She shook her head, opened the Datsun and took out a bag of groceries. ‘Every day I done this, cos he hasn’t been here.’

She had a good point. She went in, and I followed. ‘I’m not saying any of that was right, but—’

‘Seventeen years.’ She dropped the groceries on the bench.

‘I know but—’

‘Clem,’ Jen said.

‘Get the other bag,’ she said to me.

‘Maybe it’s best to know.’

‘Now!’

‘Like the letter … he wrote it so you could … with Harry. That was a good thing to do, eh?’

Jen looked confused.

Mum turned, went out to the car, and got the groceries. ‘I don’t ask a lot.’

‘He wrote it, Mum. He did it so you could start again.’

She threw the groceries to the ground, stormed down the drive, the street. Jen went after her. ‘You’re such a selfish prick.’

‘Here’s to our Jag,’ Peter said, filling two coffee mugs with his first vintage.

My first wine, although it didn’t seem right. It was bitter, sitting in my mouth like a dead dog.

Peter swilled, swallowed and said, ‘Not bad. What d’you reckon?’

‘Nice.’

‘What, you don’t like it?’

‘No, it’s nice.’

As we sat against the shed, in full sun, Peter in his overalls, me in my old T-shirt and shorts, both of us covered in putty dust.

‘Might need a bit longer,’ he conceded, examining the first of his bottles.

‘How many’d you make?’

‘Two dozen. I gave Doug a few.’

I tried again. There was no way I was gonna make it. ‘For a first go,’ I said.

‘You refine,’ he replied. ‘Like restoring a Jag, eh?’

‘I guess.’

Another few days we’d be there: a bumping hammer to take out the dents, holes fixed, rust sanded down, built up. Me and Pete (in the absence of Pop) using fine paper to smooth it, ready for the canary yellow I’d chosen. Pete had said, ‘I think you’ll regret it.’ I’d said, ‘No, it has to be yellow.’

I had another sip. ‘Maybe I’ll finish it later.’

‘You don’t like it, do you?’

‘Well …’

He emptied his cup onto the lawn. ‘It’s bloody awful, isn’t it?’

I knew he had his next lot brewing. Sauvignon, which, he explained, you couldn’t get wrong. ‘I’m gonna watch the pH this time,’ he said.

‘That helps?’

‘They reckon.’

Then he picked up my exam notes, and we started again. ‘Definition of GDP?’

‘The whole value of a country’s economy, including exports.’

‘GNP?’

And on it went, for another ten minutes. He was determined to get me through, and with good marks. ‘What about your essay?’

‘Keynes.’

‘Go on then.’

Again: the man, the theories, criticisms. As I talked, he took a tissue-wrapped object from his pocket and handed it to me. ‘Open it.’