‘Nothing’s wrong.’ Returning to work. He undid the clamps and removed the battery. ‘Early Datsuns weren’t much.’

‘What about the Laurel?’

He glared at me. It wasn’t about the Laurel, but what I should do with myself. It was only a week until I started matric. I wasn’t interested, and if I didn’t resolve it now it’d just be nine months of Bruce Dawe and Gross Domestic Product.

‘Your mother wouldn’t have a bar of it,’ he said, fighting with the battery, working it free, attempting to remove it. ‘Gis a hand, will yer?’

So I took it, lifted it, placed it in the little square he’d drawn on the sheet, with the word BATRY, so he’d know.

‘Now, let’s think,’ he said. He put his hand to his head and massaged his temple, as though this might wake the sleepy cells in his brain. Although, even then, standing in the shed that hot day, month, year, I knew, we all knew, the bits and pieces were starting to drift and settle in other places. But the sheet was comprehensive enough. He’d sat there, the previous evening, copying the names from the manual, labelling them, saying to me, ‘You’ll help us with that Fairlady tomorrow?’

‘Sure, Pop.’

‘Should have it done in a few hours.’

Mum had said, ‘Don’t be stupid, Dad. Forty-odd tomorrow. You don’t wanna be out in the shed working.’

And he’d turned to her. ‘Wait for it to cool down and we’ll be there in April.’

She’d given him her look. Not the hot-shed look, but the you’re-too-old look, the save-yourself look. She’d turned to me for support but I’d just said, ‘I can help.’ So she’d fallen silent. Kingswood Country silent. Ted and Bruno and other cars, other neighbourhoods.

Back in the shed, Pop wiped his hands and said, ‘Your mother’s relying on you.’

‘I hate school.’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

I studied his face—chicken skin with six or seven liver spots, a bulbous nose with fuse-box capillaries, smokers’ teeth, big ears with hairs. ‘What about a teller?’

‘You can do that after November.’

‘Or the public service test?’

‘Why’d you wanna be a public servant? Sit on their arse all day …’ Which made him think of work, and all the bits that still had to come out. He started removing spark plugs and leads, placing each on the sheet in its numbered spot. ‘I’ve always regretted not finishing school. Then you gotta spend yer life doing this.’

‘But you like it.’

‘You do anything long enough you get used to it.’