Mums lived with this image of perfection: ordered, paid for, full marks, bin out, windows cleaned, telly turned down. They didn’t understand that the machine spat out C-grade maths tests, stale bread under the bed, dog shit on the drive.

Even now, standing beside her esky, looking out the front window. ‘I wish she’d just go home … or piss off.’

‘That’s not very nice,’ Jen said.

‘I’m not feeding her forever.’

She’d been counting Wendy’s days, too. Six. Breakfasts, lunches, teas. Six days of sheets and water, dunny wrap, and Les-watch. ‘I got too much else to worry about,’ she said.

‘Where else can she go?’ I asked.

‘She’s got a sister at Hawthorn. She could go there, but no, she’d rather have me feed her.’

‘Tell her,’ I said, taking K—L from the abridged and condensed bookcase.

‘Can’t.’

‘Yes, you can. She can’t stay in there forever.’

Mum studied the street. ‘I think she likes the attention.’

‘She’s confused,’ Jen said, laying out cards to tell her what might be done.

Mum sat on the esky. ‘She hasn’t even paid me.’

‘She will,’ Jen said.

‘She eats like a horse. You’d think, if she was so upset … She’s costing me a fortune.’

Mum was ready to take the esky over, but wasn’t sure where Les had gone. She hadn’t seen his car for two days. ‘Clem, go knock on his door.’

‘Why me?’

‘And if he answers tell him we were worried.’

‘Go on,’ Jen said.

‘He’s out.’

‘Na,’ Mum said. ‘No lights, no movement. If he’s not there, give me the thumbs up, I’ll deliver the mornay to Her Majesty.’

K—L was best. Lithuania, with pictures of hot women working in a car factory, overalls unbuttoned, cleavage, like some sort of Eastern European porn.

‘Right.’ I walked from the house, across the street, down the Champnesses’ drive, up the few steps, and knocked. There was a pot plant but it had shrivelled and turned brown. Beside this, a small table with smokes and matches and a glass with dried beer froth. I knocked harder. ‘Mr Champness?’

I saw Mum standing on our porch, waving for me to go round the back. ‘He’s not here,’ I called.

‘Ssh!’

Mothers were shame generators, gauging the weather of neighbourhood opinion and posting warnings, making sure the blinds were up, bikes put away, windows closed. In case someone saw something, and told someone else, and the sky fell in. There is nothing to be done. You just put your life in a brown paper bag and present it for washing at the end of every disappointment-filled day.

And there he was, in his Falcon, driving towards me. He pulled up, got out and said, ‘How are yer, Clem?’

‘Good. You?’

‘Lookin’ for something?’

I thought on my feet. ‘Mum hadn’t seen you for a while and was a bit worried.’

He lit up. ‘That’s nice of her. But I’ve been up the Port.’