Curtis pulled out a chair and motioned for Pop to sit. Then he sat opposite him. ‘My dad prefers the trots, but he knows a good horse. He’s got a part-share in one, but it’s come last in three races.’

‘Well, Skeffington never came last.’

Again, I turned to Mum, and she was lost in Pop’s eyes.

Curtis said, ‘Mum reckons horses are like flushing your money down the dunny, but Dad says she doesn’t get it. I see what he means, though. There’s nothin’ better than a nice horse, is there, Doug?’

‘No, there’s not.’

Jen said, ‘We’re gonna be late.’

Mum asked if I’d cleaned my teeth.

‘Yes.’

‘You have not,’ Jen said. ‘You’re disgusting.’

Pop seemed to have rallied. Skeffington. It was definitely Skeffington. ‘I’ll drive yers.’

‘No, you won’t,’ Mum said. ‘You stay and read the paper.’ And she opened it for him.

‘I’m not useless.’

‘Didn’t say you were. How’s about you do the dishes?’

‘I haven’t got time for that. I’ve got six cars waiting.’

‘Six?’

‘Couple, anyway.’

We kissed him, and left him with his cold cup of tea. As we got in the car, Mum said, ‘Thanks for your help, Curtis.’

‘No worries, Mrs Whelan. I tell you what we should do …’

Mum tried to start the car. It groaned, then shook.

‘We should take him to the races. That’d be good, eh?’

Yes, I thought. The races. Perfect. Curtis was always the good ideas man. And it came to him so easily (120—140: very superior intelligence).

‘Good idea,’ Mum said, fiddling with the choke. ‘We’ll ask him.’ She tried again. An automatic sigh, like a pair of old, diseased lungs emptying for the last time. ‘Shit.’

‘Battery,’ Curtis said.

‘I can’t be late,’ Jen added. ‘Feres blows his top.’

Mum turned to her. ‘Well, it’s not my bloody fault.’

We watched as Pop emerged from the house. He waved at us. ‘Hold on.’ He went to the shed, opened the door and switched on the light.

‘But it’s in pieces,’ Mum said.

But then, the sound of a purring Datsun, the gunning of an accelerator, and the Fairlady backed down the drive.

‘Jesus,’ I said. ‘Yesterday it was …’

Pop pulled up beside. ‘Come on then, get in.’

February

Day three. A timber art room with a clunking fan, half-hanging from a ceiling, transmitting light from an iron-roofed day. I completed an outline of Mr Fantastic. ‘They’ll let us?’ I asked.

‘Of course.’

Mr Andrews, our new art teacher: jeans, sandals, a decent week’s growth, a couple of earrings in each lobe, red eyes from booze and drugs, or so we imagined. Nick Andrews, the first teacher who’d let anyone near his first name.

‘They’ll let you,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry about them.’