"Lois," Clark said. "I'm not sure what to wear for work. At home, I wear a suit and tie."
"Would you be comfortable working in jeans and a shirt?" she asked.
Clark shrugged slightly. "I don't know," he said. "But I felt conspicuous yesterday."
"How about you leave off the tie for now?" she suggested. "Until Friday, anyway. On Fridays, everyone dresses down."
"OK," he agreed. "Thanks."
With another smile, she turned away. "See you soon," she called.
Clark stood watching her. He could watch her all day - and it still wouldn't long be enough.
Part 3
Five minutes later, Clark was ready. He tried to use the extra time productively by mentally listing the information he needed - like where to find a bank.
Lois knocked on his door, and Clark hurried to open it, aware his level of excitement at seeing her again was totally out of proportion but also aware it was beyond his powers to contain it.
"We'll walk," Lois said as they moved down his driveway. "The cafe is just a couple of blocks away, and after breakfast, we'll catch a train to work."
When they came to the road, Clark looked left and, seeing no cars, stepped forward. He felt Lois grab his hand and tug him back to the sidewalk. She glanced up at him, grinning, as a car whistled by, coming from his right. In some far recess of his mind, Clark realised he should be embarrassed by his mistake, but he just couldn't get past the wonder of her small hand wrapped around his.
She released him, still grinning, and they crossed the road together. A few minutes later, they came to a warm cafe and settled at the table in the corner, adjacent to the front window. Lois ordered wholemeal English muffins with a cappuccino. Clark ordered bacon and eggs with a latte.
"What should I expect from today?" he asked.
"It's Tuesday," Lois said. "The games from last weekend are all but forgotten, and everyone's focus is next weekend. You'll probably be sent out with Gazza or Bluey. They'll be sniffing around the traps, trying to determine which players will miss games due to injury. Some of the clubs will train today. I think Banjo has an interview with the coach of North Melbourne."
Clark felt disappointment scald a chasm through his hope. He so wanted to work with Lois. "What will you do?" he said.
"Browny gave me a story he wants for Friday," Lois said. "It's called 'Rich Club, Poor Club' - that'll take up most of my day."
"I'm not sure I'm going to be able to do this," Clark admitted. "When I agreed to come to Australia, I didn't realise there would be so much to learn ... and ... well ... I didn't understand a whole lot of what Mr Brown said yesterday."
Lois laughed delightedly. "*No one* understands much of what Browny says at first," she said. "Don't worry, you won't have to work alone just yet. Banjo and Bluey let their mouths run away with them sometimes, but they're basically good blokes. Gazza ... well ... other than subjecting you to a blow-by-blow description of the 1990 Grand Final, he won't cause you too much grief."
"And *Browny*?" Clark asked dubiously.
"Is one of the finest footy minds in the country," Lois said firmly. "I know that isn't the impression he gives, but he's a wonderful editor and has an instinctive understanding of the game. And he's a good bloke to have on your side, too." She reached into her bag, took out a handful of papers, and pushed the top one across the table to him. "This is the train system," she said. "The closest station to you is Richmond. You get off at Flinders Street Station when you're going into work. I'll show you today."
"*Flinders* Street?" he asked with a grin.
"Flinders Street is in the CBD and is also one of the main train stations. Flinders Lane is one block north of Flinders Street." Lois put the second piece of paper on top of the first. "This is a map of Richmond. You live here, the train station is here, and if you go along here, you'll come to the shopping area. There are banks, supermarkets, chemists - just about everything you could need. Every Sunday morning, there's a market."
"Chemist?" he queried.
She thought for a moment, the prettiest little crease appearing between her eyebrows, and then she broke into a smile. "Drugstore."
Their meals arrived, and Lois buttered her muffin and then peeled back the lid from the tiny plastic container, revealing a smooth glob of gooey black stuff.
"What is *that*?" Clark asked.
She grinned at his tone. "Vegemite." She spread it sparingly across her muffin and pushed the little tray in his direction. "Try some."
Clark looked at her questioningly. The smell alone was enough to convince him that he didn't need to taste it.
"Come on, Clark," she urged. "You can't come Down Under and not try the local delicacies."
"Delicacy?" he blurted.
