A Town like Alice

show them."
    "It's because everything was so wet," Jean said. "But I'm going to have a proper pair of riding breeches made, I think. Ringers' strides are for ringers' skins."
    "I'd never want to get up on a horse again if it'd done that to me."
    "It's going to be some time before I can," said Jean.
    Presently Rose said, "Tell me, Jean. Do you think there'd be any work up here for a contractor?"
    Jean stared at her. "What sort of a contractor?"
    "Making roads and things like that. Buildings, too."
    "Is this Billy Wakeling, from Alice?"
    Rose nodded. "He wrote me," she said carelessly. For the bunch of seven letters that arrived by the Dakota regularly every Wednesday, this seemed to Jean to be an understatement. "You know, his father's a contractor in Newcastle-he's got graders and bulldozers and steam shovels and all sorts of things like that. He started Billy off in Alice after the war because he said Alice was expanding and expanding places meant work for contractors. But Billy says he's fed up with Alice. He's coming up here for a visit as soon as the wet's over," she added artlessly.
    "He won't get any roads or buildings to contract for here," Jean observed. "There's nobody to pay for them. I know what does want doing though. Joe Harman wants some little dams built up on Midhurst. I don't know if that's in his line."
    "I should think it might be," said Rose slowly. "After all, it's shifting muck, and that's what Billy does. He'd do it with a bulldozer in the dry, wouldn't he?"
    "I haven't the least idea," said Jean. "Can he get hold of a bulldozer?"
    "His old man's got about forty down at Newcastle," Rose said. "I should think he could spare one for Billy."
    "They're only little dams," said Jean.
    "Well, everything's got to start. I don't think Billy expects a contract like the Sydney Harbour Bridge, not in the first year."
    Jean asked, "Could you scoop out a hole for a swimming-pool with a bulldozer?"
    "I should think so. Yes, I'm sure you could. I went out with him once and watched one working. He let me drive it; it was awful fun. You'd scoop it out first with a bulldozer and then you'd put up wooden stuff that they call shuttering and make the concrete sides."
    "Could he do all that, too?"
    "Oh, Billy can do that. Why, do you want a swimming-pool?"
    Jean stared at the white painted wall. "It was just an idea. A nice, big pool just by the bore, with diving-boards and everything, big enough for everybody to get into and have fun. You see, you've got the water there, right in the main street. You'd have a wooden thing they call a cooling tower and run the water through that to cool it off before it went into the pool. Have a lawn of grass by it, where people could lie and sunbathe if they want to. An old man taking the cash at the gate, a bob a bathe…"
    Rose stared at her. "You've got it all worked out. Are you thinking of doing that, Jean?"
    "I don't know. It would be fun to have it, and I believe it’ll pay like anything. Mixed bathing, of course."
    Rose laughed. "Have all the wowsers in the place looking over the rails to see what was going on."
    "Charge them sixpence for that," said Jean. She turned to Rose. "Ask Billy to get hold of plans and things," she said, "and tell us what it would cost when he comes up after the wet. I don't believe that there's a swimming-pool in the whole Gulf country. It would be fun to have one."
    "I'll ask him. Anything else?"
    Jean stretched in her bed. "A nice hairdressing saloon and beauty parlour," she said, "with a pretty French brunette in it who really knew her stuff, and could make one look like Rita Hayworth. That's what I want, sometimes. But I don't think that's in Billy's line."
    "It had better not be," said Rose.
    Jean got up next day and left the hospital, and walked awkwardly to the workshop. There was an airmail letter from Mr Pack about the air freight consignment of shoes that he had received from them. His enthusiasm was temperate; he pointed out a number of defects and crudities which would require correction in production batches; most of these they were aware of and had attended to. He finished up by saying he would try and shift them, which, knowing Mr Pack, Jean and Aggie Topp interpreted as praise.
    "He'll like the next lot better," Aggie said. And then she said, "I had two girls come along for jobs while you were away. One was Fred Dawson's daughter; he's the chief stockman or something on a station called Carlisle. She's fifteen; her mother brought