‘Did you make sure?’

‘You don’t worry about that. Remember old Sparrow? There are only two days every month when a woman can fall pregnant.’

Poor old Mr Sparrow, who really taught physics, but had been made to suffer Year Eight science. And reproduction. There were only so many overheads he could put up, so much biology he could discuss, before he got to the meaty bits. Wendy, in the corner, grinning. Lars, salivating, and we children hiding blushes, but feeling sorry for him. When the semen is deposited in the ree-productive tract, the sperms swim at a fast rate (smiling, to convince us he wasn’t at all uncomfortable) towards the freshly ovulated egg. Upon arrival, he and she have a few words, then unite, and, the rest, is … well …

‘What if it was one of the two days?’ I asked.

‘Listen, Clem, you don’t wanna overthink these things.’

I wondered what I would’ve done. Sought advice from Peter? Looked up my options in volume six of Nan’s encyclopedias? But it didn’t matter, because it wouldn’t happen. Girls like Tracey weren’t attracted to boys like me.

A paddy wagon pulled up in front of the temporary police station. Two officers got out, opened the back and rough-handled a young man towards the station. ‘You been to see your brother?’ I asked.

‘Why would I?’

Number two on his list: John.

We crossed the road and went into the shops, past the butcher, cuts laid out on plastic grass—thigh and rump on their own trickling mattress. ‘You actually … finished the job?’ I asked.

‘You don’t believe me?’

‘You were always determined.’

Standing in the newsagent, years ago, showing me how all the cuts fit together, saying, ‘Before I’m eighteen.’

‘Good luck.’

Explaining what bit did what, but how you had to be careful if you were doing it in the dark.

We stopped in front of the photo machine. Five shots for a dollar. Curtis fumbled in his pocket. Nothing. ‘Got a dollar?’

‘Why?’

‘She said she likes my arse.’

I handed it over, and he went in, fumbled, waited for the flash, then re-emerged.

‘You didn’t?’

But he had. Five shots. Half-moon. With a big, ugly crack.

Back to Gleneagles, through the primary school, Yellow bird, up high in banana tree, as it had been years ago, when Mr Gottl had first taught us. Still, it seemed a noble thing, keeping the flame burning, as knickers and work shirts blew in the breeze over galvanised fences and lives as rust-proof and make-do as our own. ‘I gotta go home and learn,’ I said.

The Grade Fours were still lined up, waiting to be tagged, to run to the yellow flag and back, because somehow it’d make their lives better.

‘Ten minutes,’ he said. ‘I can prove it.’