Her laughter burst out, and Clark took a moment just to watch her. Lois Lane was an incredibly attractive woman.
"Try it," she said, her eyes issuing an amused challenge.
Hesitantly, he dipped the very end of his forefinger into the black stuff and lifted it to his tongue. It tasted like pure salt. Worse than pure salt.
Lois's laughter increased.
"What *exactly* is it?" Clark asked, as he wiped the remaining black goo from his finger with his napkin.
"It's yeast extract," she informed him casually.
Well, that explained a lot.
"Eat your bacon and eggs," she said, still grinning. "They should taste all right."
He did. And she was right - they tasted great.
Lois slid a third piece of paper across the table. "This is the basic structure of the AFL - the Australian Football League - sixteen teams, their names, nicknames, training bases, home grounds, most recent premiership, colours, captains, coaches."
Clark looked at the neatly hand-written paper. It was set out in grid form - easy to read and follow. It was going to be invaluable as he tried to get all this sorted in his head. He glanced to the line about half-way down.
<Hawthorn, the Hawks, Glenferrie Oval, Waverley Park, 1991, brown and gold, Jason Dunstall, Ken Judge>
"Thanks, Lois," Clark said gratefully. "This is going to help a lot." He was tempted to reveal that he knew the name of her team but decided to keep that information secret a little longer. "The guys at the airport yesterday? Which team were they?"
"The West Coast Eagles," Lois said. She leant across the table and pointed to the last team on the grid. "They are one of the two Western Australian teams. They're currently third on the ladder. They beat Richmond by seventeen points on the weekend; the guys were probably about to fly home."
"You didn't seem too threatened by them," Clark noted. He sipped from his coffee and immediately tried to shut down his reaction. It was weak and - and to be honest - insipid.
Lois spooned some froth from the top of her cappuccino. "It's football," she said lightly.
"It's *only* football, therefore it doesn't matter?" Clark questioned.
"Don't *ever* say it's *only* football," Lois advised with a small smile. She put the teaspoon in her mouth. When she slipped it out, a little bubble of froth remained on her upper lip. "Not around here."
Clark wondered what it would feel like to kiss away the froth. "Why not?" he said, trying desperately to keep his voice normal.
"Because it is far, far more than a game." Lois slid her tongue across her lip, sweeping away the froth.
Clark hauled his mind back to their conversation. "So you think they behaved well?" he asked incredulously.
"No," Lois said easily. "But they were away from home, they were excited about their team winning, and they almost certainly have finals to look forward to. They're passionate about their team."
Clark couldn't resist asking, "Are you passionate about your team?"
She lifted an eyebrow and shot him a grin that resonated through his insides. "There's no point to it if you don't care," she said. "Might as well stay at home and knit."
Clark laughed. He couldn't quite picture Lois at home knitting. But he *did* want to go to a game with her. A game involving her team. A game that aroused those passions. He did a mental back-flip and focussed on trying to make sense of all the things he'd been told about Australian football. "Lois," he said. "I don't think you realise how little I know. This game - it's just a big fog in my mind."
She thought for a minute, and then slipped the saucer from under her cup and put it in the centre of the table. "Imagine this is more oval," she said. "And it represents a footy ground."
"Are grounds a certain size?" Clark asked.
"No, they vary. The 'G is one of the bigger grounds - its playing area is about 170 metres long and about 150 metres wide."
"Wow," Clark said. "That's big."
"It has to be big," Lois said. "Each team has eighteen players on the ground, so that's thirty-six, plus umpires." She reached for a little container of toothpicks and took out six. She cut off two small sections of her muffin and stuck two toothpicks in each one and then placed the makeshift structures at each 'end' of the saucer. "These are the goal posts," she said. "If the ball is kicked between them, it is a goal, which is worth six points." She took the other two toothpicks and snapped them in half. She positioned the four halves - one on each side of the existing toothpicks. "These are the point posts," she said. "If the ball goes between a goal post and a point post, that's a behind and is worth one point."
"You get a point for missing?" Clark asked.
Lois nodded. "I believe it's the only sport in the world where that's true," she said. "A score reads goals-behinds-total score, so 'ten-ten-seventy' means the team scored ten goals worth six points each and ten behinds worth a point each, and that adds up to seventy points."
