A few times, Dad took me with him. I would go to the races, and then, at the end of the day, he would drop me at my aunt Alice’s so he could go out all night, and pick me up the next afternoon. I enjoyed it as a kid. It was an adventure, and my father was always so excited. It felt like anything was possible. On the drive down to the city, when it was just him and me, I would ask for things that I would never dare to ask for in any other place: could he, Mum, and I go for a beach holiday, or would he buy me a bike, or could we go to a cricket Test one day? He always said yes to my requests, breezily, without thought, but he never delivered on them. I realised that what I thought was the two of us having special fun together, father and son, was nothing of the sort. I could have been anyone he was giving a lift to the city to. I was with him for adult reasons that were beyond my understanding. So after a while I rejected his offers to go. He almost looked relieved.

As I got older, I began to sense there was something a bit off about his visits to the races: indulgent, I guess. I don’t know why I felt that. Teenager’s intuition, maybe. I didn’t know that drought and low stock-prices were making things tough for us, and that his wife, sister, and brother thought he was wasting money on horses and a lifestyle he couldn’t afford but believed he was entitled to. It is some quirk of karma that the first time I have spare money to flutter, I am going to the races.

We drive to town, and Mick talks about himself — things he’s heard on the radio, and stories that mates have told him. I am not really listening. My brain is churning with Elaine, Ben, the money, and who else might own it, and what the hell am I doing? I tell myself that if the money was theirs they would have said they were missing a box of money. Stands to reason. Somehow, it’s comforting to have an idiot alongside me. I say, ‘Mick. I’ve got some stuff to tell you.’

‘Yeah?’ I can almost hear the wind whistling through his ears.

‘I sold a few things — a bit of machinery, a few cows — for cash, like real folding stuff. There’s a fair bit of it, and I don’t really want the tax department to know about it.’

‘Yeah, cool.’

‘I’ll be putting a fair bit of money on today. Just so you know.’ It’s a weak premise, but I reckon he’ll go for it.

‘Want me to put some on for you?’