Spark plug pliers. Pop studied them, wiped them, put them with the other tools.

‘You gonna give him those?’ I asked.

‘He’ll need them.’

‘But it’s your only pair.’

He searched the cast-iron boneyard. ‘I got another set somewhere.’ As he lifted and dropped, mixed, picked out old shards of plastic and sandpaper and said, ‘Haven’t I?’

‘I’ve only seen you use those.’

‘Well, he can have them. I can buy another pair.’

The pile was growing. Pop reckoned this is what John needed to get him started. You couldn’t expect a new apprentice to buy his own gear. He said, ‘Later, he can replace them. But for now … if you started.’ He squeezed my arm.

‘So what do you reckon?’

‘I’m too old.’

‘It’ll be like a hobby.’

Then, John was at the door.

‘Ask John.’

He came in, and Pop lit up and motioned for him to approach the altar.

‘Ask me what?’

‘Clem wants to do up Peter Donnellan’s old Jag.’

John almost laughed. ‘God, Clem, get a Valiant. Something worth the effort.’

Pop held his shoulder. ‘Good advice.’

He’s not what he seems, I wanted to tell Pop. He hits people. His own mother, probably. But Pop wouldn’t have listened. He led John over to the stash and said, ‘This lot, to get you started.’

John didn’t get it. ‘What?’

‘This lot. You can have them. You’ll need them.’

‘Right.’ He picked them up, admired them. ‘Thanks.’

No attempt to say no, or make it difficult. Just a pair of beady eyes.

Pop had been generous: wire strippers, piston-ring pliers. ‘Somethin’ to put ’em in.’ He opened his cupboard, found his toolbox, brought it over to the bench and emptied the contents. Then he loaded it with John’s new tools. ‘That’s yours.’

John wasn’t concerned, but made a show of it. ‘I can’t take yer toolbox.’

‘I got another.’

‘No, you haven’t,’ I said.

‘Well, I can get another.’ He picked up his map, lost in the mess of tools. Sat down, flattened it on his knee and studied it.

‘He’s a bit confused,’ I said to John, and he emptied his tools from the box. Then he put them in a plastic bag. ‘Good of you to do this,’ he said to Pop.

Pop was following directions, driving through the desert.

‘This is what he does when he’s confused,’ I said.

John said, ‘So I shouldn’t take them?’

‘Course you should,’ Pop called. ‘Don’t listen to him.’ He glared at me, before returning to his map. ‘Somewhere round here.’ Finding the cross with his finger.

No, don’t do it, I thought. But it was too late. John was over, sitting beside him. ‘What’s that, Doug?’

‘A reef.’

‘What reef?’

‘Gold. Seven miles long. In the outback.’

‘And this is where?’ He moved his head to get a better look.