‘Dear God, stop. And don’t lecture me about relationships. You’ve mooned over your best friend’s wife for years.’

He slumps. ‘They’re not married. And I don’t moon over her.’

‘I thought they were married.’

‘You’re glad to hear that, aren’t you? Moon happy.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

Charlie looks out the window at the garage. Dad’s inside, squatting down to speak to the man underneath the ute. ‘Dad!’ He shouts for him to come to the car. ‘Good to go? It’s an oven in here.’

‘People are asking Mark about this, Charlie; he is involved, it’s his father-in-law for God’s sake. It was in the newspaper. Can you imagine if he knew the truth, what problems it would cause him?’

I speak quickly and watch Dad walk back to the car. Behind him, the mechanic blows me a kiss. Dad sits in the back without commenting on Charlie’s seat coup.

‘Bloke in there tells me this road was once a droving trail.’ His voice is flat. ‘Says there used to be a river that ran past here but over the years the cattle drank the life out of it.’

‘Cheery,’ Charlie says.

I check for oncoming trucks then pull onto the highway.

‘Do you two remember that first Christmas after your mother passed away?’

Charlie shakes his head.

‘How can you not remember that?’ I ask.

‘I was nine.’ He stares out the window, away from me.

‘I should’ve said yes to one of your mother’s friends,’ Dad says. ‘One with kids. They all offered to let us join their Christmas lunches, dinners. June only asked out of obligation. Christian charity.’

At that, Charlie and I exchange an eye roll. Aunt June never offered so much as a raisin without an air of martyrdom. I’d hated visiting her as a child, her spinster house sterile as a hospital ward, with begrudging, tight-fisted nods to hominess by way of framed prints – frigid flowers and vacuumed landscapes – and pert couch cushions made of some material that could catch fire from a warm body.

‘Endures life, June does. She’s always been that way.’ Dad sighs. ‘A few days before Christmas, before I dragged you to her door, she called to reiterate she was in no position to waste money on gifts. Can you credit that? “I’ve bought them something,” she said, “since I know you’ll want that. Tell them not to expect much.”’

‘The kids whose mother had died,’ Charlie says.

‘Maybe it’s good you don’t remember it,’ I say. ‘Maybe not remembering is a way of protecting yourself.’

‘You think?’ He reaches into his shirt pocket for his cigarettes.

The gift-giving hadn’t been the only bothersome part of Christmas as far as June was concerned. The possibility we’d sully her house was raised with us as soon as we arrived. ‘I’m not saying you’re grubby but I like to keep the place neat. It’s the way I am. I’ve gone to the trouble of having the carpet shampooed. I’d appreciate it if you’d take your shoes off.’ Which we did, Charlie and I so cut up and raw. Even now I can hardly stand to think of that day. It fuels me if ever I find myself resenting the work I do to make our own Christmases so perfect.