"Who wins?" Clark asked. "The team with the most goals? Or the team with the highest score?"
"Highest score," Lois said. She pointed to the middle of the saucer. "The game starts with the umpire bouncing the ball. The ruckmen are usually the tallest in the team. As the ball comes back down from the bounce, the ruckmen from each side try to tap it to the advantage of one of their players."
"Like a tip-off in basketball?"
"Exactly. Once someone gets the ball, he has to dispose of it properly."
"Either kick or handball?" Clark said.
That earned him a smile. "Well done. He tries to move the ball towards his goal. Once a player has the ball within kicking distance, he can have a shot at goal."
"Are there set positions?"
"No, except for the centre bounces, any player can go anywhere on the ground."
"And the centre bounces?"
"There is a centre square and each team has four players in there at the bounce - a ruckman and three midfielders."
"The other fourteen can be anywhere?"
"Yes," Lois said. "Although normal is six in the forward line - we don't use the word 'offence' - six in the back line, and one on each wing."
"Are there reserves? Players who come on during the game?"
"There's an interchange bench. Each team has three players on the bench. They can swap as often as they like during play."
"Only three?"
"Only three."
"What happens if someone gets injured?" Clark asked.
"You make do with two on the bench, or someone plays injured."
Clark stared at the saucer, trying to imagine how thirty-six players could fit on a sports ground without the game deteriorating to total mayhem. Lois pulled two newspapers from a nearby counter and handed him one.
"Read this," she suggested. "Start at the back - where the sport is."
Clark finished his eggs and bacon in silence and forced down the rest of his coffee as he flicked through the paper. He was three pages in before he found a story about a sport other than football.
He surreptitiously glanced over the top of the paper.
Even dressed casually - in slacks and a no-nonsense white cotton blouse - Lois Lane was exquisite. She wore very little make-up and no jewellery he could see - yet her femininity oozed from every pore.
Her eyes rose from the paper and she caught him staring. "You have a question?" she asked with a smile. "Something you don't understand?"
Clark floundered as he trawled through his mind for a suitable response. "There's a lot of football," he managed - rather clumsily, he thought. "Does your paper cover other sports as well?"
"We do," Lois said. "But during the footy season, unless there is something big happening such as the Olympics, we usually only have a couple of reporters on general sport. The rest of us do footy."
"The Olympics start in a couple of weeks," Clark noted.
Lois grinned. "Then I guess we'll have to find a few inches for that in amongst the footy."
"Are you serious?" he asked. "Football would take precedence over something as big as the Olympics?"
"We have a joke here that if World War Three broke out on Grand Final weekend, the war wouldn't make the front page of any Melbourne newspaper."
"So, I might get to read *something* about the Atlanta Olympics?"
She grinned. "If you're really lucky, you might," she said.
Clark was fairly confident she was teasing him. It felt wonderful. "How long is the football season?"
"Six months, including finals. From the end of March until the end of September." She grinned suddenly. "It's said that Melbourne has only two seasons - footy season and non-footy season."
Clark smiled in response. "Do you have a preference?" he asked, figuring he already knew her answer.
Her grin burst open. "Footy season," she said. "There's nothing quite like it."
||_||
Clark spent the morning with Banjo. They went to a football ground called 'Arden Street' and conducted a long interview with the coach of the North Melbourne team. Clark listened, not understanding much but content to use the opportunity to become more familiar with the language of football.
For him, the highlight of the morning was bumping into Lois as he and Banjo left Arden Street.
"Hi Banjo, Clark," she said as she approached them.
'Clark', he noted with relief. Not 'Rubber'.
"G'day, Flinders," Banjo said. "How's it going?"
"Good," she said. "You?"
Banjo gestured to the club rooms behind him. "He was in a talkative mood."
"That's always good."
"How's your story going?" Clark asked.
Lois smiled. "Good, thanks, but I better keep moving. I've got two more clubs to get to before I can go back to the office and start writing this up."
Clark and Banjo walked towards their car. "Is this one of the rich clubs or one of the poor clubs?" Clark asked.
Banjo seemed surprised by the question. "Couldn't you tell?"
