The deputation from the business association turned out to be only two in number, both of whom Pearly was acquainted with, and one of whom he disliked. A third representative had excused herself at the last moment because a child had pulled a heavy rack of clothing down in the dress shop and been struck by the metal railing. A deputation of two, with already familiar purpose and personalities, was not a riveting occasion for Pearly. He knew all the self-serving proposals that would be put forward, and knew equally well the supportive but noncommittal assurances with which he would counter. And throughout the discussion his mind wandered to other things: the dredging report that would affect the harbour development plan, his failure to ring Rob Prendergast and ask about his health, the pleasure he’d taken in the sunlit conversation with Charlotte. He tried to resist the urge to move his gaze from the deputation, as he had already transferred much of his attention, to turn and see below the museum park, the ambulance building and the car yard with its pre-loved offerings. In fact he did allow himself the briefest relief from the interior of his office, from the self-satisfied faces across his desk, by looking at all those things. A thin woman wearing jeans bent to peer inside a grey Nissan. Usually it was guys who idled at the vehicles.

Who bought all those second-hand cars? In the cities there were hundreds and hundreds of them corralled in chicken-wire lots with flapping multi-coloured bunting. How was it possible that such businesses could be profitable, and what happened when finally a vehicle gave up all hope of being rescued and refused to start? Just as a woman might recall each of her ballgowns, Pearly could remember all his cars. The number wasn’t great, because he bought shrewdly after much consideration and looked after his purchases. Also he came to have an emotional connection with many of them. They became mates and were significant stage props in the drama of his life, even providing on occasion a necessary chronology. When was that? When was that? It must have been the late eighties because we had the Honda Accord, or after Leanne was born because we had the Commodore.

Pearly had a clear memory of his first car. A Morris 1100 with an odd suspension that imparted a rocking motion, especially on bridges. It was companion and confidant as well as transport, and he parted with it only after it was trampled by a road-going group of dairy cows in twilight Taranaki. Maybe he hadn’t shown them sufficient respect. The cacophony of their hooves on the doors and bonnet was cataclysmic and enduring.