So I keep going, towards Holden Hill, to buy a replacement D-string for my guitar. Mum bought it for my sixteenth birthday, but regretted it now. It’d come with a crappy music stand and Daily Exercises for Guitar Beginners. Not that I was interested in that; I only needed three chords, and attitude. Elvis under the sheets, until I mastered E and A formations, then the world was my oyster. Minor chords and an expanded repertoire that lasted well into the night, at which point Mum would call out, If you don’t stop—! Followed by Jen, He can’t even play it. Followed by Pop, grumbling something about an arse-up Segovia.

Lanark Avenue was cut short by the mound that ran beside Delhi Avenue. My theory: all of the dirt they’d piled up when they’d graded the suburb. So much of it that one day someone had said, That’d make a nice feature, wouldn’t it? Then someone had planted grass, but that had died, a few trees, and they were still struggling, a blue metal path with more cracks within cracks. It did serve a purpose, though.

Brawls.

Scene: Barry Davis taking a screamer on Stephen Prawer, who goes down, feels his back, stands, takes a swing at Barry and connects with his cheek. Along comes Mr Gottl, pulls them apart and sends them to the office. Followed by the cane, or detention. Then, left alone, Stephen says to Barry, ‘Three-thirty, on the mound.’

School bell, a tidal surge through the gates, a hundred kids on the mound, Stephen and Barry throwing down their bags, and straight into it. Fists, kicks, bodies held down, released, thrown around. It wasn’t pretty, but it was a part of everyone’s primary education in Gleneagles. For some, the highlight.

It was always over quickly. One of the neighbours would come out and the crowd would disperse, but Stephen and Barry would keep going, loose teeth and sore ribs, scratched faces, black eyes. The neighbour would take them by the scruff, but they’d kick, seeking flesh, until they were delivered to the front office. Then we’d go home.

‘Hey.’

I turned to see Ernie Sharpe (35), walking his poodle, Fi-Fi. ‘Weather,’ he said, nodding towards the dark clouds, off to the east.

‘Good, eh?’ I asked.

‘Her place’ll stink like piss.’

Her being Mrs Donnellan, the cat lady of Gleneagles. She had a dozen, maybe more, and Ernie was always on about them.

‘Think it’ll rain?’

But he never answered stupid questions, or bothered with small talk. ‘I told yer mum we should call the council.’

‘About her cats?’

‘You’re only allowed two.’ He stopped and waited for Fi-Fi to dry-piss.

‘Pop hates them. Says she doesn’t get them fixed.’

‘Course not.’ He pulled her on. We turned another corner and passed Gleneagles Primary, a pebblecrete monument to a Sunburnt Country. Centenarian pine trees and the car park of Mr Gottl’s moment of grace. ‘Always rootin’ each other. And I found a load of kittens in me shed.’