"I don't have anything to compare it with."
"This is definitely one of the poor clubs," Banjo said as he unlocked the car. "Their facilities would be in the bottom three or four in the league. Their membership is low. Their match attendances are poor."
"Isn't the owner willing to put more money into the club?"
Banjo looked up with surprise. "North is actually the *only* Victorian club that is privately owned. About ten years ago, their financial crisis was such that they were bought by a consortium of wealthy supporters."
"Who owns the rest of the clubs?" Clark asked.
"The people who love them."
"Supporters?"
"Members, officially, I guess, but anyone who loves a club considers it their club, and no one argues with that."
"Who makes the decisions?"
"The members vote in a board and the board runs the club. But if the members aren't happy, they hold the board accountable."
"Does it ever get ugly?"
Banjo grinned. "Sometimes ... but it sure beats having some bloke making decisions about your club just because he's filthy rich."
Clark gestured behind him. "This club - even though they're not rich, they're successful, aren't they?" He was sure he'd seen North Melbourne at the top of the table printed in the paper this morning.
Banjo nodded. "They're favourites for this year's flag." He grinned suddenly. "Why do you ask, Rubber? You're not thinking of being a Roo Boy, are you?"
"Roo Boy?"
"North are the Kangaroos. If you barrack for them, you're a Roo Boy."
"I haven't decided on my team yet," Clark declared quickly.
Banjo grinned wider as he started the motor. "Better get on with it, mate," he said. "You've only got three days until Round Fifteen starts."
"There have been fourteen rounds already this season?"
"Yep. Fourteen down, eight to go. Plus finals."
"Who do you barrack for?" Clark asked.
"Essendon."
"The ..." Clark tried to visualise Lois's grid. "... black and red team? The Bombers?"
"Good onya," Banjo said, his voice laced with surprise. "Has Flinders been helping you?"
Clark nodded.
"What did she say about Essendon?"
"Nothing specific," Clark said.
Banjo seemed to find that funny.
"Why?" Clark asked.
"Because those Hawk supporters despise Essendon with a pure and unrelenting hatred. There's a lot of history between the two clubs - none of it friendly."
"It's that strong?'
"You bet." Banjo glanced sideways, his face serious. "I doubt Flinders would ever speak to you again if you decided to barrack for Essendon."
Clark managed a nervous smile. "You're joking, right?"
His only response was a slightly raised eyebrow.
"Do Essendon fans hate Hawthorn?" Clark asked.
"Not as much," Banjo said gleefully. "We enjoy stirring them, but we save our strongest enmity for Collingwood."
As they drove back to the office, Clark reflected that he felt a little like he had inadvertently dropped into a war zone. A war where he didn't know the sides. Or the rules. Or the history.
||_||
Clark's second meeting with Paul Brown was considerably less baffling than the first. They managed to communicate sufficiently well that Clark came away with a pile of books, knowing he was expected to read them and gain some background into the game and its history.
Lois came into the newsroom mid-afternoon, and after a brief interlude in Browny's office, she went to her desk with just a quick wave as she passed Clark. Now she was typing furiously.
A cry broke out across the general noise of the newsroom. Clark looked up from the pages of his book to see that Paul had emerged from his office, carrying a crate. He set the crate on the floor, and hauled himself onto it.
Clark couldn't help glancing down, half expecting the crate to be bowed under the editor's weight.
Paul Brown didn't seem worried by the possibility of a collapse. "Hey!" he announced excitedly. "I got an email from Deano."
People streamed from their desks to crowd around the editor.
"Well, spill it," Bluey said eagerly. "Did he get to Metropolis all right?"
Clark stood, and his eyes automatically sought Lois's desk. She kept typing for a few seconds, and Clark wondered whether she hadn't heard Paul, or if she was ignoring his announcement. Then, she slipped from her seat and stood at the back of the crowd.
"Read it, Browny," Banjo urged. "Let's hear how the old bludger is getting on."
Paul Brown lifted the print-out and began to read. "G'day from sunny Metropolis, where the beer is quite decent, but the coffee is seriously dodgy. I reckon it's strong enough to leach the flesh from your gullet. I've survived one day as a reporter for the Daily Planet - and they haven't given me the heave-ho yet. Though I was told that from now on, I have to wear a suit and tie every day."
