But that day he ignored the poppies. We all did. That day, like most of our days, was spent mowing, and picking up rubbish: crushed cans, chip packets, used condoms, wads of gum. Sometimes people screamed things at us from moving cars. This was typical. Usually they were going too fast to be understood. Sometimes, though, you’d hear a word: fucken, loser, shit. Or, if they’d seen Erica: bitch, fat, cunt.

Sometimes they threw things: beer bottles, burgers that released a pale green spray of shredded lettuce. Once, a guy threw a carton of strawberry milk at Erica. It hit her square in the back. She barely reacted. She speared the container and put it into a garbage bag. The milk had soaked into the lengths of her hair. By the end of the day her hair had dried and frizzed and there was a stink rolling off her: sweet fake strawberry mixed with the sour-udder smell of the milk.

But none of us complained. We just rolled the windows down and drove home in silence.

I told Curtis I didn’t find anything at the crash site, but that’s because I found something I didn’t want to share. It was while I was hosing that I saw it. A wallet. Yellow, almost as yellow as the gorse, with grime worked into the texture of the leather. I checked – the others weren’t watching. I picked it up and slipped it into the waistband of my pants.

I didn’t mention it to anyone, and when I returned that night to the chilly linoleum of my flat I pulled everything out of the wallet and examined it.

It was all intact: credit cards, black and red and platinum. Health insurance. Gym membership. Driver’s licence. Frequent flyer memberships for the three airlines that flew people off this island. Perfume sample cards, their scent faded.

And in the folds at the back: $865.

The licence belonged to a woman born in the same year as me. She looked both younger and older than I did. Older because her hair was neat and smooth and she wore diamonds in her ears. But younger, because even in that hazy photo you could tell she had soft, indoor skin; her face didn’t have the windburned, thickened look that it gets when you work outside.

I went to bed, and when I slipped my hand into my boxer shorts my palm had the smell of her wallet on it: leather, perfume, crisp notes fresh from the ATM.

The next day was my day off. I drove to her house, which was in a nice suburb. I’d made an effort. I wore my good jeans, a clean T-shirt. I rang the bell.

When she opened the door she kept the security screen locked.

‘Can I help you?’