walter hoisted his suitcase overhead the compartment’s other occupant spoke: “What a racket!”
    â€œOh, Mrs Stinson,” apologized Frances. Walter scooped up a black-gloved hand.
    â€œWe’re in for a cold trip,” said the old lady, who sat almost submerged in blankets and cushions presided over by several chins the colour of orange cake. “Give the heater a shake, like a good boy.” Her pearl-studded slippers, flashing green under the gaslamps, slipped from the footwarmer which Walter then rolled and waddled around the floor to agitate the chemicals.
    Frances withdrew while the guard shouted “stand back” and thick wood — broad as the door of a coldroom — shut them in. But all the coldness was outside.
    Billy was being left behind. He paced the carriage for a few feet and then slowed and stopped. He raised his hand — a dignified salute — looking glum. He slid backwards with all the other bits and pieces on the platform — the wicker baskets in their untidy stacks, empty luggage trolleys, milk cans, the black and silverplatform scales, the dirty moon of the station clock. He was overtaken by two railway clerks with thumbs in waistcoat pockets, by a signalman lowering his lamp from an arm-high position to place it at his feet, by half-lit bushes at the end of the platform, by the blackness beyond.
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    As they turned from the window Walter and Frances caught each other’s eye. The glance lasted half a second before Walter fell-to brushing soot from his knees and straightening his tie.
    Mrs Stinson sighed and hummed: “I was a bride in Melbourne and a bride in Forbes, and widow in both places too.” She spoke these words to Frances while addressing something like a cackle to Walter. “Us Victorians — but goodness, it’s forty years since I left Ballarat. We outlast the men. We leave ’em behind: remember that —”
    â€œI’ve got plenty of time,” Walter spoke directly to the old lady, raising his voice, “though I’m going on for nineteen.”
    â€œWhen it’s too late you’ll want to spend it. My cushion, dear boy. Up a little. Across. Push it down .” He almost fell, grabbing the luggage rack, when with a fleeting upward