The driver jerked his thumb towards the other side of the truck. ‘Better climb in next to me offsider,’ he said, his hard eyes narrowed and suspicious.

He trekked around the truck to discover that the offsider was even older and just as grizzled and wary. The door was opened and he clambered up the high step and sank into the battered leather seat, the kitbag between his legs. The windows were tightly shut and the stiflingly hot cab stank of old cigarettes, musty clothes and sweat. ‘G’day,’ he said to both of them as he blinked the grit from his eyes and offered his hand.

The offsider nodded his welcome, his muddy brown eyes still suspicious. But the driver’s handshake was firm as his gaze took in the army-issue clothes. ‘The name’s Frank, and this is Jim,’ he said. ‘I reckon you was lucky to find us, John. We don’t usually stop here.’

‘Where are you heading?’ he asked, trying not to keep looking at the steaming cup of tea resting on the dashboard and the half-eaten meat pie lying beside it. The smell was masking the other odours and making his mouth water and his stomach growl.

‘Wilga and then Morgan’s Reach and up country to Killigarth and the other northern stations. We should have been this far up a couple of days ago, but the truck broke down and we had a fair old job trying to flamin’ fix it. What about you, John? Where you heading?’

‘South,’ he lied, ‘and then east.’

The trucker eyed his army boots and clothes. ‘Still fighting the war, are ya?’

He shook his head and his gaze returned once more to the half-eaten pie that was oozing rich dark gravy on to the greaseproof-paper wrapping. ‘Going home, mate.’

The eyes widened. ‘Strewth, you’ve taken yer time. Most of the blokes I know have been home for months.’

He winked. ‘I had things to attend to,’ he replied.

Jim sniggered and Frank grinned, revealing a mouthful of bad teeth. ‘Yeah,’ he said with a leer and a nudge, ‘and we all know what kind o’ business that might be.’

‘Too right, mate,’ he replied with another wink. The effect was rather spoiled by the loud rumbling of his aching stomach.

‘Sounds like you ain’t eaten in a while,’ said Frank. ‘Jim, get the tucker box down while I pour the tea. This bloke’s got less meat on him than a scrawny chook.’

The tucker box was duly dragged from the back shelf and opened with a flourish to reveal more food than he’d seen for weeks. Handing Frank his tin cup, he took one of the pies and unwrapped it almost lovingly. The first bite made him close his eyes in rapture, for the meat was tender, the gravy as rich and thick as he remembered his mother’s had been.