Pop paid him and there was some small talk and we left. On the way home he asked, ‘Who was that fella?’

‘Mum used to work with his wife. He’d stop out the front, and pick her up.’

‘His wife? Raelene?’

‘She’d come in for a cuppa, remember?’

Not a word I should’ve used.

‘See, you coulda told me that, Clem.’

‘I just did.’

‘No, you coulda said, Mum and this … Raelene …’ He checked the bag. ‘We can get it finished today.’

‘Tomorrow, Pop. It’s too hot.’

‘Tomorrow, if you help?’

‘Of course.’

‘I’m not gonna pay them bloody prices. I need a manual for that Valiant but I’m not payin’ that sorta money.’

‘I can drive you to Barron one day.’

‘Good-o. Soon?’

‘Soon.’

Pop still had his full licence, but knew he wasn’t any sort of long-distance driver anymore. So it was me, on my learners’, who did most of the long trips.

I stalled at the lights.

‘Careful, you’ll have someone up yer arse.’

Lanark Avenue. Three roads, dissected by two. A trilogy of fibro houses on knee-high stilts. Asbestos boxes reclining in the sun with feature windows to let in the heat, a couple of diosmas and a citrus out the front, for old time’s sake. Weak concrete for long driveways with Kingswoods and Datsuns. A viburnum reaching to powerlines carrying Matlock-Love Boat electricity. Homes like the magazines promised. No more cracking walls. No, this was all finely clipped Santa Ana, kids on rugs on Saturday nights when you had to escape the house.

Lanark I: from the Patricia Avenue flats to Dragon Street

Lanark II (us): from Dragon Street to Fleet Avenue

Lanark III (which led to school): Fleet to the mound (more on that later).

I (1—22) was childhood, II (23—67) the middle bit, III (68—92) old age, and beyond. Anyway, this is how I imagined it, and still do. A three-part road for a three-part life. We were number 31—another fourteen years and I’d arrive where I’d begun. But Lanark Avenue was, and is, all of a human life, many lives, lined up behind brick cladding over your asbestos. It was, and is, the world boiled down to basics. Everything I’ve ever learnt or come to understand had its template, example and elaboration there. People, behaviour, jobs, what goes in your mouth and out the other end, living, dying (mostly slowly).

Pop said, ‘Here.’

‘What?’

He indicated two cars in front of the Polish hall (63—67, apparently they’d demolished a couple of houses to build it). Polish as in folk dances, cooking, music groups and, on a Saturday night, rock bands.

‘Try yer parkin’,’ Pop said.

The gap was just big enough. But then again, you could get a 120Y in anywhere. Attempt number one; I connected with the gutter.

‘Come in at more of an angle,’ Pop said.

Number two; too far from the gutter.

‘How many goes they give you?’

‘Three.’