Browny paused to allow for the laughter he'd known would come. Clark glanced across to Lois. Her eyes were fixed forward, but it seemed to him that her face was carefully impassive.
"The city is bonzer, actually," Paul read. "And the people are great - really friendly. The bloke I was supposed to swap with got crook, so I've moved in with the boss, an Elvis-loving crooner called Perry. They call me 'Daniel', which is weird. They all seem to go by their real names - except for this sheila called Cat. Her name is Catherine, but I reckon she's called 'Cat' because she prowls around the joint like a feline in heat."
The newsroom reverberated with more laughter. Clark gazed ahead, careful not to meet anyone's eyes.
Browny cleared his throat to command silence. "Tell Bluey I haven't laid eyes on Superman," he read. "Everyone I meet claims to have seen him at least once, but I reckon they're having a lend of me. I reckon he's Metropolis's version of a bunyip. Perry swears he's dinky-di - but you won't catch me believing it unless I see him with my own two eyes. A man who flies and is strong enough to lift a truck? That sounds like a publicity stunt to me. Amazing what they can do with special effects these days. If I do come within cooee of him, I'm gonna grab him by the cape and haul him back to Oz to play centre half forward for Fitzroy. He'd just need to swap his red jocks for some blue footy shorts."
Paul stopped and grinned widely as the gathered crowd roared with laughter. Clark set his gaze ahead, steadfastly refusing to give in to the compunction to shuffle uncomfortably.
Paul lowered the paper and stepped down from the crate. "That's it," he said. "Break's over. Back to work the lot of you."
Clark retreated to his desk and buried himself in his book, but his mind was too preoccupied to take in anything he read. Dan Scardino? From the response to his email, he was very popular. Was everyone aware of whatever it was that existed between Lois and Dan? There had been nothing to indicate she was closer to Dan than anyone else. Dan had mentioned Bluey by name, not Lois.
And Clark hadn't seen anyone nudge her or even glance at Lois to imply Dan was somehow more to her than just a colleague.
Was their relationship a secret? Was it a recent thing? Perhaps they were waiting for Dan to return to announce it?
But it still made no sense that Dan Scardino would willingly agree to go to Metropolis, knowing he would leave Lois behind.
Clark pushed his thoughts to the second part of Dan's email.
Did they really think Superman was an elaborate hoax? Clark supposed it wasn't inconceivable - Superman had never been seen outside of Metropolis, rarely spoke, and deliberately remained shrouded in mystery.
What did Lois think of Superman?
Clark risked a quick glance in her direction and caught her staring at him. When their eyes met, she jerked away and returned her attention to her computer screen.
For the first time, she seemed ill at ease.
What had she been thinking in the moments prior to him looking up?
Maybe she was missing Scardino. That would explain why she'd been staring so pensively in his direction. This was Scardino's desk. Maybe the email had brought home how much she missed him. Maybe habit had led her to look in this direction, and she was wishing it was Dan sitting here instead of the American import.
Clark sighed and returned to his book.
||_||
Lois Lane had moved slowly back to her desk. As she sat down, she sighed as fresh waves of regret assailed her. Dan's email had sounded cheery and untroubled, but she knew him well enough to see right through it. The tone was too jokey, too upbeat, too forced ...
Her mind filled with the image of his face, and her heart ached for him.
Ah, Dan, she thought.
She gazed towards his desk.
Clark Kent lifted his head, and their eyes locked. Their connection lasted long enough for her to sense his mood - he too seemed a bit dejected. That smile of his had vanished.
Lois forced her attention back to her computer screen.
She felt her face heat as she recalled Dan's email and realised that some of it could have seemed offensive to Clark - particularly the bit about the woman who prowled like a cat in heat. And maybe even the bit about not believing in the flying man.
What if Cat were a friend of Clark's? A girlfriend even. He'd said he wasn't married, but that didn't mean he didn't have someone special in his life.
What if Superman were a friend of Clark's?
No, that was unlikely. From what she'd heard of the bloke in blue tights, he appeared infrequently and only ever stayed long enough to help out with whatever disaster had brought him out of hiding. She couldn't remember seeing a report where he had actually spoken.
