‘So you grew marijuana?’

His father laughed. ‘What else am I supposed to do with all this land? My aim is in a few years we can retire the agistments altogether. Just grow weed. It’s easy, really. Bit of a process, but we have a good system now. Except this bit. This bit’s still better than milking, though.’ Then the old man stood and clapped his son on the knee. ‘Come on, mate. Let’s get it done.’

The two of them worked side by side well into the night. Neither spoke. Both entered an old rhythm the two of them had almost completely forgotten. Beneath the wash of the lights, as his father vacuum-sealed the plants, Sidney stole a glance and saw in his father all that had made him. This was all he’d ever stack up to be. You keep giving up parts of yourself, you end up as far down the track as it’ll take you.

He snuck into their bedroom in the early hours. His wife was sound asleep, snoring lightly. The hazy smell of cannabis in the air. His daughter asleep in her crib, on her tummy.

He leaned over and watched her breathing. Her arms were up and curled inward. Fine, dark curls, not nearly enough to cover her scalp completely. There was a bald spot on the back of her head, where she used to sleep. She loved being on her front now. In the darkness she was mostly shadow but he saw all these little details clear as day. He laid a hand on her and wished her goodness, before he clambered into bed beside his wife and fell asleep himself.

SIX

VERNON MOORE

When he woke, his wife was already up. He found her in the kitchen staring at her coffee, not drinking, two pieces of apricot-jammed toast before her, unbitten. Her face appeared ancient and she herself barely breathing. He approached her with care.

‘You alright?’

She came to and looked at him. ‘Yes. Sorry. Just thinking.’

‘About what?’

His dark blue dressing gown swished against his ankles pleasantly as he reached for the loaf of bread in the basket. He put in his toast and scooped some coffee granules into his mug, trying not to think of what she’d said the night before.

‘You know. Just thinking.’

‘About Caleb?’

Her face drew inward in that way she had. ‘No,’ she said. A shuddered breath in, and out. ‘No, I was thinking about whether to go to bowls again. Nothing important.’ She forced a smile. ‘What’re you doing?’

Vernon poured boiling water into his mug. Against his better judgement, he said, ‘Going to see Caleb.’

‘Oh. You’re seeing him.’

She had slouched. Shoulders down, back arched. Defeated, if he had to guess. Her anger absent now.

She had forgiven their boy all his childhood wrongs, all the things he’d said to her, that time he’d decked another kid at school, the time he’d stolen. When Vernon had taken a hand to him—or had it been his belt?—she’d been there afterwards to comfort him. His little fists in balls behind her back. At the time he thought her weak. Making him grow up a wimp. But now he knew her kindness had been necessary. The boy needed to know he was loved.