Alice safari

pantsuit.

‘Not Ayers Rock again, star of television, poster and divine tea towel!’ trumpeted Trevor from a display-stand behind her, where he was covertly testing the fragility of bark paintings.

‘Do you have any slides of the Springs?’ huffed Polly. ‘It will save my legs getting out of the bus to look at them.’

‘There you go, Marie, thirty-two voracious culture-vultures, at twenty cents a noggin,’ Keith buzzed.

Jack swung round, nettled at being treated as a prawn. A waif of a girl, slenderhipped beneath a lurid art deco smock, was studying the docket.

‘We’ll get these termites out of your hair, love, quicker than a prize bull up a cow,’ confided Keith. ‘This mob’s a pain in the proverbials. Half of ‘em couldn’t tell the difference between the Rock and Mount Connor.’

Jack had been gazing out through empty distance for so long that his jaded eyes now fell upon what resembled an apparition.

‘Thank you, Keith. We’ve already shot through seven busloads today.’

‘My vehicle’s a coach, love, not a bus. I’ve got some self-respect, you know,’ he chuckled.

‘Excuse me,’ intervened Jack. ‘Are you the famous daughter?’

‘Sherlock’s got it in one,’ Keith guffawed. Marie shied away. ‘Yeah, she’s a real beaut of an artiste, ain’t she? Look, love, I must have a smoke and put me feet up for ten minutes. I’ve been on the road since seven. I’ll bowl back in a jiffy to flush ‘em out.

Leave you in peace stead o’ pieces.’

‘Thanks a lot.’ Marie coloured with embarrassment. Or irritation.