Lois chanced a quick scan of the room and saw that Clark's dark head was again buried in one of the books Browny had given him. His shoulders seemed more slumped than usual.
Perhaps the email had accentuated how far he was from home. Perhaps he now regretted leaving everything familiar and coming to this footy-crazed city. Perhaps he was feeling like he didn't really fit in here.
Lois scrolled back to the top of her story and began another edit. Half an hour later, she saved it, and closed down her computer. She took her jacket and bag, and sauntered over to Dan's desk where Clark was engrossed in a copy of Geoffrey Blainey's 'A Game of Our Own'. He looked up as she approached and smiled.
"Hi, Lois," he said.
Now she was here, Lois wasn't really sure what to say. Clark didn't seem so disheartened now. "You doing OK?" she asked, perusing his face to try to read his mood.
Her question seemed to surprise him. "Sure," he said. "Are you?"
She nodded. "I ... ah, just ... I was hoping you weren't offended by Dan's email. You probably know the woman called Catherine."
"I do," Clark said. "But I wasn't offended."
"Sorry," she said.
"It's OK," he assured her.
Lois hesitated. She knew exactly what it felt like to be different from everyone else - to not really fit in. And Clark seemed too ... refined ... too straight-laced to be totally at ease sitting in a pub, downing VBs and loudly swapping tales that regularly crossed the line of good taste.
Assuming he hadn't had the time to make friends outside of the office ... and assuming he didn't have any previous contacts in Melbourne ... his choices seemed limited to spending the evening alone or going to the pub with the blokes.
Unless she ...
Lois really didn't want to seem too forward. There was a fine line between helping a newcomer and appearing pushy.
Particularly when he was a man and she was a woman.
But Clark had given no indication that she had made him uncomfortable. And no indication that he had misinterpreted her assistance as anything more than she intended.
And it wasn't going to be a long-term problem, Lois reasoned. Anyone who looked like Clark Kent was not going to suffer from a lack of female attention. Very soon, he was not going to need her company.
Had he already reached that point?
In an all-male newsroom, it was difficult to assess.
"Did you need something?" Clark asked.
Lois decided to plunge in. He could always decline if he felt he'd already spent enough time with her. "I have to go to the supermarket after work," she said, trying to sound casual. "I was wondering if you wanted to come along. I reckon you're going to need to buy food at some stage."
Clark smiled brightly. He didn't seem at all put off by her suggestion. "Thanks, Lois," he said. "And after we come back from the store, would you let me cook you supper? I'd like to thank you for all your help."
"You cook?" she said, not able to keep the surprise from her tone.
He nodded.
"You don't have to," she hurried to assure him. "You don't owe me anything."
"Actually, I owe you twenty dollars," Clark said with a smile. "And a whole lot more. I'd really like it if you would come back to my unit and let me cook you supper."
"Dinner," she corrected. "Or tea. Supper is a cup of tea and a biscuit in the evening."
He smiled again. "Are you ready to go now?"
"Yep, it's well past knock-off time."
Clark closed his book, put his notepad in his desk drawer, and stood. "Let's go then."
||_||
Clark handed Lois a plate of chicken and mushroom ravioli. She scrutinised it as she took it and then looked up to him. "You weren't kidding about being able to cook, were you?"
He sat beside her at Dan Scardino's small table. "Do you cook?"
Lois chuckled. "Not if I can help it. I certainly can't cook like this. Who taught you?"
"My mom."
"I guess she can cook really well too?"
Clark nodded. "Better than anyone I've ever known."
"Do you miss her?"
Clark paused, deliberately taking time to chew his ravioli. If he said he didn't miss his mom, he would appear heartless. But he couldn't really say he missed her when he intended to fly to Kansas later that evening. "I haven't really been here long enough to miss anyone too much."
"Three months isn't too long," Lois said, as if trying to cheer him. "You'll be home again before you know it."
And Dan will be back here, Clark thought. "What about your folks?" he asked. "Do they live in Melbourne?"
"No."
The shortness of her tone caused Clark's eyes to snap up from his food. There was something in her face ... something he took as a warning not to pursue this topic. "How's your story going?"
