She said it like they were about to come to an end.

‘But you got this factory?’ the agent said, as some machine started whirring.

‘Yes, but you don’t notice it after a while.’

He examined the lifting concrete paths, and Pop said, ‘It was never mixed right. Not enough gravel.’

Mum was a volcano, building.

‘You could rip it up, start again.’

‘And what about the neighbours?’ he asked.

Pop told him. Gary the klepto and his criminal son on one side, Catwoman, and oh, of course, Ron, across the road, works from home, so every Saturday morning you got cars coming out yer arse.

Mum said nothing; she looked pissed. I stopped, because I didn’t want to be anywhere near the eruption.

‘Course, these places,’ Pop said, ‘weren’t built to last. The soil cracks, so you can’t build in brick unless you can afford the footings. No one round here could, so we stumped, and had fibro. But they’ll all be coming down soon. See it starting.’

We went in, and Mum showed him the kitchen, with its lack of modern features, but explained, ‘The lino’s only a couple of years old.’

They settled in the lounge, and I returned to my room. He was doing the numbers. Mum was waiting anxiously. Pop was watching the news.

Les and Wendy had come out, sat on the porch, drinking coffee. I checked with the TK25 as she stood, noticed something on his jacket, picked it off, went in, and returned with her knitting.

The agent said, ‘I’d put it on the market for eighty-five, Mrs Whelan.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Market’s down. Hard movin’ anything these days.’

‘Might as well give it away,’ Pop said.

‘Right,’ Mum said. ‘We’ll have to think about it.’

‘What?’ Pop asked. ‘You said—’

‘Alright!’

Silence, as they retreated.

‘Course, if you painted it, got in some modern furniture, you might get ninety.’

‘That’s a bit disappointing.’

‘Lotta stock on the market, Mrs Whelan.’

Mum showed the agent out to his car, and I came out to the lounge, watching them through the blinds. ‘Why d’you reckon she did that, Pop?’

‘We’re being punished, Clem.’

‘You reckon?’

‘Me and you, for crossing her.’

I sat down. Sport on the telly; questionable hamstrings. I noticed Mum waving to Les and Wendy, and Les calling back, ‘Sellin’ up?’

‘No, just gettin’ a price.’

And the agent getting in his Danny Moore: We Sell for More BMW and driving off.

The moment Mum came in the front door, Pop was ready. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

‘I’s just curious.’

‘No, you weren’t. You haven’t been curious all these years.’

She sat, folded arms, watching the telly.

‘I don’t wanna go nowhere,’ I said.

She ignored me and turned to Pop. ‘In the future, you might need more than we can give.’

‘Me? Cosa me?’

‘If you—’