‘No, I’ve still got that one,’ Caleb said, ‘but I need one to play in the Rostrevor under elevens on Saturday mornings. I’m on the team now.’ He was sitting cross-legged on the carpet as though he hadn’t just taken a big knife and cut a gaping hole in Mum’s good mood.

‘What are you talking about, Caleb?’ asked Mum. ‘You don’t belong to the Rostrevor under elevens. I don’t know anything about this.’

‘Mr Parkinson choosed me this week. Brian Wentworth has moved to another school, so I’m in his spot now,’ he said, sucking quietly on a square of chocolate still sitting in his cheek.

‘Oh no, you’re not,’ said Mum. ‘You know we don’t join outside clubs. You’re not on any footy squad so you can forget that right away.’

‘But, Mum. It’s like an honour. And if Ruthy can go to writing school at Adelaide Uminersity, I should go to footy.’ He didn’t even turn his head. His eyes stayed glued on the ads. He had no idea what he’d just done. This is what Mr Driver would call ‘a real Hiroshima’.

Ruthy and I were still sitting stock-still. No one spoke for a moment, and I hoped against hope that Mum hadn’t really paid attention. Minutes that were really seconds passed by in the quiet, as The Skipper and Mrs Thurston Howell the Third continued chatting, unaware that a big tidal wave was about to hit our island, never mind theirs. Or would we be lucky and find the storm had passed us by? We waited.

‘Harry, do you know anything about this?’ Mum asked.

‘Know anything about what, Agnes?’ he asked. I had a feeling he was hoping the wave would pass us too.

‘Aren’t you listening?’ she said. ‘Do you know anything about a course at university?’

Dad gave up, sighed and turned to Mum. ‘Yes I do, but I’ve already said no so there’s nothing to worry about. Caleb, you aren’t playing footy on Saturday mornings, and there’s an end to it. Now, if you kids can’t watch quietly, you can go to bed now.’ He slumped back in his chair like he was all relaxed and it was all decided, but I knew he was bluffing. I could see his right foot was crossed over his left knee, and it was jiggling.

I am an expert when it comes to Dad’s jiggling. I can tell when it is a tired jiggle, when it’s an angry jiggle, and when it’s a jiggle to warn that something big is about to happen. This was a warning jiggle if ever I saw one.

My chances of a hutch and a guinea pig were pretty finely balanced at that moment. And I knew, as though sitting on a family see-saw, that depending on what happened over the next few days, I’d either soar into the blue sky, or come down to earth on my bum with a painful bump.

CHAPTER 4

Although we could get ready for school and work in no time flat during the week, it was usually chaos on Sunday mornings, even though we had more time than usual. This was in part due to the fact we had to put on our best clothes and all have breakfast together, and because as well as getting all of us ready, Mum had to get herself ready too. She cared what we looked like on Sundays and would make us sit in front of her kitchen chair as she brushed and tugged and plaited hair. Caleb had cowlicks, which drove Mum mad, and she would try to tame them with sugar and water, which often just made them stick up worse in little stiff peaks.