‘I tried,’ Val said to Ernie. ‘I’ve always tried, and this is how you repay me.’

‘I called, did I?’

‘Yes.’

‘You should check yer facts.’

But Val wasn’t about to listen. She hobbled down from the verandah, the drive, towards the first man. ‘Aren’t you meant to send me a letter or something?’

‘This many cats ain’t fair to yer neighbours. They’re wild. They’ll attack kiddies. I’ve seen it. If they’re hungry, they’ll have a go at anyone.’

The men continued their hunt. They sprayed under the house and the rest of the cats came running. Soon they were all in the back of the van, as Val stood watching. At one point she turned to her son and said, ‘They allowed to do this?’

‘Probably,’ he answered.

And she looked at him like she’d wasted money on a useless education.

‘What you gonna do?’ she asked.

He shrugged. ‘We can try get them back. But we’d have to fix them up … three of them, anyway.’

Val turned to the first man. ‘Tell me they won’t put ’em down?’

‘This many, it’s hard to give them away. People want dogs.’

To Val, this was the worst thing of all. People want dogs. Therefore, they put cats down. Again, she turned to Ernie. ‘Hear that? They’re gonna put them down.’

He didn’t respond.

‘Put ’em all to sleep. But they didn’t hurt no one.’

Peter took her around the shoulder and tried to lead her in. She fought him, but eventually yielded. But as she went she said, ‘You wanna go see … when them little things are falling asleep?’

And then, she was in, and the door closed.

Ida was still holding her slice of cake.

Ernie just said, ‘You wanna bit, Clem?’

I showed Pop the picture of Nan’s sister. She was standing muddy-kneed in a black-and-white swamp, talking to someone out of shot. ‘I forgot her name.’

‘Started with S, I think.’

Jen said, ‘Sue.’

‘Sue,’ Pop agreed. ‘Nan’s sister.’

I made a note in the book in my lap.

Sue Gould (Nan’s sister). Tried, but couldn’t remember.

Jen started her clippers. She worked her way along Pop’s already shaved-down collar line. ‘How do you want it?’ she asked.

‘Nice and short,’ Pop replied.

‘She died young, didn’t she?’ I asked.

‘Did she?’

Fell off a ladder, 1968, but he had no idea.

I opened the album again, laid it on Pop’s lap, and he pushed it away. I indicated another photo and said, ‘I remember this fella. He lived at the end of the street. He used to sell sausage from his shed.’

Pop studied the face. ‘Giuseppe.’

Giuseppe Palmieri. Moved out (according to Mum) in 1973. But he remembers. Maybe he liked the sausage.

‘What was his surname?’ I asked.

He seemed annoyed. ‘Why you asking me all these questions?’

‘Just trying to remember.’