I finished making my toast and took it to the table as he tipped four heaped teaspoons of Nescafé into a mug and poured hot water on them. He stirred and stirred, looking out the window and up at the sky, which was now a clear pale blue. The bare tree branches were bending and bowing with the wind.

‘We had our neighbour in here yesterday,’ my mother said. She pointed to George Lascelles’ house, which we could see from the table.

The curtains of one of his downstairs rooms were open for the first time. Something was hanging from the ceiling – a large decoration or a chandelier, a spray of flowers and leaves made out of copper or brass. It was hard to be sure what it was from this distance, and with only part of it in view. Behind it was an elaborate gilt picture frame on the far wall, though only one edge of the painting was visible. I could make out a dark-green backdrop or curtain painted on the top two thirds of the canvas, with something that might have been a pale arm reaching across it. A pale arm or a branch.

‘Oh yeah?’ My father took a mouthful of coffee, then tipped two teaspoons of sugar into his cup. ‘Always nice to get to know the neighbours. Is it just him there?’

‘Him and a pool,’ I said. ‘And we can use it. But he can’t swim, so I’m going to teach him.’

‘What?’ He stopped stirring his coffee and frowned, as if developments had outpaced him. ‘What do you mean “teach him”? Over there? In his pool?’

‘Yeah.’

‘He seems nice enough,’ my mother said. She had her mug of tea in both hands, elbows on the table. ‘He helped us in with the groceries. You have no idea how it was sleeting. And he just turned up. With an umbrella.’

‘Right.’ My father tapped his coffee spoon twice on the rim of his cup and dropped it into the sink. ‘So . . . So, how would this work? Swimming lessons?’

‘I’d go over there and teach him how to swim,’ I told him. ‘Just the basic stuff. And sometimes we could all – or any of us – go for a swim in his pool.’

We had a pool in Brisbane. Our neighbours did too. We were always over at each other’s houses.

‘Okay.’ He sat down with his coffee. He made eye contact across the table with my mother, who gave him a blank look back. ‘Okay, but you’re not bloody getting changed over there. You can’t be too careful. You go in your togs and your tracksuit and you come back in your togs and your tracksuit. They’ll be a bit wet, but you’ll be right.’ My mother’s cigarettes were on the table and he helped himself to one, and lit it. He hooked the ashtray with his finger and pulled it next to his coffee cup. He smoked Dunhill, usually. ‘He’s very theatrical, our neighbour. A right luvvie.’