‘Don said Pop’d bought a couple of pouches of tobacco, told him he wouldn’t be back for weeks.’

Providence wandered across the car park.

‘Long time,’ I said.

‘Sorry, Clem.’

‘I often wondered why you didn’t just stay.’

‘Bit hard when there’s a court order.’

Providence came over, wanting food.

‘Pop’s been doin’ a good job,’ I said.

‘I know.’

‘When I was in scouts, he came camping a few times, until he twisted his ankle, and that was that.’

‘The Cohen Cup?’

I realised he’d always been there, watching. Providence jumped on the table, sniffed it, licked some dry food, and jumped down.

‘Then there was this letter … some place called Callao …’

He grinned.

‘You …?’

‘I wrote it so she could get on with things, without worrying about me. She was friendly with some bloke. Harry … Don told me.’

‘You made up the story?’

‘Good one, eh? I knew she’d got it, cos Don said she’d told him I was dead.’

Neither of us spoke for a while. There didn’t seem any need. There were plenty of crows in the scribbly gums along the road. ‘So long,’ I said again.

‘I know. But I’s thinking, we could catch up a bit now?’

‘Without Mum knowing?’

‘I could try again, but I don’t reckon …’

The Datsun, in the car park, skidding to a stop. Mum got out, and waited to make sure.

‘Christ,’ Dad said.

She ran towards us, slowed, stopped. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘Popped by to say hello.’

She glared at me. No words, but I knew. ‘Home.’ And she pointed.

‘We were just talking.’

‘Home!’

Dad said, ‘Go on, maybe we can catch up later?’

I walked away, hearing Mum saying, ‘Keep yer distance.’

‘I have … but he’s my son.’

My son. At last, I was someone’s son. It felt good, like everything was and always would be alright, cos my dad was back. I turned, watched them arguing, and felt like calling, See you, Dad, but knew I couldn’t.

When I walked in, Jen was there, and I said, ‘I just talked to Dad.’

‘What?’

I explained.

‘He came to the door?’

‘Yep.’

‘And you …?’

‘He’s arguing with Mum, down the stadium.’

She was torn between wanting to go and wanting to stay, to tell me I was a selfish prick. ‘What’s he look like?’

‘Me … you.’

‘Should I … would he still be there?’

‘Go look.’

But in the end, the girl was with Mum, and Mum was with the girl. You couldn’t separate them with a wrench.

Then Mum came in and said, ‘Clem, outside,’ and I went out and stood in the drive.

‘If he comes to the door, you tell him to go away.’

‘We were just talking.’

I could see Jen in the doorway, trying to decide.

‘You just do it,’ she said.

‘He seems okay.’