Mike Dixon

folded on top, forgetting he had stuffed them down the side.
He failed to remember that his shirt had been packed at the
bottom – not in the middle. More seriously, he failed to notice
that his address book was missing.
He descended the steps of the Island View Hotel, freshly
showered, freshly clothed and in good spirits. An American
warship was in port and US servicemen were fraternizing with
Australian soldiers based in the city. It was a chance too good
to be missed – a return to something like the atmosphere of
the war years. Down the road, a band was playing Glenn Miller
hits from the 1940s. Humphrey‟s feet began to move to
the beat of Colonel Bogie as he headed towards the sound of
drum and trombone. Three elderly faces watched him go –
peering from behind lace curtains.
The boys in the band wore T-shirts emblazoned with Ameri-
can and Australian flags. Humphrey found himself a small table
in the garden. He ordered a beer and a plate of French
fries. He knew he looked out of place but derived a sense of
detachment from his broad-brimmed hat, white linen jacket
and sunglasses.
The fries were particularly good and he demolished the en-
tire plate before starting on his beer. After a few sips, he became
aware of a presence.
„Do you mind if I join you?‟
She was young and sank into the chair beside him.
„You don‟t mind, do you?‟
Humphrey looked up from his beer.
„Some older men feel shy in the presence of younger wom-
en.‟
Humphrey assured her he was not one of them. She placed
a hand on his knee.
„Having a night out?‟
Humphrey suppressed an inclination to shy away.
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