‘Nothin’,’ Pop said, giving up on the door.

Ernie came in the shed, inspected the equipment and said, ‘Like yer gonna invade Russia.’

Pop refused to comment.

‘Doug?’

‘I told you, we’re goin’ camping.’

Ernie sat down. ‘You promised, Doug.’

Pop lit another smoke, looked down the drive and said, ‘We gotta finish up. Fay comes home she’ll see this lot.’

‘So?’

I could almost hear him grinding his teeth.

‘I won’t take up much room.’

‘You won’t take up any.’

‘This isn’t fair.’ He squeezed my arm. ‘You got yer licence yet?’

‘He doesn’t need a licence to drive a Datsun. Any idiot can do that.’

Ernie said, ‘You’re too old for them thousands of kilometres, Doug.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘And Clem, it’s a lot for someone still at school.’

‘We’ll manage.’

‘Easier with three.’

‘Two’s enough.’

‘You’d regret it.’

Pop turned on him. ‘Regret it? What? Not takin’ you?’

‘We had an agreement.’

‘When?’

‘You’ve got a selective memory.’

‘Bullshit.’ He closed the door, then returned to Ernie. ‘Look at all this. How we gonna get it in with you takin’ up half the back seat?’

Fi-Fi pissed against the wall. Pop used his foot to lift her off the ground, but even this didn’t bother Ernie. He said, ‘What about my trailer?’

‘What trailer?’

‘Come on, I’ll show you.’

Pop stood firm. If he went, he was conceding. ‘This is my trip, mine.’

Ern just waited.

‘Pommy bastard!’ He kicked a water container. ‘Right! Show us!’

A few minutes later we were in Ernie’s shed. He removed a tarp and revealed his trailer, rusted, flat tyres, uneven from broken springs and suspension. ‘That Datsun got a tow bar?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good-o. Bita spit and polish. Was a time you’d fix somethin’ like this in an afternoon.’

Pop shook his head. ‘I’m not takin’ that dog.’

Ernie shrugged, but then said, ‘She sits in my lap.’

July

Somehow, Curtis had convinced the owner of the North East Road BP to give him a job. Mr Haslam had been one of our childhood idols. Mum’d pull up in the Datsun, he’d be waiting (never busy with anything else), pop his head in the window and say, ‘Usual, Fay?’

Usual, because everyone filled their car with fifty-fifty. As a kid you’d watch the little cups stirring the pink water, passing it into the tube as Mr H stood smoking, watching the road for something different, although there never was. He wore a shirt with a BP logo; a proud company man (I guessed). Grey hair, slicked back, and a carpenter’s pencil in his pocket. As he filled our car he’d take my nose between his fingers and twist it and say, ‘Careful, it might drop off.’ Then he’d get bored, put out his smoke, ask for Mum to pop the bonnet and check the oil.