I didn’t reply. What was she, a shopgirl, a hairdresser’s apprentice? I studied the badge: ‘Feres Trabilsie Hair Saloon’. I said, ‘It’s salon.’

‘What?’

‘A hair salon, not a saloon.’

She read her badge. ‘What would you know?’

Mum delivered my scrambled eggs. ‘Eat up. It’s a big day.’

‘You should think yourself lucky,’ Jen said. ‘I didn’t get to do matric.’

Like she’d had to go work in a mine. But that wasn’t the case at all. ‘Cos you failed Year Eleven.’

‘Smug little prick.’

‘Mum, she called me—’

‘Cut it out!’ Pop said, arranging his paper on the table. ‘Eat yer bloody breakfast.’

I found a fork, and a reserve of energy, and said to my sister, ‘How’s Feres?’

She wiped her nose on the back of her hand.

‘You do perms yet?’

Mum walked in, sat down and knew straightaway. ‘Got all yer books?’

‘Yes.’

‘All covered?’

‘Yes.’

Pop and I had sat, the previous day, laying out contact, covering books, flattening them, popping the air bubbles.

‘Try and look a bit enthusiastic.’

‘I am.’

Pop peered over the top of his paper. ‘If you make up your mind you’ll do well. We could be sittin’ here toasting your health. Cheers to Doctor Whelan. But you gotta have the right attitude.’

‘Not a bad one,’ Jen said.

‘You don’t wanna be fixin’ cars forever. Medicine … engineer, that’d suit you.’

‘I guess you’re right, Pop.’

‘Just thinka what Nan woulda said …’ He trailed off, trying to remember. ‘Thinka Nan … Colin.’

Colin? No one said a word. Mum sipped her tea; Jen fixed her hair, again. Who was Colin? An old mate? ‘I reckon you’re right, Pop. And if I became an engineer, what sort do you think?’

His face lit up. ‘I love the way they build suspension bridges. Start with the pylons, then the cables … supports.’ But even bridges seemed to elude him.

‘What about a chemical engineer?’

‘That’s what you wanna do, Clem. Stick to the books.’

Limited use, I guessed. Manuals could only tell you so much, but you had to know how things went back together. Newspapers, too. They told you what was happening in Lebanon—but you had to know where Lebanon was, and what all the fuss was about. I noticed the back of the paper. ‘Boy George … what a fag.’

And Jen: ‘He’s got great hair.’

Pop studied the photo. ‘What’s that, a boy or a girl?’

‘Gets his hair done at Feres Trabilsie’s,’ I said. ‘Jen can do it like that, can’t you, Jen?’

‘Get stuffed.’

I was trying, but it didn’t matter. Mum was still watching him, her eyes darting from egg to paper to face; to our rich green Berber; the television whispering in the corner. Pop bit into toast and his falsies clunked. ‘Dad,’ she groaned.

‘Not my bloody fault.’

‘We need to get you new ones.’