‘I know, but it must be takin’ time. That’s what makes this street special. Which is why we gotta look out for Doug now, eh?’

‘I guess.’

‘You’ll have to be careful. That’s what happened to Dad.’

‘Dementia?’

‘Just wandered off most days, and of course, Mum let him. Then one day he didn’t come back, and she called the coppers, and they found him. See, you wait long enough, problems take care of themselves.’

I hoped this was true.

He lifted the dregs of his beer. ‘Finished the old man, and probably finish me.’

It was finishing me. Nearly to the bottom of my second bottle.

He said, ‘We’d wake up, and the net would be full.’

This seemed like a nice idea.

Wendy came walking up the drive, bag packed, slippers, petticoat showing under her dress. ‘You coulda told me,’ she said.

‘Break’s as good as a holiday,’ he replied.

And she went in, saying, ‘Clem, tell Mum I’ll fix her up.’

It was a sunny afternoon. Pop decided to open the shed door. He’d stolen another one of Mum’s bedsheets, spread it on the floor and drawn outlines for the items on his Lasseter list: dehydrated curry, roadmaps, the map, coolant, oil, shovels. Then he’d sat with the list, checking them for the tenth time. ‘Guy ropes?’

‘Here.’

‘Grate?’

He kept insisting, saying, preparation’s the key to success. I’d suggested success had more to do with finding the gold, but that was a given, apparently.

‘Boots?’

He’d taken me to town, got some kid to measure my feet, fit them properly. ‘That’s what Blamey said.’

‘What?’

‘If a soldier’s got good boots …’

I had no idea who Blamey was, but what did it matter?

‘What about my spare teeth?’

I checked the choppers he’d had made, leaving his loose ones with the dentist overnight, staying in his room so Mum wouldn’t notice. Dad, you comin’ for tea?

Not hungry.

He stopped, lit a smoke and said, ‘I reckon we got it all.’ He surveyed the gear, and inhaled deeply, like everything was as it should be. ‘Course, we prob’ly forgot something, but we can stop on the way.’

I wondered if the idea would fade, or if he’d back out, as the time approached. Then he said, ‘I got you a birthday present.’

This seemed strange. To Pop, birthdays were like ponies, or Disneyland holidays.

‘It’s in the toolbox.’

I extracted a small parcel, done up in newspaper. Then I sat down beside him. ‘Ta.’

‘I didn’t want to give it to you when we did the cake.’

A week before; as we ate little boys and sausage rolls, Jen sitting with her arms crossed, Mum lighting the candles.

‘Go on, open it,’ Pop said.

I don’t think he’d bought a present in his life. That was Nan’s job, then Mum’s, or there wasn’t a present at all. But I knew he gave Mum money and she bought stuff for us and put his name on the label. I opened it: Old Spice, of course. ‘Ta, Pop.’