What’s that got to do with Vicky? I thought. Every story led back to Ernie.

Peter said, ‘I reckon you could do worse than Vicky.’

‘She’s okay, but I got a few more things to do before I worry about that stuff.’

‘It’s never too early.’

As he said this, and as I saw the nape of her peach-coloured neck, I had to agree: it was never too early.

‘Just don’t appear to keen,’ Ernie said.

‘How’s that?’ I asked.

‘If they think you’re interested … that was my mistake. Draw ’em out, Clem. Make ’em work for it. What d’you reckon, Pete?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

Ernie nudged him. ‘Go on, you can tell us.’

‘That was a long time ago.’

‘What was?’

‘Second-year law. But she found someone who’d earn more than me. Lucky she did, or she’d be livin’ with Davo and Mum.’

‘What was her name?’

‘Mandy.’

I guess none of us thought it decent to ask. Anyway, I knew—we all knew—that Peter had made promises to his family.

Pop screwed the sheet of paper into a tight ball.

‘Not so sure?’ I asked.

Then he flattened it on his knee, refolded it and put it in his pocket. ‘No point worrying about women.’

‘Why?’

‘They come along soon enough. Your nan came in with her dad to get their car done, and she’s watchin’ me change a tyre, and she says, That’s okay, and I said, You like cars, and she said, What’s to like? And that was it.’

‘What?’

‘I got her address from the office, went around that night, said to her dad, Car runnin’ okay? And he said, Not bad. And I said, Righto, I reckon me and Trish should go for a ride. And he said, You drive a Vauxhall? I said, Easy. And that was it.’

‘A Vauxhall?’ I asked.

‘Easy. Like everything in those days. Goin’ round, gettin’ married … like buyin’ a box of Persil.’ He felt for the new directions; smoothed them again, in his pocket. ‘Problem these days, everything’s too complicated. Keep it simple, Clemmy.’

We thundered north, following the pipeline. Pop opened his map and described Hesso and Monument Hill, Bookaloo, Birthday and the crossed pick and shovel that was Ernie’s hammer and sickle. To our west, Lake Dutton; east, the sulphur and porpoise-shaped rot of Lake Torrens (Pop claimed he could smell it). Then, Spud’s Roadhouse for early lunch: walls papered with number plates from around the world, pubobilia, snake skins and dunny seats signed by Burke and his missus. We sat down with our hot dogs and Chiko rolls.

‘We’re makin’ good time,’ Pop said.

Ernie rolled up his crossword book and put it in his pocket. ‘No turnin’ back now, eh?’

‘I got a sore arse,’ Peter said, and Pop told him it would get sorer.