‘Can we go to the beach one day?’ he asks.

I close the book and lay it on my lap. ‘You like the beach?’

‘Dad said my mum used to take me to the beach when we lived in Cairns. I don’t remember though.’

‘We’ll go then. I’ll arrange it.’

I lift a soft curl off his forehead. He looks up at me and smiles.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Saturday 8 March 1975

Charlie

He isn’t happy. He doesn’t even show much surprise, offers a humph of displeasure at the first sight of me. Had I been in a sarcastic mood rather than just wrecked from tiredness, I’d have opened with: ‘Don’t worry, Dad, we’re all okay. No need for alarm. Just drove five and a half hours because you won’t take a bloody phone call.’ My body aches from so much sitting, my hands sore from gripping a steering wheel that shuddered and tugged on the bumpy, potholed road.

My dry mouth makes an unwanted smacking noise when I say hi. Dad says nothing in reply. He glowers at me from behind the grey flywire mesh. I speak fast in case he’s about to slam the door. ‘Beau,’ I say. I’d thought about this opener. Not elegant, but it was the only word that mattered right now and I knew it would get his attention.

‘What about him?’ he says. And with that, we’re talking. I fight to ignore my body’s aches, hunger and thirst, and concentrate on whether I should say more on the doorstep or use my father’s interest to get inside. He scans my face, clearly deliberating on whether to send me away or show how interested he is (I’ve seen him smother this before: curiosity, eagerness), to speak or maintain the upper hand. Ryan is right – cynical, but right: people are locked in an eternal battle to be top dog. Every conversation, every silent interaction, we’re vying for dominance. Withholding affection then dangling a taste of it (Sal), having sex with your best friend’s man to punish a neglectful husband (Lou), the strategic trading of fact and anecdote to show you’re in the centre of the storm (Mark), being frenetically busy, loudly competent (Abby), letting your sister, your mate and your father deal with life’s responsibilities so that you can stay adolescent (me). Right now, my father is in control of whether or not I can step onto his turf, but I have information that we both know he wants.

‘It’s important,’ I say. ‘Let me in.’ I throw down the gauntlet, done with the games.

But my father won’t back down to his son – he’s too proud for that. ‘It’s unlocked,’ he says. ‘Nothing stopping you.’ And he turns his back on me and walks to his living room. I let myself in, follow him like a child.

Once we’re in the living room, both seated, no drinks on offer, after I’ve made a U-turn to his bathroom, taken way longer than necessary in there, my father thumps the button on his armchair that flicks up his footrest and stares at me – arms folded across his middle, legs outstretched, king of his domain. ‘Go on then,’ he says. Jesus. No wonder the world is constantly at war.