‘Right.’ Up the Port. Whatever that meant.

‘You wanna help me?’ He indicated a large cage on the back seat of the Falcon. It was full of birds, a dozen perhaps: cockatoos, lorikeets, a budgie, a few others I didn’t know. They’d been shitting all the way from the Port, but he’d put a rug over the vinyl. ‘Time to restock,’ he said, opening the door, pulling out the cage.

Wherever the Port was, it seemed good for birds. They squawked, clung to the metal, went for Les’s fingers. But he didn’t care. He opened his aviary, took the cage in, closed the main door and released his new birds.

As he waited for them to come out he said, ‘How the telly show go?’

‘Not so good.’

‘How’s that?’

‘Pop got a bit confused.’

They peeked out, tested the air, and flew around. Les didn’t flinch. Birds didn’t bother him. ‘He’s gettin’ worse, eh?’

‘I reckon.’

‘We’ll have to keep an eye out for him. See him out wandering sometimes.’

The birds had all come out. Les closed the smaller cage, opened the bigger one, and stopped to admire his menagerie. ‘That one there,’ he said. ‘Took us hours.’

A sulphur-crested cockatoo. But the trip to the Port might’ve been wasted. There were plenty around Gleneagles.

‘And the flame robin. Don’t see ’em in the scrub anymore. Was a time, there’d be thousands.’

It was a nice-looking bird: red throat, white stripe above the beak. From the outback to Lanark II. It seemed a shame.

‘Of course, she’s the queen,’ he said, indicating a superb parrot. ‘Look at the yellow on that head.’ He filled a seed tray from a bag of grain, inserted it between the wire and watched them eating. The superb parrot just sat there; like she felt the dislocation most keenly.

‘She’s not hungry,’ I said, indicating.

‘She will be,’ he half-sang. ‘Wait here.’

He went in, and banged around inside. I watched the birds as they explored their new patch; wire, shitty ground, cloudy water. He came out with two cold beers, pulled up a bench and motioned for me to sit. Then he gave me a beer and I said, ‘I dunno.’

I looked down the drive. The angle obscured number 31, so in theory … I took a swig, and liked it (I’d got the taste from a few strays in the cubby). Les just said, ‘You’re old enough?’

‘Nearly.’

‘Close enough. I’s drinkin’ at eleven, and it never hurt me.’ There was a crimson rosella, but he didn’t seem that interested. ‘Nice selection. I had plenty more, but I only want one of each, so I let the rest go.’

Then he explained: a family shack in the mallee, and a trapping expedition with his brother. ‘He’s clever, see. Sets out a net, connects it to these long branches then waits. One strays in, whoosh, got it.’