I studied the twelve images, and felt pleased. This was the world I’d made. It smelled of cut grass and tasted of stewed apricots. It had light and dark, seasons, pimples, corns, animals and hernia scars. The void had been filled. Water, even, in the form of the sprinkler with the high-pitched hiss.

Pop wheeled the Victa up the drive. Then he disappeared out back and returned with a bag of clippings. I leaned forward and put my face to the flyscreen. ‘Wait on, Pop.’ I pulled on shorts and sandshoes and ran out, claimed the Victa and started. There wasn’t much to mow. It just stirred up dust and dead grass. Soon, I could taste it on my tongue, feel it in my nose and ears. Ernie went past with Fi-Fi and waved. More cars pulled up for seat covers and Ron came out and looked at me like I was spoiling business. ‘G’day, Mr Glasson,’ I said, and he managed a smile. Pop sat down on the verandah and I called, ‘In the shade.’

‘Eh?’

‘In the shade.’

Push, conquer, turn and return. It was all very muscular. After a few minutes Mum came out with drinks, placed them beside Pop, tried to move him, gave up, and went inside. Moments later Jen came out, got into the 120Y and drove off after saying something to Pop.

As I worked I watched my grandfather use a stick to move dirt in the garden. He picked up stones, examined them, spat on them, rubbed them, and threw them away. I switched off the mower, waited for it to die, and sat next to him. ‘Finished.’

He handed me my drink and said, ‘Good job.’

‘You shoulda called me, I would’ve done the back.’

‘Na.’ And he shooed me, along with the flies.

He picked up another stone and examined it.

‘What’s that?’

‘Quartz.’

I knew what was coming.

‘You’re hot as hell,’ I said, as I drank.

‘I’m fine.’

‘Get your blood pressure up—’

‘I’m fine! Don’t need it from you too.’

Mum must’ve been on at him about the family history. The little vessel that’d pop, and that’d be it. But perhaps he didn’t care, perhaps it would be better than dying forgetting. ‘You getta good line, it leads to gold,’ he said.

‘Yeah?’

‘I still regret it.’

I didn’t reply; the story would come anyway. About his Croat mate, Arno, and how he’d gone to Coober Pedy and found a shitload of opal and made millions and returned to Europe and built a mansion, and a school for his town and blah, blah, although he knew it probably wasn’t true.

Then he turned to me and said, ‘It’s not too late, you know.’

I waited. Next, he’d say: You and me, we could do it.