The Datsun just kept going. I said, ‘It’s not what I think of everyone, it’s a book of observations.’

‘Why?’

‘I dunno. It’s just interesting.’

She wasn’t happy with this. ‘How do you know everyone’s IQ?’

‘I don’t.’

‘But that’s what you write. Mr Champness, you said—’

‘It’s just a guess, based on what I observe.’

She didn’t get it. I couldn’t explain.

‘It’s just me thinking aloud. I don’t mean anything by it.’

‘No one’s better than anyone else, Clem.’

‘I know.’

‘They could write things about you.’

‘They’re welcome to.’

‘You look at Dr Scheer. He’s clever, but nice. He can afford to think he’s better than us, but he doesn’t. See, that’s the mark of the man: how gracious he is.’

‘Well, sorry.’

‘Ernie Sharpe, fifty-eight points … what was it, moron?’

‘It’s just a classification.’

‘Like we’re all insects.’

I’d had enough. She was like a mower starting on a very big paddock. I made a U-turn and headed home. When she said we needed to do more, I shrugged.

‘Maybe tomorrow.’

So she said, ‘And the way you describe people. That bit about Wendy.’

‘Christ, how much of it did you read?’

‘You don’t know what she’s been through, so you shouldn’t write stuff like that.’

3/v/82 She ran away from him. Down the drive, the road, and didn’t come back till after eleven. Quite pathetic, really, that she can’t stand up to him. Or at least call the police …

‘Been through what?’

‘None of your business.’

‘See, that’s just it!’ I pulled over. ‘How am I meant to know things if no one tells me? If you won’t tell me. If you burn all the …’

The car idled. I’d made my point. You had to be honest with kids, or they’d assume the wrong things.

A city red with fire. The distant ring of hills surrounding us, alight. A northerly pushing flames up hills and down valleys, consuming homes, halls, whole towns, cars full of mums and kids attempting to escape. Even from this distance we could see how fires were growing, joining and consuming the ranges no one had back-burned for decades. We were told there were people dying. Someone had a tranny and we listened to the reports and learned that half the state was on fire. Every metropolitan and country unit was fighting the inferno. They’d run out of men and trucks and some of these sat burned-out, too, black bodies smouldering through the afternoon. By two pm (they let us out early), as I walked home, the streets of Gleneagles were full of smoke.

I turned into Lanark Avenue to see people in their yards, arms crossed, talking, looking to the hills. Peter Donnellan, clutching his rusty scythe, cutting arse-high grass. Mum had said something to Val, and she must’ve got him onto it. Mum often said her bit. Listen, Val, we’ll come and give you a hand with that rubbish out the back. You call the council and they’ll come and collect it. What d’you reckon? And Val would never disagree. I guess she knew things needed doing, but didn’t know how. One in a wheelchair, and the other in his room (aged forty) reading Proust. What could you do?