Jon Cleary - A Different Turf

‘Rubber heels?’ said Lisa.

‘Do you know any gay guys, Kate?’ said Maureen.

Malone glanced at Kate; but she seemed to be avoiding his gaze. ‘One or two.’

‘I know a couple,’ said Maureen. ‘Guys I met at a disco. Nice guys, treated you with respect, no fooling around.’

‘Urk,’ said Tom.

‘Grow up,’ said his sister.

Claire glanced at her father. ‘You’re quiet, Dad.’

‘I just don’t like working seven days a week, that’s why.’

Jan Pretorius took the hint: ‘Sorry, Scobie. I should have thought of that.’

‘Indeed,’ said Elisabeth round a mouthful of fish.

‘Will you like working amongst the gays, Kate?’ Maureen persisted.

‘We’ll handle it, I’m sure,’ said Kate and once again appeared to avoid Malone’s eye.

He had the sudden feeling that the days, maybe the weeks ahead, were going to bind themselves tightly round him, that he could find himself floating on a stream that would run down to the place Lisa had once pointed out to him on an ancient map, the Sea of Doubt. It wouldn’t be the first time, but always in the past the company had been straight, if criminal.

The Japanese had stood up and photographed the Koreans; the latter in turn stood up and photographed the Japanese. Then both groups turned their cameras on the natives, there were blinding flashes and the natives turned their smiles on the tourist dollar.

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