A COAT OF PAINT
	Carol glanced at the two other women in the lift, wondering whether they too had 
just left the bedsides of husbands who hadn't long to live. It was strange that for once 
she didn't feel like crying, which was a relief. It had been embarrassing, trying to stop 
the tears flowing in public. Now she felt she couldn't cry any more. Maybe grief was 
over now - what use was it anyway? It wouldn't restore Jack's health.
	At home she made a cup of tea, sipping it while patting Bobby their terrier. She 
couldn't bear to prepare food for herself when all she could think of was how sick and 
shrunken Jack had looked. His hands, previously so strong, so often covered with dirt 
or oil from gardening or working on the car, were now still and thin and white. His 
fine-boned face with the mild blue eyes haunted her too. To know that cancer would 
soon take his life made her sick at heart, but it was resentment, a sense of injustice, that 
burned into her more than ever before. She felt like screaming, beating her head with 
her fists. Hadn't he been on the point of retiring, and weren't they about to sell up and 
move to Queensland into the new home they agreed was ideal? Even more hurtful was 
that bravery of his, that gentle, uncomplaining way he had. His only concern was her 
well-being.
	She had a lonely life now, for her daughter Merrilyn had heavy responsibilities 
added to her distress over her father's illness. A busy husband, two lively children and 
primary school and a new baby demanded most of her time and concern.
	The more Carol brooded the more she dreaded seeing Jack the following afternoon. 
She wasn't as brave as he was, and knew that her weeping and distress was upsetting 
him. That just wasn't fair.
	Her problems unresolved, she set out the next morning for a long walk to think 
things over and to tire herself out so she might be able to sleep for once. She followed 
unfamiliar roads and found herself in a suburb she had not previously visited. Bobby 
was excited and full of life while Carol tried to escape visions of Jack's pain-clouded 
eyes.
	Suddenly it dawned on her that she was tired and thirsty. She looked around at the 
quiet street and the garden nearby with its neat lawn and petunia beds, its shrubs blazing 
heavenly blue and brilliant red. She wiped her sweaty face with her palm while an 
elderly man with craggy face and white hair stopped painting the woodwork at the front 
of his brick veneer and glanced in her direction as he drank from the mug his wife had 
just brought him.
	"Lovely day for a walk, eh?" he called cheerily. "Going to get even hotter later on, 
they say."
	The woman offered Carol tea but she said a glass of water would be fine.
	"He's wasting his time," smiled the woman, "but there's no telling him."
	"Why is it a waste?" asked Carol.
	"It's easy to tell you're no local. Hadn't you heard that all the houses in this street 
are going to be demolished due to the freeway extensions?" asked the woman.
	"We'll get compo", added the man, "but I ask you, how can you get compo for the 
home you brought your kids up in, the home you love?"
	Carol murmured some words of concern and sympathy.
	"The neighbours think I'm soft in the head", continued the man, "but I couldn't bear 
to see the paint peeling off the old place. It seemed a bit of a let-down, somehow".
	"I'm just as bad", said his wife, "but then we're still here for a few more weeks, so 
it's got to be kept nice, hasn't it?" They looked at each other with complete 
understanding.
	A few weeks, or days, or hours, thought Carol as she went home. No, she wouldn't 
let Jack down. The fresh coat of paint for that house was not a waste. It was as worth 
while as the pleasure Jack showed when he saw Carol standing there, serene and 
smiling, dressed in her best, her arms filled with fruit and flowers.