We climbed in. Pop, of course, wanted to drive. He started the 120Y, and it purred, and he stroked the dashboard and said, ‘God love yer, Bessie.’

We headed north, into darkness. For a while, no one spoke, then Peter said, ‘I hope she finds it.’

‘What?’ Ernie (sitting beside Pop) asked.

‘My note. Thought I better explain.’

‘Why?’ Pop asked.

‘It’s gonna be a shock for Mum. Can you imagine? Her running inta Fay … d’you know what’s happening?’

We smiled, but it was too early to laugh. Ern opened a loaf of bread and started making sandwiches with Ida’s bacon and egg. We each got one, and Peter dropped his egg in his lap, and Pop said, ‘Careful, we gotta keep it clean.’

‘She’ll have a coronary,’ Peter said.

‘She’ll be alright,’ Pop consoled. ‘They’ll all get together, have a cuppa, complain about us, and Fay’ll say, I reckon I oughta call the police, but Ida and Val’ll say, Na, they’ll be fine. Somethin’ like that.’

‘I hope,’ Peter said, licking egg from his fingers.

Bessie loved city roads. Just glided, up and down, loop the loop, as we clutched our handles and Ern said to Pop, ‘You got the map?’

‘What am I, stupid?’

‘Just asking.’

Pop patted his pocket, to make sure.

Then silence again. Petrol stations, suburbs with sleep in their eyes, the road so open Pop started weaving from lane to lane. ‘Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do …’

‘You won’t be so happy when the cops pull you over,’ Ernie said.

Pop glared at him. Ern, the destroyer of dreams. ‘What cops? No one for a million miles.’

Suburbs became factories, white-fanged hounds drooling as we passed. A yard with a hundred tractors, another with a thousand caravans, another with a million drilling rigs. All lined up, waiting for another dreary day that we’d avoid. ‘We’re doin’ it,’ Pop said. ‘We’re actually doin’ it.’

‘What, you thought we wouldn’t?’ Ernie asked.

‘Taken so bloody long. When was it we first talked about it?’

‘Years ago.’

Pop turned to me. ‘You weren’t even thought about. How’s that? A lifetime ago. Just goes to show, if you wait long enough, everything happens.’

He was glowing, alive, dried egg around his mouth, the shovel already in his hands.

Factories became paddocks, then scattered homes, hobby farms with a couple of horses and goats and sheep. Pop studied every detail: every yard, every stumped car, every olive tree and dead willow. ‘The real Australia, eh?’

Peter said, ‘Bit early yet, Doug.’

‘Na. The suburbs are death. Lock a man in a house, shove him next to a million other people—nothing intended, I did alright neighbour-wise—then you watch him wither on the vine.’

‘Reckon you shoulda lived in the country?’ Peter asked.