I noticed a boot on the footpath, half-burning, half-smoking. ‘Is that yours?’

‘No.’

‘I pull out and this guy comes burning along, pounds the horn and old four-eyes writes something down. I say, I did check, but he was speeding. And he just looks at me like, I’ll be the judge of that.’

I sat in the grass beside him. It was one of those indecisive winter mornings: sun for a few minutes, overcast, a few spots of rain. ‘Who sets a boot on fire?’ I asked.

‘Go on,’ he insisted.

Ernie, from next door: ‘Worker competes with worker, and the employer takes advantage of this. Wages are driven down …’

We turned and saw, through the bushes, Ernie in his singlet and shorts, sitting on his porch, reciting (what I assumed to be) more of his soapbox speeches. ‘The effect of this is a weakening of the workers’ rights.’

Blah, blah. The boot burned, the sun broke through. ‘Go on,’ David insisted.

‘Reverse parking. It was an impossible gap, no one coulda got their car in. I said, Seems a bit small, and he said, Plenty of room. I said, I dunno, and he scribbled again.’

‘The covenant of minimum wage is a temporary construct.’ I noticed the four bottles of dark ale. ‘Comrade Sharpe is speaking,’ I said.

David smiled. ‘I’ve heard them all. What else?’

The flames had died down, but the boot was still smoking. ‘Did you see who put it there?’ I asked.

‘Mum.’

‘Why?’

‘She threw it, from the backyard. You should put in a complaint about him.’

‘I should. I had three shots, but couldn’t get it in.’

‘Idealism becomes materialism.’ Ida came out in her leotards and said, ‘Get in before everyone sees you.’

He didn’t respond. It didn’t need dignifying. When the time came, certain people would be put against a wall.

So Ida went in. ‘How’d you feel if I sat on the porch in my underwear?’

‘There were a few other things,’ I said.

‘Go on.’

‘A school crossing.’

‘Ah.’

‘But … but … it said to slow if children present.’

The boot was shitting me off. I went over and picked it up, filled it with dirt to stop it smoldering, and brought it back. Then I sat in my spot, and read the tag: Sid Donnellan.

David said, ‘Mum and Peter had a disagreement.’

Apparently Peter had decided to burn some of Sid’s old gear in the backyard. Val had gone out, seen the clothes and shouted at him, picked up a poker and tried to remove them. Some were destroyed, others half-burned. But she’d got them out, stamped on them, and said, ‘What made you think …?’

‘It’s like living in a museum.’

‘They were your father’s.’

She’d continued dragging underwear from the ashes, reaching in for the boots, but had flicked one high into the air, over the house and into the front yard.