‘Blue Moon’ got the punters going. An old fella in a flannelette shirt and jeans, and his girlfriend in a frock, with a sort of tiara arrangement. The room was mostly men, which seemed difficult, but country people solved every problem. Soon there were blokes dancing together. Not too close, but close enough. ‘After the ball’. They moved gracefully in three-quarter time. Ernie, who’d had a few schooners by now, said, ‘I reckon that looks okay.’

‘Not me,’ Pop said.

Peter gathered his beard in his hand and smiled.

‘Carn, Ern,’ I said.

We stood, I put a hand on his shoulder, and he on mine, and we danced. No idea what we were doing, of course, but that didn’t matter. Up and down, round and round, giggling to ourselves, then laughing out loud. I noticed Pop. He was itching, but with Peter?

‘Hold on,’ I said to Ernie. I approached Pop, asked him, but he refused, so I dragged him up, and we began. He just stood there, but then loosened, moved his feet a few steps either way, swayed with the music. ‘Havin’ fun?’ I managed.

‘Heard worse.’

Another hour, another few schooners, before Pop said, ‘I reckon that’ll do for the grog.’

‘Y’ only live once,’ Ern replied, taking out a twenty. ‘Sleep it off,’ and he was gone. To the bar, five, ten, twenty minutes, as Pop leaned forward and said, ‘I dida bita research at the library.’

We waited.

‘I didn’t want to say anything before now, but I stumbled across this in an old book.’ He took out a hand-scrawled note. ‘Two messages. One was an open message, but that was fake, to fool people.’

And he read: ‘This is the position of the reef in question …’

It seemed strange. More information. When he was finished I said, ‘And that’s the same position as your map?’

He took a moment. ‘No.’

Peter looked at me, then Pop. ‘So, where we goin’?’

‘Ssh!’ Pop said. ‘That’s the open message. But there was another one, under it, and I don’t reckon no one’s ever seen it.’ He turned the sheet over and read: ‘The estimated position of this reef is Lat._S., Long._E. Group of three hills, looking like group of Dickens’s women in ‘Dombey and Son’, one looks like a maternity case, bearing_, dist. 17 miles. Single hill looking like QUAKER, bearing_by_, dist. 20 miles. See, that’s the one he was hiding.’

‘But it’s different.’

He took a moment. ‘Could be.’

Peter sat forward. ‘But we’ve come all this way because—’

‘Could be.’

It was the first time I’d heard doubt in his voice. ‘But these directions are close to what your map says?’

‘Sorta.’

‘Sorta?’

‘Day or two’s drive. All I’m sayin’s, if it’s not where I thought, maybe it’s here.’ He waved the paper under our noses.