I finished the first and cracked the second. I could feel my head loosening on my shoulders, and felt sentimental, but had little to feel sentimental about.

‘Family’s what matters,’ he said.

‘It is.’

‘But I buggered that up, eh?’

‘No.’

‘Can’t blame her. She’s living next door.’

‘She is?’

‘Seen her in the yard a few times. Don’t think she knows I know. But when she’s ready …’

‘Why don’t you go in and talk to her?’

‘Na, that wouldn’t work.’

It seemed like a different Les talking. Some old, fat-bellied Buddha. With infinite patience, and wisdom. But this wasn’t the man Mum or Wendy had described.

‘Do you want me to say something?’ I asked.

But he was still in the mallee, with his brother, and their scratched legs. ‘Waiting’s good too. Just lying there, lookin’ up at the stars. That’s the best part. Gets to the stage you don’t care if no birds come. Eventually, Harry, my brother, would fall asleep and I’d cover him with a rug, and the birds’d come and eat all our grain, but I wouldn’t pull the pin, cos that’d spoil it … you know, being out there together.’

As their mum stood on the porch, calling, Harry! Les! Where are yers?

‘Long as she’s got enough to eat,’ Les said. ‘Your mum’s been cookin’ her decent stuff?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll fix her up for it, after. Don’t expect her to pay.’

‘She doesn’t care.’

‘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?’