‘Thanks,’ Cardilini said and wandered the corridor trying to figure out what the ramifications of Salt being a St Nicholas old boy were.

Kilkenny Rd

11.30 a.m. Saturday, 31st October 1965

Paul was on the verandah reading when his father drove in. Cardilini sat in his car and ran back over the images of Salt and himself in the principal’s office, of Salt with Miss Reynolds, with Robson, with Carmody. What a fool they must have thought me. He had the urge to confront Salt, blow his top at him and then do the same to Robinson. Yeah, that would work. Carmody or Burnside must have told Salt about coming to see me.

Eventually Paul called out, ‘Dad, what are you doing?’

A distracted Cardilini got out, ‘Just have a phone call to make then I might go out for a spell. When I come back I thought I’d do some gardening.’

‘Gardening?’

‘Yeah. Remember? You used to mow the lawn.’

Paul, then Cardilini looked out at the matted and dead grass covering the front yard.

‘It’s not too bad. It’ll come back. You’ll see come January we could have a lovely, tidy lawn here,’ Cardilini mused as he wandered out and stood in the middle of the dead patch on the right of the path. Runners of grass had sought refuge among the roses and in what used to be flowerbeds bordering the path. Cardilini pulled one from among the rosebushes. The roots popped naked from the dry soil as he pulled. He stood with it in his hand.

‘I never saw Mum doing that,’ Paul said.

‘But, what do you think? Would she be pleased if we smarten the front yard up?’

‘Yeah. I think she would. But there’s nothing to mow.’

‘Okay. You water where the lawn should be and I’ll get the shovel and cut the dead runners from the garden beds.’

‘Dad, I said I was going to move into Aunty Roslyn’s,’ Paul said flatly.

Cardilini tried to look at his son but couldn’t, instead he said, ‘Think I’ll prune the roses.’

‘Did you hear me?’

Cardilini imagined Betty’s eyes on him.

‘Son . . .’ Cardilini started but still couldn’t look at him.

‘They won’t let me in the academy. Will they?’

‘Son . . .’

‘Jesus, Dad. You . . .’ Paul had the words but shook his head and turned into the house. Cardilini expelled a breath and silently finished Paul’s sentence with a series of expletives. He wandered to the roses at the front fence. Long, woody, thorned branches reached for him. Betty’s eyes told him he had to set things right. He turned and walked to the house, picked up the phone and began dialling as he shook his head.

‘Deputy Principal, Dr Robson,’ Robson answered.

‘Hi Robson. It’s Cardilini.’

‘Yes. Should we be talking?’

‘Don’t see why not.’

‘What do you want?’ Robson asked.

‘A chat.’

‘Chat away.’