Here we go, I thought.

‘The Bolsheviks had educated people.’

‘That’s something you could say,’ Peter added.

Bessie just kept going. The temperature gauge behaved, she fired on all four, and as we approached Port Augusta the radio returned. More stock prices and country music, but at least we were nearing civilisation. Electricity towers dominated the landscape, weighing it down, pushing coal power towards town. We, of course, were overtaken by pretty much everything.

‘Problem with Russia,’ Ernie said, ‘is it makes people think it’s in the past. But it’s not. Everything Marx said is just as relevant today.’

‘How?’ Peter asked.

But he’d lost interest. Silence, again, as we turned onto a narrowing road, past half-houses, chicken shops and more Rotary signs (Port Augusta: Top o’ the gulf to you!). Into the town centre, a small patch of watered civilisation in the desert. Stone buildings beside glass-fronted shops beside vacant lots. An old canon beside a granite Anzac. There was a hotel with a four-lane bottle shop, and several men watching a forklift load pallets of beer onto a flat-top. On, past cathedral-sized sheds with skylights, broken-down trains awaiting reassembly, greasy faces strolling yards in search of sandwiches. And on, to the Desert Stars Motel. Surrounded by more barbed wire, and an electric fence.

We parked, paid and unloaded. A single room, but it was big enough for our swags. As the men unpacked I explored: a jungle gym and an empty pool full of deflated toys breeding with wire, leaves, a dead dog, perhaps. There was an attempt at a barbecue area, but the vintage cooker hadn’t seen meat for years. Apart from that, it was quite nice. If you looked out the bathroom window you could see the main rail line (you could hear it every few minutes). There was a dining room, but we decided it was probably best to go into town for tea.

It was almost dark when we went into the Lady Grey Hotel. The men (since I was still the boy) had showered, shaved and combed with poppy oil. Like a pack of wolves in search of schnitzel. Which we got. Miraculously, over- and under-cooked, burnt on the outside and raw in the middle.

The dining room was almost full. Surprising, but at least we hadn’t picked the worst pub in town. There was a band. ‘The Impersonators’ ranged from Nat King Cole to Elvis, and back again. Between songs the singer, Norm, tried to lighten the evening. ‘Someone get us a beer, eh? I’m as dry as a nun’s nasty.’