‘She’s demanding we return, saying how worried everyone is, how selfish it was to just leave.’

We eyed Pop, who was poker-faced.

‘D’you reckon there’s any gold?’ Ernie asked.

‘Course,’ I said, dutifully.

‘You reckon?’

‘… perhaps.’

Another minute, Pop returned, sat down, but then cleaned up the chicken, put it in the bin, stood beside us and said, ‘Come on, let’s see this room.’

‘What’d she say?’ Peter asked.

‘Grizzled, of course. Come on, we got a lot to do.’

‘What else did she say?’ I asked.

‘Doesn’t matter. Grizzled. It’s all she does. But she’ll get over it.’

He brushed his pants, felt the new directions in his pocket then said, ‘Would you lot just bloody come!’

‘What is it?’ Ern asked.

‘It’s nothin’. If we don’t keep going …’

Ernie was driving, his seat back, one hand on the wheel. Pop said, ‘Pay attention.’

‘Fifty years of driving, not so much as a dent.’

Pop retreated into the landscape.

An early start, again. We’d emerged from our cave room with our bags, loaded the car, returned for the all-inclusive breakfast, but the woman (still in her nightie) had said, ‘Dining room’s not open till seven.’

‘We gotta make tracks,’ Pop had said.

‘Seven.’

‘But we only wanna bita toast, a cuppa.’

She’d shrugged, and he’d said, ‘Fuck me,’ and she’d said, ‘Language,’ and he’d said, ‘Not much for the tourists, eh?’

So we’d loaded our gear, found a servo and bought day-old pies and sausage rolls. All the time, Pop saying, ‘Coupla sticks of dynamite.’

‘Can’t believe we’ve come this far,’ I said.

‘Yeah,’ Pop mumbled. A sort of so what? yeah.

‘Be diggin’ soon, eh?’

‘Yeah.’ As he studied the desert, the last of the slag heaps and signs showing tourists what’d happen if they fell down a shaft.

‘How far to the border?’ Peter asked.

‘Three-fifty,’ Pop replied. But not a confident three-fifty.

‘That what yer map says?’

‘Yes, it’s what my map says. Listen, just read yer book or somethin’.’

Ernie tried the radio, and a man told us there might be rain, but probably not. ‘Long wait,’ Ern said to Pop.

‘What?’ Annoyed.

‘That day at the pub. The map.’

No reply.

‘We shoulda done it earlier, eh, Doug?’

‘Yeah.’

‘We coulda been livin’ the high life, eh? Clem coulda had the best schools. Best house, suburb. Wilf. Things woulda been easier.’

‘Stop rattlin’ on,’ Pop said. ‘Just keep yer eyes on the road.’

‘Trip to Europe every year. How’d you like that, Clem?’

‘Okay, I guess.’

‘Paris’d beat the coast. Still …’

I wanted to tell him there was nothing wrong with the coast. With Dad, lifting me, throwing me in the waves, laughing as I struggled. I said to Pop, ‘Do you remember Bob Jones?’

He thought about it. ‘Jones?’

‘Dad used to work for him.’

‘Yeah, I remember. How do you know …?’

I didn’t reply, for a while. ‘I went and saw him.’

‘Why?