‘Here comes Ned,’ Gordon said. Two unknowns and the seven-time state champ were following Japan Ned into the water from the car park. Soon the clouds would lift and Bluebird would fill with people who used not to exist at this time of year: mothers’ groups, able-bodied sunbathers, Zillas, clusters of what Gordon’s mother, too burdened by her own preoccupations to care for the eggshells she was walking on, called ‘people of the dark-haired persuasion’. People of every persuasion, Gordon thought, and more of them. Fucken people. Whoever they were and whatever your prejudices, they didn’t used to pack out the sands of Bluebird on a workday. Maybe it was the workday, not the people, that had changed.

‘One beach, one clan, one club,’ Sam said. ‘Bluebird’s great singularity.’

‘I thought I was the one who spent all day pining for a non-existent past,’ Gordon said. ‘It was never just one club here.’ He gave a nod towards The Lodge, its cement-rendered lower level giving the butter-yellow impression of a surf clubhouse. The relationship between the Bluebird Surf Live Saving Club and The Lodge had, since Noel Chidgey’s time, alternated between simmering hostility and outright war, and Noel chose that yellow as a direct provocation to the club. He had recruited Gordon and Sam from the local rats to paint the basement in exchange for a case of Tarino orange soft drink. Gordon, Sam and the ghost boy who made them a gang of three.

‘Yeah nah, I’m not pining for it,’ Sam said. He shot a piercing look at Gordon through the rain. ‘You ever think of him?’

‘Dog? He makes sure I see him every day, so there’s not much chance to forget.’

‘Not him.’ Sam was looking wretched, as if he had been delegated to convey bad news for which he didn’t have the words.

Japan Ned was beside them.

‘G’day, Ned,’ Sam said.

‘G’day, Ned,’ Gordon said.

‘Shit out,’ Ned said.

‘Yeah, flogging a dead horse,’ Gordon said. ‘Hey, Ned, you cleared the air with Dog? He’ll probably come down when the weather clears up.’

‘Shit out!’ Ned said again, white teeth glowing.

A comatose drawl came from the beach loudspeaker. ‘Attention in the water. Those fibreglass surfboard riders, please paddle to the north of the flagged area. Fines of up to two hundred dollars apply.’

Gordon didn’t believe what he was hearing, and then seeing. A clubbie was ploughing out on his knees, his rescue board slapping against the chop.

The public loved clubbies: they were volunteers, they saved lives, they sat deep in the Australian marrow. The truth was that nine in ten were officious fuckwits. Gordon recognised Ryan Stoyle, Ben’s PE teacher and cricket coach, prize knob, all-round small-town hero.

‘Nice day for it!’ Gordon shouted.

Stoyle showed no recognition: or, to be precise, he showed that he was not prepared to recognise Gordon.