‘Tell him to get it towed. It’s not our problem.’ He reached into the toolbox, found a spanner and said, ‘I got other jobs.’

‘Reckon you could get ’em out?’ I asked.

He walked over, checked the engine, and thought better of it. ‘Once you start you gotta finish it.’

We waited.

‘And you got other jobs, Clem. Like studying.’

‘Can’t do it all day.’

‘It’d have to be sanded, gaps filled, sprayed … that’d cost you a Corolla, there.’

‘I could do it.’

‘Windows need new glass, windscreen’s cracked. You’d have to be stupid.’

‘Maybe I am.’

Vicky said, ‘I told him, Doug, but he won’t listen.’

‘Exactly. He just wants it gone, so he can make his wine.’

There might have been something to that. Since he’d cleared his shed, Peter had started fermenting. A couple of tables with plastic vats, and breathers. A box of bottles, ready. Labels, and bags of tartaric acid and oak chips. ‘You ever done it before?’ I’d asked him.

‘Na, but it looks easy.’

As we watched the gas bubble to the top.

‘What you gonna do with it?’

‘Drink it.’

‘All of it?’

‘You can have a bottle.’

Shiraz. Although he reckoned he wanted to do whites, too, but had to wait until he got enough money to buy more gear.

‘Anyway, gotta fix the sink for your mother,’ Pop said.

‘So what do you reckon?’ I asked.

‘I reckon yer stupid. Even someone with the skills, it’d take years.’ Then he walked out.

I removed the old battery. It’d leaked acid for a few years, I guessed, before drying up. Now it was a shell.

‘And what about Curtis’s backwards-walking chicken?’ she asked.

‘You remember?’

‘I remember the television crew, and watching it. He was like that back then too.’

And he was there, in the doorway, saying, ‘Like what?’

‘Vicky was just talking about your chicken,’ I said.

He studied her suspiciously, like he knew why she’d brought it up. ‘A disbeliever?’

‘You can tell us, Curtis.’

‘It’s all true.’

‘Really?’ With her arms crossed.

‘Sis dubius.’

‘We’re not impressed. Use English.’

‘The chicken walked backwards. Mum saw it. She’s the one told me to call them.’

‘And what happened to it?’

‘We ate it.’

‘Cos it wouldn’t walk backwards?’

‘It had its chance.’

There was something between them. Something not-so-nice, or friendly. It’d started with a tennis match, me in shorts and old sneakers, Vicky in a skimpy dress, hair up, the full package. She was winning, of course. Aces, impressive returns to the back corner, as I stumbled and fell, ran out of energy, and will, saying, ‘Carn, let’s get some something to eat.’

‘You’re such a slob.’

‘Thanks.’

At which point Curtis had appeared again, like he’d been stalking us. ‘Tennis?’