Gordon put his face into her hair and tried not to make a fool of himself.

‘We’ll probably still be getting that coffee machine out when you come home later,’ she said.

‘Right. Let’s not make this goodbye. Might see you later.’

‘Right,’ Lou repeated. ‘Got a job to do.’

‘Have you found someone to help?’

Gordon heard a tapping on the inside of Lou’s windscreen. Jude Oxenford was in the car, flashing her Annie Lennox teeth. Gordon let Lou go to the driver’s side and leant in the passenger window.

‘Thanks for helping her.’

‘Pleasure!’

‘Has my father spoken to you?’ he asked. ‘About Daniel?’

The way Jude’s eyes narrowed, Gordon could see that she knew.

‘Not my problem, Gordo. My last official day at St Pat’s was yesterday.’

‘Well … okay.’

Lou started the engine.

‘You’ve got to let us go.’ Jude smiled. ‘We’ve got a long night ahead of us.’

‘I’m sure the coffee machine won’t take that long … Ah. Oh.’

Lou threw the car into reverse, and the way she slung her arm around the passenger’s headrest to see through the rear window stopped Gordon’s voice in his throat.

‘Always the last to know, right?’ Jude called out to him as Lou reversed onto the street.

Gordon walked on, watching the play. In a day of surprising twists, now came another. Joel Something and his batting partner became mixed up running and both finished at the same end of the pitch. There was an argument about which batsman was out, Stoyle trying to convince the Cobcroft coach that the other boy, an inferior batsman, should be the one to go, but the Cobcroft coach (and his players) insisted on Joel. Resentfully, Joel left, and then the other boy tossed his wicket away. St Pat’s, suddenly five wickets down with sixty to get, were in a tight spot.

When he got to the stand of Moreton Bay figs separating the cricket ground from the boundary of the Bluebird Country Club, Gordon detected a movement to the side of one of the sinuous trunks.

‘Jesus, you lurk like a peeping Tom.’

‘Persona non grata, forced to live on the margins.’

‘Even at a kids’ cricket game, you have to sound like fucking Yoda.’

In Carl’s hand was his ever-present battered Don Quixote.

‘Not finished yet?’ Gordon said.

‘Only three hundred and ninety pages to go. But I feel I’ve broken the back of it.’

‘You want to join us? There’s still some lunch.’

Carl shook his head. ‘My oil has never mixed with Bluebird’s water. And yeah, that one’s mine.’

Gordon didn’t know if he meant his epigram, or Daniel, who Carl was watching walk towards them with his cricket bag.

‘Nice of you to come to support the boys, anyway,’ Gordon said.

‘I only came for one boy.’

Daniel was upon them. ‘Ready to go?’ he asked Carl.