He guided her to a seat high on the hill. ‘This is the Hopetoun lawn,’ he said. He liked it because, being so far from the café and kiosk, it attracted fewer people. ‘Yet from this spot you can see over the lake and across the gardens, all the way to the suburbs beyond. On a clear day, you can even see the mountains at Melbourne’s eastern perimeter.’

Apart from an elderly couple seated on one of the other park benches, and a few of the glamorous Australian magpies foraging in the grass, they had the area to themselves. Andrew rolled a cigarette and lit up, while she, acutely aware of the evening ahead, took the opportunity to ask about his parents.

He did not look at her as he spoke, rather gazed out over the gardens. She had noticed that he seemed to prefer a point in the middle distance when he talked.

He began with his father, a businessman. ‘His name’s Leonard, and he owns a company that manufactures library supplies: metal drawers for catalogue cards, shelves for books, storage units for tape cassettes, trays for documents, display cases, dividers for the shelves.’ Andrew shrugged. ‘Pretty much everything for the modern library, except the books and documents.’

In all the time Galina had spent in libraries, she’d never given a thought to library supplies. So many jobs that are rarely considered: the removal of smells from animal hides, cleaning dust and dirt from tram tracks, and, closer to home, drawing designs on sewing patterns. She could create a children’s book — yes, that was an idea — called ‘Special Jobs’, or ‘What Do You Want to Be When You Grow Up?’. Cinema-screen cleaners and ice-cream churners, gem polishers and street poets, there was no shortage of contenders.

‘In truth,’ Andrew continued, ‘my father would prefer to write books than house them.’ Andrew now turned towards her and, with lowered voice, said, ‘My father has an artistic temperament.’

‘So why did he not become a writer? What happened?’

‘His own background happened. My grandfather in particular.’ Andrew gave a wry smile and returned his gaze to the lake. ‘When my father revealed his ambition to be a writer — actually, a poet, which was even worse — my grandfather said the only money to be made in books was in publishing them, selling them, or storing them, and certainly not in writing them. And even though my father left Perth and his family while still a young man, a good many of my grandfather’s beliefs travelled with him.’ Andrew paused, and in the silence a flush filled his face. ‘My father capitulated to his own father. He’s not a fighter, although he did put up a tremendous battle when I told him I wanted to be a mosaicist. For a while he turned into his own dad.’

Mindful of the passing time, Galina asked, ‘And your mother? What does she do?’