Papa didn’t even bother to look at me. ‘Oh, Jesus, Owen, don’t be stupid,’ he said. ‘I’m not doing vegetarian food for Mother’s launch.’ He stood up and wiped his hands on his tea-towel even though there was nothing on them.

I felt tears come behind my eyes. They made my jaw ache. ‘I just got my cow shot, Papa. I just got my cow shot!’

The tears were right there, right in the sockets of my eyes, and the more I tried to stop them, the more they grew.

‘You’re being stupid, Owen,’ Papa said. ‘Grow up. I’m really sorry about your cow. I won’t cook beef, alright? But just grow up. Imagine how it is for kids living on a farm. When I was your age, I could skin a rabbit without even thinking about it. I wasn’t so bloody soft. Jesus!’ He threw the tea-towel onto a table on the other side of the restaurant and made for the kitchen. ‘Your mother likes pork, Owen. So that’s what I’m going to cook. Jesus!’

The tears were not going to get me. I felt for my cricket bat under the table. I found its peeling rubber handle, and I brought it up to elbow height, vertically, like a sword, just above the table. Then I brought it back so I could get a good swing, and I belted my Chinotto bottle across the restaurant so it shattered against the wall. It shattered all down Rosa’s mural—a brown stain like creek water.

Then I bolted. I ran so fast, with my bag banging on my back, and my tears going backwards into my eyes where no one would ever see them. I bolted out the door and onto Collins Street where the commuters were lining the streets, waiting for their trams. I held my cricket bat aloft as I ran and everyone coming toward me, everyone, knew that I meant business.

3 JULY 1970

Dear Tilde

Did you get my last letter? I’ve been running to the letterbox for your response. Every day, such a disappointment! Now, I know you’re a busy woman, but spare me a line or two. I don’t care how short. All right? I don’t care how short. As short as this will do!

Xxx Veda

† † †

11 JULY 1970

Tilde, you’ve got me worried!

Have I said, done, intimated something that has made you cross? Do you not approve of my latest gallivants?

Have pity for me, won’t you. Let me know that, whatever I have done that has offended, it is ultimately forgivable. Go on. You’ve a lifetime of that behind you.

X Veda

† † †

18 JULY 1970

All right then, Tilde.

I apologise over and over and over. I simply do not believe you’re too busy to write to me. Please, Tilde, darling, write me a letter and let me know all is well.