‘Why today?’ she’d asked.

‘This is the problem,’ he’d said. ‘Like he’s still here, and you won’t move on.’

David said, ‘Peter’s always reckoned that.’

‘What?’

‘Mum won’t move on.’

This made sense. Sid was on the walls, his watch on the sideboard. There was even a pile of his magazines beside his recliner.

Ernie was snoring. The boot was cold. The fugue had ended. I noticed something shining in the grass, walked a few steps on my knees and examined it. Pond’s Powder. It was an old tin, the paint flaking, the borders rusted.

‘That came over, too,’ David said.

I emptied some of the powder, smelt it, blew it into a cloud.

‘Even that. She’d never part with it.’

‘Why?’

He told me the story of how his mum had prepared for her first child. Sid had helped with a nursery, a homemade cot, reflective stars on the ceiling. A change table, cloth nappies, pins, powder. Pond’s.

‘I reckon they had the name picked out.’

‘Who?’

‘Clement.’

It dawned on me. The conversations I’d had with Mum. ‘Why’d you give me such a crappy old name?’

‘It’s not crappy, it’s nice.’

‘Mum got pains too early,’ David said. ‘Dad rushed her to the hospital. Bombs dropping everywhere, but he just drove, cos it was coming. He was coming.’

‘Clem?’ I asked.

‘Yeah. They arrived and out he comes, and they’re celebrating, but then he stops breathing.’

‘Shit.’

‘The doctors tried to help, but they couldn’t … and he died.’

Now I got it. Me asking Mum, ‘Can I change my name?’

‘To what?’

‘Trevor? Gary? Darren? Anything but Clem.’

‘No, you cannot. It’s a nice name.’

I smelt the talc again; felt it on my arse. ‘So, we should give it back to her?’

‘I guess.’ I held the tin, studied the floral design, and wondered about this dead baby, lying on a stainless steel table, as Hitler went about his business.

‘So she asked my mum …?’

‘No, she didn’t ask. But your Mum knew, and offered.’

I handed the tin to Dave, but he returned it and said, ‘You hold onto it, eh? I’ll tell her. I think she’d like that.’

‘What sorta idea’s that?’ Ida asked.

‘Mind yer own business,’ Ernie told her.

We removed the tarp, examined the trailer, and Pop said, ‘She’ll need a bita work.’

‘Nothin’ major,’ Ernie explained.

‘You’re too old for this, Ern,’ Ida said. ‘If you want another heart attack.’

He didn’t reply, but I guessed he was thinking it was better than sitting around listening to her.

Pop said, ‘I’m a lot older than Ernie, and I’m going.’

‘Well …’

‘And whatever you do, not a word to Fay,’ Ernie said.

She just shook her head. ‘Man your age, Doug, should be relaxing. Put your feet up, bowls …’

‘Couldn’t think of anything worse.’

Pop threw the tarp aside and we pushed the trailer. Nothing. Again, and we managed a few inches. And again, and it rolled on its flat tyres out of the shed.