I looked up. What could you say? Mr Gottl seemed surprised, shocked, but (initially at least) more because he didn’t understand. Me, Clem Whelan, the kid in the hand-knitted cardy, top of the class for speed and accuracy. He just repeated my name, stepped forward, took the money and threw the biscuit tin (I’ll always remember the flick of the wrist) across the room. Took my earlobe and pulled me out the door towards the office. What was I thinking? He dragged me, bodily, across the asphalt, past monkey bars, Barbie girls, towards the office. A few stopped to stare, surprised that it was me, Clem Whelan, not Barry or Stephen.

Mr Gottl let go of my ear, but took my arm. He was slowing. I could see his face, lined with anger, or frustration, or confusion. Clem Whelan: Friday afternoon certificates (Quietest, Fastest, Most Considerate), stealing from his biscuit tin.

He stopped, released my arm and said, ‘Why?’

My head might’ve dropped. I might’ve bit my lip. But then he stepped back and said, ‘Go on.’

We were standing under the pine trees, alone, halfway across the car park, halfway to the office. Grace. Surrounded by Datsuns. I stood, waiting, confused.

‘Go!’ he said, choking on the word.

So I walked away. Glanced back to see him standing, thinking.

January

‘Plenty of options,’ I said to Pop.

‘Such as?’

‘Helping you.’

Holding the old fuel filter in his hands, Pop took a few moments to decide. It might last another thousand kilometres, but to be safe, it should be replaced. ‘What’s the point? Get an apprenticeship. Do it properly.’

‘But you can teach me.’

He wasn’t sure where everything fitted. He’d stripped most of the Fairlady’s engine (Datsun 1500 Sports) and laid the bits and pieces on an old bedsheet he’d spread on the crumbling concrete. He was thinking, perhaps, of putting it back together. If it could be put back together. There was a manual on the bench, sitting open, its torn pages some indication. But enough? He had to think hard about every spanner turn. ‘You shouldn’t rely on me,’ he said.

‘I know most things.’

‘Not enough.’ He placed the filter on the ground and continued. Leaning over the engine, he started unscrewing the oil filter. ‘What else?’

‘A copper?’

‘Can’t see that happening.’

‘Plenty of other apprenticeships. Printing, fitting and turning.’

He didn’t want to stop me. Maybe I’d say something intelligent. Maybe not. But it was worth the wait.

‘Just gotta accept it,’ he said. ‘Back to school. You got the head for it.’

‘So?’

Then he looked up, half-shitty. ‘So? Use your brains. That’s where the money is.’

We’d had the talk a hundred times. The doctor-engineer-lawyer persuasion. ‘So?’ He placed the filter on the ground, studied the pieces then shook his head.

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.