I’d never thought of my dad as handsome, but I’d never looked at him as a stranger might. Now I observed the way he held himself, chest out, chin up. He had recently begun to care about the way he looked. His moustache was waxed to sharp points either side of his mouth and his salt-and-pepper hair was neatly trimmed beneath his hat. What a conflicting mess of feelings I had within me then, watching them together. I felt anger and dread and sorrow, yet I couldn’t look away. Dad was enjoying himself, he was happy, and as much as I hated him for it, I recognised my own desire to chase that feeling too. What right did I have to take away his happiness? Would it relieve Mum’s suffering if I told her what I’d seen, or would she only suffer more? What on earth was I meant to do?

I did nothing. I sat there with my handbag on my lap, my eyes following Dad as he collected his winnings and took this woman by the elbow, whispering something in her ear, and ushered her to the far side of the track. I watched as they stood through the next race, watched as they placed another bet and then watched as they made their way towards the front gate to leave. I got up then, squeezing past knees and shiny shoes and murmuring apologies as I pushed through the crowd, but I had lost sight of them. I stood on the street, helpless, my heart aching for my mother, with her shabby dresses and rough hands, wrinkles gathering on her face like the skin on a pan of cooled milk. While Dad was God knew where with the blonde woman, I had to trudge back to our small weatherboard house where Mum would be sitting by the radio, knitting, waiting for dreadful news.

So I avoided going home and instead wandered the streets. I didn’t want to find my father. I wanted to lose myself. I sat on a bench and smelled the peaty leaf litter as I kicked at the dirt and pulled a loose thread on my sleeve and wished for the warm breath of Blackie in my lap and the strength to tell my mum what I had seen. Of course, just because I had seen him with another woman didn’t make him guilty of anything. He could say she was the wife of a friend and he was showing her how to punt, doing a mate a favour by taking his missus to the dogs. He could tell us anything he pleased. But I knew the truth from the way he’d looked at her: a way I had never seen him look at Mum.