Holden's Performance by Murray Bail

around in circles.
    Holden, who regularly experienced McBee's ratbaggery, turned the colour of Bennett's brick. The peroxide blonde. Surely he wouldn't—.
    â€˜Tell us. Who is he?’
    They pleaded.
    â€˜What's his name?’
    â€˜But that's tomorrow night. What am I going to cook? Does he eat fish?’
    At last McBee lowered the paper.
    â€˜Stone the crows’—rural terms had penetrated the urban vocabulary in South Australia, along with mining slang—‘anyone would think I was bringing Jane Russell into the house.’
    A private joke, it went down like a ‘lead balloon’—an aeronautical term, McBee was the first in the state to use it regularly, just as when giving the thumbs down he said, ‘That's a real no-no.’ To Holden now he raised one shoulder and flashed one of Jane's cheesy smiles. The last of their American Liberators at Parafield had her symmetrical statistics curvaceously cartooned on the fuselage, spilling out of one-piece bathers.
    â€˜Say, what's eating Holden-boy?’
    â€˜Perhaps he's in the dark,’ muttered Mrs Shadbolt, ‘like the rest of us.’
    â€˜Friday nights are our special nights,’ Karen reminded. ‘But I'm glad you're bringing him.’
    â€˜Who said it's a him?’ bellowed McBee, and laughed like a maniac from Parkside.
    There he goes again, Holden frowned. And although he began smiling, something about McBee troubled him.
    â€˜Don't you think I'm attracted to local sheilas?’
    The newspaper sliding from his knees (‘ RAIN-SEEDING PLANS SHELVED ’), McBee scrambled after filly-legged Karen, giving their mother an affectionate pinch in passing.
    As it happened, McBee's friend turned out to be a flight sergeant from Warragul, a good foot shorter than Holden, and sporting the pukka tooth-brush moustache of his superior officers. Natty little chap. When he grinned, which was every few seconds, he blinked vigorously. Originally a signal to show his prowess as a listener his blinking had developed into a Pavlovian tic.
    â€˜How do you do?’ their mother had offered her hand.
    Standing to attention he remained at a slight Pisa-angle.
    â€˜Sit down, sit down!’ shouted McBee. ‘For Christsake, everybody sit down.’
    It was then as the airman tried crossing legs under the table that Holden winced and realised he had only one leg.
    â€˜Sorry, old boy,’ said the airman. ‘My fault entirely.’
    The evening advanced rapidly on several fronts: monologues shouted, froth and slops, and other repetitions. Two glasses were broken, as soon were laws of courtesy and commonsense.
    Did the family always create such a deafening racket on Friday? Holden observed their behaviour through the eyes of the stranger. At the head of the table, and acting as headwaiter (‘Wait, don't get ahead of yourself’), McBee took on the complex tasks of chief toast-maker, bottle-opener, orator, joker. The last came easily to him. He told elongated stories. He repeated himself. (He was speaking to the ceiling.) A bang of the fist brought the table to order and a smile of indulgence from Mrs S. The success spread to his head. As Holden watched it expanded, squeezing transparent moisture from the pores, ballooning melon-round, and flushing into the blood of the rare steak he had insisted upon. After offering a glimpse of an inflated future McBee's face subsided into its familiar bright-eyed countenance. Patience meanwhile took its toll on Holden's mother. Drained to the colour of pearl she looked to be bored, definitely.
    Mrs Shadbolt, and even Karen, began to wonder why the one-legged flight sergeant had been invited. McBee took no notice of him. Whenever he tentatively parted his purple Ups, which immediately activated the eyelids, McBee shouted the man down. To Holden it was not at all how he imagined a best-friend to be.
    Ten-thirty, and Karen had nodded off in her chair.
    The way the lonely