Читать книгу No Way to Behave at a Funeral - Noel Braun - Страница 8

I decided I’d try my luck at the Heidelberg Town Hall. The band was good, thumping away vigorously, its steady beat ensuring the floor was always crowded. The night looked bright and promising. The band started up a fox trot. More couples began moving to the floor. There were plenty of girls standing at the edge, waiting for the man of their dreams. Some chatted in groups, giggling together, finding safety in numbers. Others, perhaps more adventurous, were on their own. I looked among them for a suitable partner.

There she was, a tall, slim, dark haired, attractive girl on her own. She stood out from the rest. I couldn’t exactly say why. She just stood out. Perhaps she was taller than most. But she was knocking back boy after boy.

‘I’ll give her a go,’ I muttered to myself.

I edged my way around the floor, running the gauntlet of the more adventurous couples flaunting their style with wide ranging flourish.

‘Would you care to have this dance?’

She looked at me closely, hesitated for a moment then accepted.

We were awkward at first and danced in silence as we became used to each other. She did not have much to say. It could have been shyness or maybe she was sizing me up. I made the conversation and asked the questions. She told me her name was Maris. She was 21. She had just commenced her Midwifery Certificate, having completed her general nursing training at Mooroopna Base Hospital in central Victoria. This was her first Saturday night dance in the big smoke. I told her my name was Noel, that I was 26, studying psychology at the University of Melbourne and working as a psychologist and guidance officer with the Victorian Education Department.

‘I noticed you were knocking back a few blokes,’ I said to her.

‘I was waiting for the fellow who had taken me out for a drink at the milk bar to return from moving his car, but by the time you arrived, I decided I’d been stood up.’

We laughed and she seemed to relax. We danced for the remainder of the evening. In fact, you could say I clung to her in case the fellow had returned from shifting his car and wanted to claim her. We got on famously, I thought. After the dance I took her to coffee in South Yarra then home to St Vincent’s Hospital nurses’ quarters.

‘I’ve taken a shine to that sheila,’ I told a mate over a beer. ‘I think I could marry her.’

‘What do you like about her?’

‘She’s seems straightforward and genuine. She’s fresh and unsophisticated, not like the girls at uni.’

I found out much later that Maris had a different view.

‘I’m not going out with that bloke again,’ she had said to one of her fellow nurses.

‘Why is that?’

‘He questions things too much; he’s too cynical for me.’

I guess I must have improved and eventually came up to scratch. One night some months later we were parked, cosy in my orange VW beetle, facing St Kilda Beach. The sea was gentle, the waves barely lapping the sand. The moonlight glinted in the water. Our arms were around each other. Was there a better time? I looked across and whispered, ‘Maris, will you marry me?’

She whispered back to me, ‘I couldn’t think of anything nicer.’