But I never cared. My father’s need to be some sort of bunyip landed gentry burned the concern out of me. Forget the status symbols and the big notes, I just loved the land and the farm. I was always more comfortable with people who knew the trees and the birds and the grasses, rather than those who wanted to carry on about the size of their tractors and the extent of their holdings.

It always seemed to me to be the most precious piece of dumb luck that I was an owner of this country. When I had my own family and a farm, nobody could do better than me.

There was only ever one thing that could have stopped me feeling like that, and that was the loss of James. The loss of James stopped everything.

One night, after downing a few beers during the day, I decide to make a visit to the pub. I don’t know if anyone is going to be there, but my store is getting low, and the alcohol I have already drunk is making me feel that it is essential to replenish my supply. I am confident that if I can’t cope I can come straight home. My local is the sort of village pub that can have hundreds of people packing it out, or just the girl behind the bar and the publican wandering around the empty tables.

Tonight there is only a handful of people here: some in the front bar, some at the tables outside, and a few playing pool. I buy what I need for home, summon up the courage to order a beer off the tap, and take a seat at a small table in the bar. I am comforted by the casual noise of other human beings. The beer is good, and I figure my nerve will hold for a couple. And then the door from the pool room opens, and someone yells, ‘Davo! Bloody hell, what are you doing here?’ and Ralph comes through the doorway, sheets to the wind, rubbing his hands together.

‘Just thought I’d come for a beer.’

‘Well, that is bloody good news. Haven’t seen you for ages. Can I buy you one?’

Ralph is a friend from way back — primary school and all the years after. He was a truck driver and now owns a fleet of trucks, but he remains a constant against endless change. I tell him I don’t need another beer, and he flops down heavily at my table.

‘Geez, it’s good to see you, mate.’

Keith, the publican, brings two beers over and says, ‘These are on me. Good to see you out, Davo.’