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.’

‘It was on special.’

‘Thanks anyway.’

‘Make sure you use it.’

‘Did Mum buy it?’

‘No, she did bloody not. I bought it.’

I studied the little blue bottle. It was the best present ever. My Pop had bought it for me, his grandson. He’d walked to the shops, thought, purchased, and even wrapped. Imagine that? Pop wrapping something up. I knew, then, I’d never use it. I’d keep it to show my kids so they could understand how people worked.

‘I thought Mum bought the presents?’

‘You thought wrong. Anyway, since we’re travelling together …’ He checked his list. ‘Toiletries?’

‘Inside.’

‘Don’t let your mother see.’

Maybe I was grinning.

‘So what?’ he said. ‘I bought you something. Tyre pressure gauge?’

‘There.’ I pointed.

‘There’s something else in there.’

A one pound note. Old. English. I smelt, felt it, examined the fading image of the king. ‘That’s an old one,’ I said.

‘You’ll need to look after it.’

Why give someone a pound? What was a pound even worth? A dollar? Two? Was he trying to be generous, somehow?

‘Thanks for that, I’ll buy something with it.’