Pop checked and said, ‘He can mind his own business.’

We arrived at number 31. Turned the trailer, lined it up with the drive, and pushed. It went forward, then back, forward, back. We stopped and Pop said, ‘We’ll have to do better, gents. Three thousand kilometres, and we can’t get it in the shed.’

We tried again, and this time made it along the drive, past the front door and into the shed. Pop closed it, and said, ‘Gonna take a bita work, Ern.’

‘Bita paint, get it registered, coupla wheels.’ He sat on Pop’s chair, took out a smoke (just one, for himself) and lit it.

Pop said, ‘I reckon we take turns cooking?’

Ernie didn’t reply.

‘Ern?’

‘Yes, I reckon.’

Pop had already explained his concerns. Ernie was a strange sort of communist; he had the theories, but not the practice. Pop’d said, ‘That’s why I didn’t want to take him.’

‘Cos he’s lazy?’

‘Exactly. He was sacked, and no one’d give him another job. Just complained, agitated. People’ll listen for so long. Not sure that’s the sort of man we need along.’

Pop watched him smoking, like a budget Ho Chi Minh. ‘And we’ll take turns driving, eh, Ern?’

‘In for a penny in for a pound.’

‘And a ten per cent cut?’

‘Ten?’

‘Considering … I think that’s quite generous.’

Ernie reclined and thought about it. ‘Risking my health, and heart, for ten per cent?’

Pop shook the trailer and a light fell off. ‘I could get the gear in the back.’

Then the side door opened and Peter Donnellan looked in.

‘Jesus!’ Pop said.

‘Saw you go past.’

‘Well, we’re just talkin’. Aren’t we, Ern?’

‘I guess so, Doug.’

Peter came in, examined the trailer and said to Ernie, ‘Long time since you’ve had this out?’

‘Few years.’

‘He asked if I could fix it up,’ Pop said. ‘That’s my next project.’

Peter was having none of it. ‘Why bother?’

Ernie didn’t seem concerned. It wasn’t his reef of gold.

‘Like I said,’ Pop repeated. ‘A project.’

Peter said, ‘I don’t want nothin’, assuming you find something.’

‘Fuck!’ Pop glared at me. Then Peter. ‘I’m fixin’ the trailer. That’s it.’

‘I like that dry country. And if you remember, you told me—’

‘I never told you nothin’.’

But he must’ve told him something. Maybe, over the decades, he’d told everyone.

‘Four seats,’ Peter said. ‘You takin’ the Datsun?’

‘Where?’

‘The reef?’

‘What fuckin’ reef?’

‘Lasseter’s?’

‘There’s no bloody reef, and no bloody trip. There’s nothin’. And if there was, I wouldn’t go with you lot.’ Pop glared at them, then me. ‘Got it? It’s my map, and my gold.’

‘I’ll drive, cook, navigate, anything,’ Peter said. ‘And I don’t want an ounce of your gold. I just wanna come along. With my mate, Clem. Exams coming up. We gotta lotta work to do, eh, Clem?’

I dared not speak.

‘I’m very useful, Doug.’