‘We’re past that. The cyclone’s been and gone. The whole city is flooded. They’re using schools and churches as evacuation centres. You should see it, Charlie. There are cars floating down our street.’ Through our kitchen window I watch water rushing from our backyard towards the side of the house, as if chased. Mark had predicted that the slope of our block would create this river to the road, sparing us from a sodden upstairs.

‘Whoa. It was a couple of days ago I talked to him so, yeah, old news it seems. I’ve been meaning to call but the restaurant’s crazy busy. People coming through before they head to Goa for Shigmo.’

‘What? Never mind. The news says the river’s broken its banks, and we’re –’

‘Broken its banks?’ I can see him grinning, bare feet on a table, around his neck a thin strip of leather anchored by a shark’s tooth. ‘My sister the weather girl.’

‘It isn’t funny.’

‘Poetic turn of phrase.’ He pauses; smoking, I’d guess.

‘You should call Dad, too, Charlie. He’s alone.’

‘Isn’t he with you guys for your Australia Day shindig?’

‘He can’t get here. It’s flooding. Are you listening?’

‘Sure I’m listening.’

‘Anyway, he wouldn’t want to come here. He’s busy with his . . . I don’t know, chickens or something.’ Mark walks into the room to fetch another longneck from the fridge. I click my fingers to get his attention, then point outside. ‘But he’s better off at his farm. It’s at the top of a hill.’

Mark assesses the backyard water situation. He nods at the phone.

‘Charlie,’ I say.

‘So, I don’t have the readies to call Dad as well. But tell him hi. And hey, leave a message for me at the post office if there are developments, weather-wise.’

‘Wait, don’t go yet. I haven’t heard from you in weeks. Are you all right? Is everything –?’

‘I’m good, restaurant’s good, everything’s good.’

‘When are you coming back, Charlie? Say you’ll be here before Christmas, please.’

He sighs.

‘You promised not to miss another one.’

‘I’ll be there. Early December, most likely, but for a month max. I don’t see why it’s so important for me to be part of the carnival though.’

‘You’re family. Anyway, Dad’s upset you’ve been away so long.’

‘We both know upset is not a word Dad would ever use.’

‘The kids barely remember you.’

‘Low blow, Abby.’

‘So you’ll definitely be here.’ At the top of the back door, rainwater has gathered into thick threads that are leaking down onto the towel.

‘Almost totally definite.’

‘Charlie, you’re killing me.’

He laughs. ‘I’ll be there. Enough with the guilt trip. Stay dry.’

I return to the living room and tell Mark about the leak. While he goes to check it, I recite my conversation with Charlie for Lou. I miss him.

She shares a story about her younger brother – a playboy pilot who shuttles holidaymakers between Cairns and islands in the Great Barrier Reef. ‘Hate to think what goes on in that cockpit. He’d do anything for a screw. Probably lets the wives fly the plane.’ She picks up her glass and puts her free hand on my thigh. ‘Take a squiz down the road and tell me if my house is fully under. Wait, don’t. You have more beer, don’t you?’