‘I’s gonna, but John here, he’s got an apprenticeship at Johnson’s, reckoned we could fix it, so I didn’t want to worry you.’

‘It’s never had a dent, nothin’. I thought you were good.’

‘Well, the engine’s runnin’ fine. You wanna hear it?’

Silence. That’d be Harper, inspecting the repairs. ‘You’re never gonna get that to match, Doug.’

‘Yes, we will. Teal blue. Trust me.’

‘Look, it’s a mess. The way it’s been knocked out, see, that’s not right, and the putty, that’s all over the place.’

Pop, lost. ‘Well, I’m sorry.’

‘Bet yer fuckin’ arse you’re sorry.’

‘Said he’s sorry,’ John began.

‘Did I ask you?’

‘I’s trying to fix it for you.’

Pop tried his best. ‘Righto, we’ll have it fixed, Glen. John, come on, you head home …’

‘I just reckon it’s pretty rude. It was an accident, and we tried to make good. That paint cost me fifteen dollars. I thought you might be grateful.’

‘John,’ Pop said.

And there was a scuffle.

‘John!’

And someone fell against the galvanised iron.

I could go in, stand between them, but I’d seen what John could do.

Mr Harper said, ‘Before you do any more damage.’ I looked in and saw him removing the masking from the car, close the bonnet, and hold his hand out for the keys. Pop gave them over, opened the shed, and moved. Harper started his car, backed it down the drive and was gone.

Pop said, ‘It dunt matter. His choice.’

John looked at him, his hand shaking, but held in place.

‘Keep yer cool.’

Later that night, as we ate rewarmed pizza, Pop explained. ‘He did good.’

‘How’s that?’ Mum asked.

‘When Glen come at him, he just stood there, and when he pushed him, he didn’t push back. That woulda taken a bit of doing, eh?’

And Jen said, ‘Don’t trust him, Pop.’

But I could see in Pop’s eyes, the light, the challenge of fixing a car that didn’t come with a manual.

April

Holidays. Stale-bread-Curtis, returned to the wrapper. Jim Rockford crawling from his van, wrestling winos in search of the murder dollar. I longed to be Jim. Late mornings, strong coffee and an open-topped drive along the Pacific Highway. Stopping for debt collectors and pimps, the teary-eyed children of nice-people murdered.