‘I don’t know, Dad. I don’t know.’ It was a fair point. Who needed friends at this late date? What would visitors of Ron’s vintage be doing other than reassuring themselves of their own heartbeat?

‘Nobody visits,’ Ron said, as if winning his point, and looked into the middle distance, presenting an impeccable self-pity. He recommenced his walk and asked, ‘Have you written to the JPA?’ Ron had been at Gordon to write to the Justices of the Peace Association. Having been a long-serving Justice of the Peace during his career as a civil (or, as everyone called him, uncivil) engineer, Ron said in encouragement, ‘You don’t even need any training. You just apply, they do a criminal record check, and you’re in! You’re a JP!’ He paused. ‘You don’t have a criminal record, do you?’

Justices of the Peace performed voluntary services such as witnessing signatures for drivers’ licences and other important documents. Gordon had never figured out what else. The crucial perk was that they got to write their name as, for example, Ronald E. Grimes, JP, a suffix which Ron believed gave them equal community standing to a holder of the Victoria Cross, an Order of Australia or a medical degree.

Gordon shook his head. ‘I haven’t had time.’

‘Too busy surfing,’ Ron said with a snort a decade out of date. ‘You don’t realise how many of your problems would be solved if you stopped surfing and became a JP.’

Gordon had long suspected that his father was trying to let him in on some kind of quasi-Masonic lurk. There are benefits, Ron seemed to hint, but I can’t tell you what they are until you sign up. Wink-wink. Whatever the benefits, Gordon didn’t want to be a JP. His memory was of frightening individuals rocking up at the house late at night to ask his father to witness a signature. It was always an inconvenience, never a pleasure, and probably not a contribution to society’s good.

To change the subject and divert his father from his next question, which would be what he was doing for money, Gordon said, ‘I’ve got that court date with my neighbour coming up. I’m hoping for a nice settlement.’

Ron shook his head emphatically, as if he’d known all along that the weakness of the case wasn’t a matter of law but of his son’s incompetence.

‘What a mess you’ve made of it.’

Gordon stopped. ‘Sorry?’

‘You should be sorry,’ Ron said. ‘Your marriage, your son, your home. What a mess. What are you doing for money? Ever since—’

‘Do you want me to bring Ben to see you more?’ Gordon, desperate, cut him off. ‘Would you like that?’