Still a Saturday morning, and still kept inside by the weather. Vertical rain on our gasping roof. A gale working on the corners, lifting iron, as we waited for the crash. I stopped, studied Legoland and listened to the storm. Les ran out and covered his aviary with its tarp, strapped it down, and spoke to his birds. It’s passing, girls! As Wendy waited at the door and said, Come inside, it’s dangerous.

‘There she goes!’ Pop called.

He’d been pacing the house: around the lounge room, the dining room, the kitchen, following the borders, placing one foot in front of the other, and counting. He’d get to the end and say, ‘Sixty-two,’ and we’d just look at him. Then he’d say, ‘That doesn’t sound right,’ and start again, one foot at a time, estimating when something (the old bar, say) stuck out from the wall.

‘Clem!’

I ran out, and realised the real world was calling. Pop pointed out the back window and said, ‘We’re gonna have to fix it.’

The back fence had lost two of its sheets of iron, revealing wooden posts, and Frontline Ford.

‘Come on.’

I followed him out. He was still in his shorts, singlet and slippers. Mum called after us: ‘Dad, come and get something on,’ but he just waved her away.

He picked up the first sheet of iron and tried to hold it in place. The wind was too strong, and blew him back. He fought it. I helped, but the gale ripped the iron from our hands. ‘Hammer, and three-inch nails,’ he called.

I ran to the shed. Mum and Jen were standing on the back porch, watching. Mum said, ‘Tell him to come in. It’ll wait.’

I just shrugged. Pop never listened to me.

‘Dad!’ she called, but he didn’t reply.

Pop had sorted the nails into different-sized jars. Three inch. Then I searched for the hammer.

‘Clem!’ The voice above the howl, above the voice: Mum. I went out and she pointed to the fence. The two sheets of iron were sitting on the ground, but Pop had gone. She said, ‘Jen’s gone after him.’

‘Where?’

‘Through the fence.’

I ran, jumped through the hole, down the lane, past Don’s little toilet with its banging door. ‘Pop?’ To the main road. And there he was, wearing a single slipper, wandering the asphalt. Jen stood calling as cars approached, slowed, drove around him. No one stopped or seemed to care. Soon the traffic had banked up, and one man wound down his window and said, ‘Go home, you silly old fool.’

I ran towards Jen, and noticed Don standing beside her, calling, ‘Please, come in!’

I joined them. ‘Pop, you’re gonna get hit.’

But he wasn’t listening. He was trying to determine the dimensions of the main road. Pacing the distances across a single lane, two, the lengths of gutter, how far from pole to pole. I could see his lips moving, and the numbers coming.

Mum ran up behind us. ‘Dad!’