"Good," Lois replied. "The tough bit is to find something that hasn't already been said. Or at least try to find a new slant to the same stuff."
"With such preoccupation with football, I'm surprised there is anything new to write."
"That's the problem," Lois said. "Match reports are always easy, of course, but filling the mid-week papers with footy news can be difficult." She gestured to her plate. "This is *good*," she said appreciatively.
Clark smiled at her compliment. "Will you be working on your story again tomorrow?" he enquired.
"Tomorrow's Wednesday," she said with a grin. "It's my day off."
Clark felt his spirits plummet. He'd really hoped he would be able to work with her tomorrow.
"It's your day off too," Lois informed him.
"It is?"
"Yep, half the footy department gets Tuesday off, the other half gets Wednesday. We're Wednesday."
"Mr Brown didn't say anything about it today."
Lois shrugged. "Dan always had Wednesdays off; I can't see why you'd be different."
So that was another thing Lois shared with Dan Scardino. "I'm glad you told me," Clark said, trying for a smile.
"You only get one day off a week, so you should make the most of it."
Clark waited, hoping Lois would tell him what she planned to do. Or ask what he planned to do. She said nothing, so, keeping his tone casual, he asked, "Do you have plans for tomorrow?" Then, to make it sound less personal, he added, "What is there to do around here? Mid-week and in the winter?"
"The usual stuff - movies, golf, tennis, sight-seeing. What are you interested in?"
Anything that involves being with you, Clark thought. "What are your plans?"
"Routine stuff in the morning - housework, laundry - then I'm watching a replay in the afternoon."
"A replay?"
"A replay of last weekend's game."
"Any particular game?"
Lois caught his look, and her grin slowly developed. "Maybe," she conceded.
"A game involving Hawthorn?" he guessed.
She chuckled. "You asked someone who I barrack for?"
Clark acknowledged that with a grin. "*You* wouldn't tell me."
Her eyes shone with amusement. "You're a reporter," she said. "A little research is good for you."
Clark was well aware that the very thing he needed most was to watch Australian football actually being played. If not live, then on the television. But Lois had already been more than generous with her time, and he'd sensed some hesitancy when he'd asked her to come for supper.
"Have you ever seen a game of footy?" Lois asked.
"No," he admitted, trying not to look too needy.
She grinned. "What are you doing tomorrow arvo?"
He returned her grin. "I'd like to watch a replay," he said quietly.
Her grin widened. Lois reached across the table to where he'd left the map she'd given him. Picking up a pen, she drew two asterisks. "You live here," she said. "I live there. Come around whenever you're ready."
Clark's immediate reaction was joy - at the close proximity of their homes. Then he sobered quickly. The reality was it represented how close Lois lived to Dan - how close she would live to Dan long after he, Clark, had left, reduced to a vague memory of an exchange reporter called 'Rubber'.
Glossary
Arvo - afternoon.
Biscuit - cookie.
Bludger - a lazy person. Can also be used affectionately, when it might not necessarily indicate laziness.
Bonzer - great.
Bunyip - mythical creature.
CBD - Central Business District.
Cooee - a call used in the bush to attract someone's attention. Within cooee - not too far away.
Crook - sick, unwell.
Dinki-di - pronounced dinki-die - authentic, genuine.
Dodgy - not quite right.
Having a lend - deliberately trying to mislead.
Heave-ho - giving someone the heave-ho - asking/forcing them to leave.
Jocks - male briefs.
Knock off - finish work. Knock-off time - scheduled time for work to finish.
Traps - checking the traps - foraging for information.
Wholemeal - whole grain.
RL People mentioned
Jason Dunstall - captain of Hawthorn - 1995-1998
Ken Judge - coach of Hawthorn - 1996-1999
Geoffrey Blainey - Australian author and historian.
http://www.penguin.com.au/lookinside/author-profile.cfm?AuthId=0000000163 Pics
Goalposts -
http://webmaths.files.wordpress.com/2009/07/afl-goalposts.jpg Diagram of football ground -
http://203.23.213.83/assets/images/Diagrams/AFL-Ground.gif Flinders St Station -
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/6/63/Melbourne_Flinders_St._Station.jpg
