I read my memory. ‘When I was sick, Mum sat on my bed and ran her fingers through my hair. Feeling her hand on my sweaty scalp and the cool air on my skin made me relax and feel better.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘Well, I didn’t know we were going gothic this year.’

There are noises I find comforting because they were part of the backdrop to my childhood. One of those noises is the opener to the ABC Radio news bulletins. I’ve been hearing that a lot lately; Abby and Mark keep the radio on all day in the kitchen. I don’t know if it’s supposed to be a deterrent to thieves or if they think it’s disrespectful to shut the machine off when someone’s mid-sentence.

A cloud mass is gathering over the Arafura Sea, and the weather bureau says it’s becoming a cyclone. They say it’s nothing to worry about because it’s miles off the coast, and will hit land way up north where nobody lives. It’s an enjoyable act of displacement to listen to someone else’s drama though.

The whirring sound that comes before every warning bulletin is playing as we sit down to dinner. I’m glad for the noise, since Dad is stubbornly silent over our meal of sausages, green salad and baked potatoes. The kids have eaten early so there are only adults at the table. We take it in turns to cheer Dad by introducing topics he’d usually find interesting. Mark mentions that it’s Friday the thirteenth and says we seem to have gotten off scot-free. Abby and I avoid one another’s gaze. I’m sure lying to a cop on Friday the thirteenth is asking for trouble.

‘Charlie,’ Mark says. ‘Here’s something you probably didn’t hear in Bali: colour television’s only a few months away. It’ll revolutionise the medium.’

Dad doesn’t bat an eyelid. It’s unlike him to ignore a moment that’s begging for historical context or a meaningful quote about change. We discuss colour TV without him.

‘The Two Ronnies is on in an hour, if anybody’s interested,’ Abby says.

‘It’s goodnight from me, and it’s goodnight from him,’ Mark adds, looking to Dad for a reaction.

When Dad doesn’t take whatever that strange bait was, I change the topic. ‘Sarah’s stoked about Christmas. You know she wants a unicorn?’

Mark and Abby smile. I’m not sure it’ll be funny on Christmas morning.

‘All right, listen,’ Dad says.

Abby’s mouth is open, the fork hovering by her chin. Mark ignores the glass he was about to lift. I let my hand drop slowly from my itchy scalp to my lap, as if a sudden movement might spook Dad back into silence.

‘You lot are doing my head in. The woman I love has died. I don’t give a fig about television or Christmas or anything else. As for bad luck, well I don’t know what you think qualifies if not this.’ He slides his plate away angrily. ‘You don’t seem to care.’

‘Dad –’ Abby starts, as Dad raises his voice and ploughs ahead.