‘They’re fine. Your dad’s not a big fan of MacArthur, but I can’t blame him. So long as he doesn’t hold me responsible for every decision the man has made. Your brother’s great. But, man, they can put away some beer. I’m trying to keep up but this is the third bottle.’ He held up the squat brown bottle in his hand and swayed a little, pretending to hiccup.

I didn’t want lunch ending in a drunken spectacle. Mum must have had a word to Dad at the table, as they all slowed down and Dad even complimented Mum’s roast, though mostly it was to agree with Fred when he said it was one of the things he’d missed most when he was away at war.

Fred kept us entertained with more stories about service life and then he started asking Roy questions and the two of them traded tales of different customs and places and battles I hadn’t even heard of. They only told funny stories, I noticed, and they had plenty of those. Dad would interject occasionally with an opinion or a story of his own, while Mum just watched Fred, her eyes glistening. I wondered if I had that stupid sort of moony look in my eyes watching Roy and so I looked down at my plate and cut the meat into bite-sized pieces. Then I glanced around the room to see how it might look to Roy. The stained doilies and cobwebs in the corners. The upholstered chairs were faded, the table watermarked and splintering beneath the ironed cloth, and the paint on the windowsill was flaking, dead flies belly-up among paint chips.

The men talked casualties as casually as they complimented the meal, and I wanted to stand up and pound my fists like a child and tell them to call it what it was, death, final and permanent. There was my brother, his curly hair just growing over the top of his collar, his eyes squinting in a smile, his stubble coming in almost red on his cheeks, and there was Roy, his freckled nose, his straight sandy hair cut close to the scalp, his lovely white teeth and warm breath and hot skin against mine, and they were beautiful. Invincible. And yet—in a moment—they could be gone.

•

It wasn’t until after lunch was finished and we were doing the dishes that I had a minute alone with Fred—he insisted that Mum stay sitting and Roy too.

‘You’re the guest, mate, stay right where you are.’

Dad didn’t even offer to get up and help.

Fred filled the sink with hot, soapy water and tossed me a tea towel. ‘I’ll wash, you dry.’