Down, down, she burned, our acrylic Valhalla.

‘So, Baby Burgess’ll have to do,’ I said.

Curtis smiled. ‘You can use it for one of your stories. Then you can show it to Masharin, and she can tell you how brilliant you are and make you get up in front of assembly again.’

Earlier that morning: me, standing in the wings, as Miss White said, ‘Of course, it’s not all about sport. Here at Gleneagles High you got artz: painting, music, and literature.’

I’d looked at Mrs Masharin and said, ‘Maybe you could read it?’

‘No, all sorted. Clem, you, please.’

I’d held my story, shaking; a thousand sets of eyes ready to follow me on. ‘People don’t usually read stories at assembly.’

‘You, first time, please.’

Eventually I was ushered on. ‘Arnold’s view of the world was complex.’

Strangely, they were silent. Maybe what I’d written was okay. I noticed Curtis was missing from the spot where we normally sat. As I progressed, I became confident. ‘Arnold knew he couldn’t tell her, but he could see it in her eyes.’

Applause, and I lingered, and White came over and held my shoulder and said, ‘We might see you in print soon.’

I stood, consumed by the eyes, and then sniffed the air. Something was burning. A door opened and one of the groundsmen ran in: ‘The art room!’

Classic schoolboy error. One thousand kids stood, screamed, and ran, and the little ones were almost crushed. Hundreds of Kennys and Narelles running for a squiz, as sirens wailed in the distance, and Curtis came up behind me. ‘What’s going on?’

‘The art room. Let’s go.’

We made our way across the school and settled on our shady mound. As the first unit arrived I said, ‘What did you think?’

‘Of what?’

‘My performance?’

Now, the fire had burned down. Unfortunately, it hadn’t spread, so the party was over. The school drifted away, to the oval, canteen, ignoring the bell and reclaiming lost recess. A few kids were already arriving for art, looking at the firemen and asking what to do. ‘That’s so fucking pathetic,’ Curtis said.

Round the block with Davo, pushing his chair over tree roots and lifted driveways. Peter, walking a few steps behind, carrying my notes, asked, ‘March 1949?’

I had to think. ‘The Elysée Accords?’

There was another car stripper in his driveway, wiping grease on his singlet. He said, ‘How are yer, gents?’ and Peter replied, ‘Good, you?’

‘It’s a pity,’ Davo managed.

‘What’s that?’ his brother asked.

‘Doug. What’s he gonna do now?’

‘Went to the pub with Ern the other night,’ I said. ‘First time in years.’

‘He should get back to fixin’ cars.’

‘We tell him, but he’s lined up at midday for the movie.’

A regular, but depressing sight. With his Coke and chips, saying, ‘This one looks okay. She murders her husband.’

‘April 1954?’

‘Nixon says America should send troops?’

‘Nice work. We’re ready to try a practice essay.’