I stopped at a light.

‘Lasseter was just a few miles short.’

Green. ‘But why hasn’t anyone returned? I mean, that was fifty-four years ago.’

He threw his smoke out the window and said, ‘How’d you think he felt, at the end, so close? But he had a son, and I suppose he thought he’d find the map and get the reef and all would be good.’

I pulled into the drive. ‘But wouldn’t this son have a claim to the reef?’

‘I’ve got as much right as anyone. Anyone who can find it.’

Mum came out and asked if we’d remembered the bread. I said, ‘I knew I was in there for something.’

It was an impressive toilet: fake-tile floor with a drainage hole; cold, catty smell; solid bowl with bakelite lid, so that it thundered in the night. A decent flush, too. I sat listening as Mum cleaned my room. You could stay, and she’d clean around you, looking at what you were doing (When’s that Biology due?), or you could cut your losses and retire to the toilet. She was making my bed. ‘Be nice if you could put yer socks in the wash.’

Pop’s reading pile on the floor. Last Sunday’s Mail. I checked. Teak swivel luxury on sale for $469, and upholstered PVC telephone tables for $29.95.

‘Clem?’

‘What?’ (I hated communicating while in officium …)

‘Your bed’s full of crumbs.’

‘Leave it.’

‘You wanna bring mice back into the house? Pop said he saw a rat in the shed.’

I sang: ‘Blah, blah …’ Loud enough for me.

‘Well, you come and clean it.’ As she muttered, ‘Rude little shit.’

Three-piece teenage bedroom suite. $119. Nice. Although there was no point wishing.

‘You gonna stay in there all day?’

Yes, I thought, if that’s what it takes.

‘What yer doin’?’

Jen, laughing. ‘You better not ask. He might tell you!’

And a little chorus of giggles.

‘Get stuffed!’ As I fetched paper, to suggest otherwise.

Jen, again. ‘Hurry up, I gotta go. I don’t want to have to smell your arse.’

She knocked on the door. Code. The lock had broken years ago, so you had to give a thump, wait a second, and enter. Nonetheless, it wasn’t a foolproof method. I’d had a few doors open while I was on the job. Pop staring at me and saying, Didn’t hear you.

‘Carn,’ Jen said, knocking.

‘Fuck off!’

Then, a full-page ad from Datsunland. Second-hand 180Bs. We all knew it was time to trade up from the 120Y. It had 300,000 on the clock, and the CVs were shot. The suspension had gone and the steering was loose. Still, Pop wouldn’t hear a word. All of this, apparently, could be fixed.

Some four-cylinder cars claim more power, some claim bigger interiors, others claim some of Datsun’s built-in features. But we believe none of them put it together like Datsun 180B.

The pictured car was a stunner: fresh chrome, new tyres, and lamb’s wool car seat covers (as I wondered …).