‘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?

I explained: my curiosity, the man at the door, the MWU, Bob in his little kitchen. ‘First time I heard much about him.’

‘Well, maybe there’s a reason for that. You weren’t there. You don’t know.’

‘Know more now.’

‘Don’t be smart.’

Peter was busy with a crossword; Ernie with the road, slowing every few kilometres for cattle grates, or the beasts themselves, sniffing the verge.

‘He reckoned he was a good worker.’

‘He was.’

‘Told me how when I was born he brought me to this building site, showed me to everyone. I never knew that.’

Pop turned to me and said, ‘Everything’s done for a reason. You didn’t see what he was capable of. Think about how your mother feels.’

This is how it had always ended: the censored photos, and memories.

‘It’s all in the past.’

‘It was Dad, at the door.’

‘Bullshit. Yer mother explained.’

‘That can’t be right.’

‘How do you know?’

Pause. Rubber on road, and a click in the back wheel.

‘Who was it then?’

‘Coulda been a million people.’

I, too, don’t like things staying hidden, I thought. You search; I search. You need to know, and so do I. ‘Maybe the letter was fake?’

‘Enough!’

At eleven am we made camp. A stick fire, the billy boiling beside the highway, and Peter opening the biscuits. ‘Why’d we get gingernut?’ As we worked, Pop paced up and down the highway. Ernie poured the tea and said, ‘Carn, Doug.’

But he wasn’t listening. Up and back, smoothing his hands on his pants, mumbling to himself.