His other love-affairs had belonged to the open-air,with the street for a stage and the park for scenery,and this domestic setting struck Chook as a novelty.Pinkey,then,was not merely a plaything for an hour,but a woman of serious uses,like the old mother who suckled him and would hear no ill word of him.And as he watched with greedy eyes the animal died within him,and a sweeter emotion than he had ever known filled his ignorant,passionate heart For the first time in his life he understood why men gave up their pals and the freedom of the streets for a woman.
Mrs Partridge saw the look in his eyes,and wished she were twenty years younger.When Pinkey got her hat and proposed a walk,Chook,softened by his novel emotions,called out "Good night,boss!"For a wonder,Partridge looked up from his paper and grunted "Night!""There now,"cried Mrs Partridge,delighted,"William wouldn't say that to everybody,would you,William?Call again any time you like,an''e'll be in a better temper."When they reached the park,they sat on a seat facing the asphalt path.
Near them was another pair,the donah,with a hat like a tea-tray,nursing her bloke's head in her lap as he lay full length along the seat.And they exchanged caresses with a royal indifference to the people who were sauntering along the paths.But,without knowing why,Chook and Pinkey sat as far apart as if they had freshly studied a book on etiquette.For to Chook this frail girl with the bronze hair and shabby clothes was no longer a mere donah,but a laborious housewife and a potential mother of children;and to Pinkey this was a new Chook,who kept his hands to himself,and looked at her with eyes that made her forget she was a poor factory girl.
Chook looked idly at the stars,remote and lofty,strewn like sand across the sky,and wondered at one that gleamed and glowed as he watched.
A song of the music-hall about eyes and stars came into his head.He looked steadily into Pinkey's eyes,darkened by the broad brim of her hat,and could see no resemblance,for he was no poet.And as he looked,he forgot the stars in an intense desire to know the intimate details of her life--the mechanical,monotonous habits that fill the day from morning till night,and yet are too trivial to tell.He asked some questions about Packard's factory where she worked,and Pinkey's tongue ran on wheels when she found a sympathetic listener.Apart from the boot factory,the great events of her life had been the death of her mother,her father's second marriage,and the night of her elder sister,Lil,who had gone to the bad.She blamed her stepmother for that.Lil had acted like a fool,and Mrs Partridge,with her insatiable greed for gossip,had gathered hints and rumours from the four corners of Sydney,and Lil had bolted rather than argue it out with her father.That and the death of Pinkey's mother had soured his temper,and his wits,never very powerful,had grown childish under the blow.
"So don't yous go pokin'borak at 'im,"she cried,flushing pink."'E's a good father to me,if she lets 'im alone.But she's got 'im under 'er thumb with 'er nasty tongue."Chook thought Mrs Partridge was an agreeable woman.Instantly Pinkey's eyes blazed with anger.
"Is she?You ought ter 'ear 'er talk.She's got a tongue like a dog's tail;it's always waggin'.An'niver a good word for anybody.I wish she'd mind 'er own business,an'clean up the 'ouse.W'en my mother was alive,you could eat yer dinner off the floor,but Sarah's too delicate for 'ousework.She'd 'ave married the greengrocer,but she was too delicate to wait in the shop.We niver see a bit o'fresh meat in the 'ouse,an'if yer say anythin'she bursts into tears,an'sez somethin'nasty about Lil.She makes believe she's got no more appetite than a canary,but she lives on the pick of the 'am shop w'en nobody's lookin'.
