His face screwed into a little ball. All shaved, of course. ‘Whelan?’

‘I think my dad used to work with you.’

He smiled. ‘Wilf?’

This was enough to get me into the kitchen, and a beer, the radio turned down. He sat and said, ‘I seen you before.’

‘When?’

‘Just a bub. Few months old. We were working somewhere, and yer mum brings you in … and yer dad’s showin’ you off.’

‘Mighta been my sister, she’s two years older.’

‘No, it was a boy, I remember. Clem, you say?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Nice to meet you.’ And we shook.

Half a glass later (with the form put away) he said, ‘I gave yer dad that job. Sixty-eight, nine, when I was foreman with Blackie’s.’ He squeezed my arm. ‘Look at you, all grown up. I remember that day. Your mum brought you along and yer dad’s sayin’, Number one son … not bad, eh? Like that. Not bad? Proud as punch. Course, a man is with his first son.’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘Why would you? Bet you’ve done him proud.’

‘Haven’t done much yet, till I get out of school, anyway.’

‘You will. Lay bricks, like him. What a worker.’

I waited, and drank. The beer seemed natural, and I could already feel my head.

‘Got nasty when he left.’

‘How’s that?’

‘Let’s not talk about it. Everything worked out okay.’

‘He was sacked?’

‘Not me. Mr Black, the owner.’

‘Why?’

He paused, wiped beer from his mouth. ‘He laid around a bit, left work to others. Then when Mr Black challenged him he’d give him a mouthful. I stayed out of it, cos he could lay bricks real good. But you know … some blokes are their own worst enemy.’

It sounded like Mum had said, but Mr Jones seemed apologetic. ‘Don’t worry about that. Blokes came and went. That was the business. Yer dad’d had enough anyway. Reckoned he’d make a good sailor.’

‘And that’s why you went referee?’

‘Yeah. Old Blackie sacked lots of fellas, didn’t mean they weren’t decent. He was short-fused, and if you come up against him, like your dad did, that’d be the end of it. But you ask him, he’ll tell you about Blackie.’

I wondered what he meant. ‘But he’s dead.’

Bob looked confused. ‘Blackie?’

‘Dad.’

‘Dead?’ He almost laughed. ‘Not less he’s a ghost.’

Then I told him about the letter.

‘Someone’s pulling your leg.’

‘How?’

‘How old’s the letter?’

‘Seventies some time.’

‘Last time I saw your dad was three, four years ago. He dropped by, sat there, drinkin’ a beer, like you. Even looks like you.’

‘Here?’

‘I seen him plenty of times over the years. Stops by, asks how I’m going.’

I didn’t get it. The letter. Mum’s words.

‘And he never mentions me … Mum, Jen?’