It’s a Wednesday night, and Rube and I sit on our front porch with Miffy, patting him after his walk. The little wonder dog laps up the attention on the old lounge. He rolls on his stomach as Rube and I pat him and laugh at his ridiculous little fangs and claws.

‘Oh Miffy!’ Rube breathes out, and it’s the shadow of his former callings for the dog when we used to pick him up. He only laughs now with something inside the voice of his throat.

What is it?

Regret?

Remorse?

Anger?

I don’t know, but Mrs Wolfe, she can sense it as well, and she has joined us now on the front porch, in the cold dim light.

I love Mrs Wolfe.

I’ve gotta tell you that right now.

I love Mrs Wolfe because she’s brilliant and she’s a genius even though her cooking’s downright oppressive. I love her because she fights like hell. She fights better than Rube. Even Rube will tell you that — though her fight has nothing to do with fists. But it has plenty to do with blood …

Her words tonight are these.

‘What’s up boys? Why are you always coming home so late on Sundays?’ She smiles, alone. ‘I know that you were going down the dog track not so long ago. You’re aware of that aren’t you?’

I look at her. ‘How’d y’ find that out?’

‘Mrs Craddock,’ she confesses.

‘Bloody Craddock!’ I yelp. Mrs Craddock, a neighbour of ours, was always at the dogs, chewing a hot dog with her false teeth, and sinking Carlton Cold like there was no tomorrow. Not to mention smoking Long Beach 25s till the cows came home.

‘Forget the dogs,’ Mum sighs.

She talks.

We listen.

We have to.

When you love and respect someone, you listen.

‘Now, I know things are rough at the moment, fellas, but just do me a favour and come home at a decent hour. Try to get here before dark.’

I break.

‘Okay Mum.’

Rube doesn’t.

He says, straight and hard, ‘We’ve been goin’ down the gym. Sunday afternoons it’s cheaper, and you can learn boxing.’

Boxing.

Nice one Rube.

We know how Mum feels about boxing.

‘Is that what you want to do?’ she asks, and her mild tone is surprising. I think she knows she can’t stop us. She knows the only way is to let us find out. She continues and ends with two words. ‘Boxing? Really?’

‘It’s safe. All supervised and taken care of. Not like we used to do in the backyard. None of that one-handed rubbish.’

Which isn’t a lie. Yes, the fights are supervised and taken care of, but by whom? It’s funny how truth and lies can come in the same clothes. They wear flanno shirts, gym boots, jeans and Ruben Wolfe’s lips.

‘Just look after each other.’