They went home to Randwick in a taxi, sitting side by side in complete silence, and then Patty found her front door key and they stepped across the threshold. Frank followed his wife into the kitchen and sat down awkwardly on a chair; she filled the electric jug and switched it on. While she waited for it to boil she studied the charming picture on the packet of Billy Tea, of a man sharing a cup of tea with a kangaroo. They were a more congenial couple than she and Frank, that was quite certain. This reflection was almost funny; she half-realised that the whole situation was almost funny.
“Where have you been?” she asked, quite calmly.
“Wagga,” said Frank.
Patty thought for a moment.
“Wagga?” she said. “Wagga?”
“Phil O’Connell,” said Frank. “Who used to work at Wonda. Came into some money and bought a pub there. You remember. He was always asking me to go down, at first. So I went to have a look. Gave him a hand over Christmas and the New Year—there’s lots of extra trade then.”
“You never thought to tell me of course,” said Patty. “I’m only your wife. I wouldn’t worry, would I? I wouldn’t be wondering what had happened or anything, would I? I wouldn’t have to tell lies for you at Wonda Tiles or spend two weeks feeling sick and terrible and then have you just turning up at Goode’s like that, I don’t know how I’ll ever show my face there again. I don’t even know why you’ve come back here now. I suppose you ran out of clean shirts, did you? Well you can sort out your own bloody shirts from now on. I’ve had enough!”
And she burst into tears and ran into the bedroom.
Frank followed her and stood in the doorway wondering what to do. She was lying on the bed, crying, with her face pressed into the pillow. At last he came over and sat down heavily on the side of the bed. He touched her shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I never thought of all that.”
“Well you’re stupid then!” cried Patty. “Stupid and selfish!”
“Yes, I suppose that’s right,” said Frank. “I have been.”
He thought about this for a time.
“I should have thought,” he said. “I had my mind on other things.”
“Like what, for instance?” asked Patty.
“I dunno,” said Frank. “I just felt—well—after that night—you know—I thought you wouldn’t want to see me again. For a while.”
“You thought!” cried Patty. “You thought that, did you? You’re lying. It’s you didn’t want to see me, that’s more like it!”
And as she said this, she knew it was true; and it was something she had not known at all, had not even suspected: it had just come into her mind, just now, as Frank had spoken. Frank looked down at the floor and Patty saw the shame and confusion on his face. She felt not tenderness or sympathy, but a sort of resignation. Oh God, her mother had been right: men were children, who did not understand themselves, and could not.
Frank suddenly looked at her. “I’ll make it up to you,” he said. “I promise.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Patty. “We’ll see, won’t we?”
And suddenly the future looked, as it had not done for years and years, interesting. She sat up.
“I’m that hungry,” she said. “Could you go down the street and get us some fish and chips? I’ll just ring Mum while you’re out, she’s been that worried about you. Don’t be long; I’m starving.”