And she almost never laughed at his jokes. Not that I remember. I know from the good times with Sarah that when your wife laughs at your jokes, it’s not really about how funny you are. It’s about how much they like being with you. And it’s genuine, because they express it when they don’t really mean to. It might even be the highest form of female praise. My mother never allowed my father that praise, but I didn’t understand it at the time — I only remembered its absence years later when I felt the joy of making Sarah laugh.

I still think my parents loved each other, but there was just too much they disagreed about. Mum didn’t like the betting and the way my father spent money; and she grew out of being his domestic helper and doing what he commanded. I know she wished for independence — something she never really got. She loved the farm, but didn’t like the way it constrained her. The only way she could get a job, or meet lots of interesting people, or study to acquire a new skill was to leave the farm and her husband behind. She couldn’t do that, so she had to be content with what the farm provided. And my father couldn’t stop being his confident, overbearing self. So she couldn’t bring herself to laugh at his jokes.

I sometimes think that was why she was always so busy. Being incessantly active stopped her thinking about what she was missing out on. But in the end he didn’t let her down. Even when she didn’t know who he was, he visited her, took her out, and did as much as he could to look after her. Not that he knew anything about looking after people. But he certainly tried.

At the Fythe Trees turn-off, I pull into the table drain and stop, pretending to be making a phone call.

The Fythe Trees sign is peeling and nearly too faded to read, but the emergency services number, 696, is clean and shiny. Past it, I see a tan brick house, ugly and unloved. The garden is tiny: a messy, greenish strip that rings the house, reminiscent of so many other farm gardens where farmers are reluctant to give up profitable soil for unprofitable pursuits like quality of life. Nearby is a large open shed, and between the shed and the house there are pieces of machinery everywhere — some of them are supposed to be where they are, and others have been left where they stopped.