In half an hour he was to meet people at 58 Tennyson Street to discuss the sale of their home, but he was reluctant to leave even though he had only tea to drink and Selwyn’s predictable conversation. So many of the people who talked to him wanted something from him.

‘It makes sense,’ he said in reference to Selwyn’s request. ‘Remember, though, it’s always better to come to council with a submission when you already have a healthy commitment from sponsors and a business plan.’ Pearly raised his mug and smiled at the Prendergasts, who passed to find a seat. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘you might have a new mayor to deal with by that time.’

‘You’ll bolt in again,’ said Selwyn, his eyes following the Prendergasts. There was a rumour that Rob had been diagnosed with advanced Hodgkin lymphoma.

Would he bolt in again? As he walked through the crowd to his car, Pearly reviewed his private decision to stand for a third term. He enjoyed being mayor, although he was now fully aware of the tedious nature of many of the responsibilities and functions. And his satisfaction in the role wasn’t just an expression of his sense of achievement, of entitlement. Pearly had real affection and concern for his home region, indeed for the country as a whole. He liked to see decent intentions and decent people succeed, as he had himself, and he rarely doubted his own judgement. Pearly was his own role model.

What he didn’t like to see was a scratch on the front left wheelguard of his Ford Falcon. ‘Jesus,’ said Pearly, and he bent with hands on his knees to inspect it, then stood tall and looked about him, as if the perpetrator could be skulking among the uneven ranks of vehicles. ‘There’s always something, Pearly,’ he murmured to himself. He was particular about his car, and even though the minor damage was out of sight as he drove to Tennyson Street, he was aware of it and irritated by that awareness. Maybe he’d made the wrong decision to stand a third time. Who knew what opposition he might face, and he wished to leave office undefeated. All his supporters, though, and the incomplete projects to which he’d given so much time and energy. There was, too, the lure of an honour, which he acknowledged only to himself. A QSM, even perhaps a QSO. He knew that several mayors of provincial towns had received gongs after three terms without scandal. Anyway, the elections weren’t until October. Plenty of time. He’d made no public declaration.