‘I don’t reckon.’

As he went in he said, ‘Pity. Looked forward to a Chiko Roll every day.’

The grey-looking fish. The hot dogs. As Don said, Your dad was in here.

Yeah?

I been telling him …

What?

No reply. As he shook the chips, and the burnt bits sunk to the bottom.

All this time? I asked.

He brought you in … few days after you were born. He wanted me to see; he’d promised. You and your fat arms … like Anthony.

More hot chips, his nose wiped on the back of his hand. Ever since then, he said, we’ve been talking about our boys.

I wondered if Dad was the only one to have asked.

I made off down North East Road. Past the car yard, with its Bulljaw dreamings, and chases around and under the cars, laneway skid shows, as the transformers hummed. It had been a good morning. A three-hour history exam. Me, settling in, sharpening my pencil, turning over the exam paper and reading the first essay question: Which major historical events led up to the Russian Revolution?

Bingo! Thanks, Peter. I used my ten minutes to regurgitate the facts he’d made me memorise: Lenin, Trotsky, Bolshevik versus Menshevik … Then, ‘Your time starts now.’ And I was off, my hand flying across the page, the thoughts cueing, patterns forming and linking across the school’s cheapest A4. So that, three hours later, when White said, ‘Time’s up, pens down,’ I sat back, breathed deeply and thought nice bloody work.

‘Clem!’

I turned, and there was Vicky, in her blue dress and corporate jumper, running towards me. ‘So?’

‘Beautiful.’

She wanted the whole story, but I couldn’t be bothered. ‘I don’t want to be over-confident but, you know …’

‘Good, Clemmy.’

‘Clem.’

‘Clemmy.’ She pinched my cheek.

‘And what about your job?’

‘It’s so fucking boring.’ She was off: the view of a brick wall from her window, three paper cups per worker per day in the drink fountain, how her boss, Mrs Lange, set an alarm so she couldn’t leave early. ‘A few weeks,’ she said. ‘That’s it.’

‘But you’ve just started.’

We reached the Polish hall and stopped and sat on the steps, and had a smoke.

‘Here’s the plan,’ she said. ‘You go to university, get a good job and make lots of money.’

Ernie and Fi-Fi walked past. I hid the smoke. Ern said, ‘How’s school?’ I said, ‘Good.’ School. Like I was still in Prep, and drawing dragons. That’s all he knew: Clemmy, in short pants, heading off with his satchel. ‘Just had my history exam.’ And I told him about revolutionary Russia.

‘Just as well we had that talk,’ he said, as Fi-Fi dry-pissed.

‘Just as well,’ I replied. ‘Even used a few quotes from the manifesto.’

He walked on, waving, realising my smoke was burning down and we had better things to talk about.