‘You better watch yerself, Mr Whelan, or I’ll be over to have a talk to your mum.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Words? No point. I crossed the road, realising I lived far too close to this man.

Mr Sharpe, returning from the Windsor (where he tied Fi-Fi to the verandah post while he drank with mates for hours on end; where Fi-Fi had learned to stay away from the main road; where the publican, a Mr Loussier, had placed a bowl of water for the dog and sometimes, after tea, scraps from the half-eaten roasts-of-the-day), could be heard coming from some distance. ‘Next door to me, next door to me, the girl next door to me.’ He stopped in front of 31, sat on the fence, farted, and continued; ‘A dog with a healthy bite, a nibble on his pants last night.’ Although he was facing away from me (and greeted Mr Champness, sitting on his porch) he knew I was watching. ‘Have you made a note, Mr Whelan?’

I sat silently.

‘Does it read a little something like, Mr Sharpe, coming home sozzled …’ He checked his watch. ‘Ten minutes late, so perhaps he found a friend.’

Fi-Fi struggled to sniff a fence post, but he jagged her back.

‘Mr Sharpe believes in portergaff …’

‘Is that you, Mr Sharpe?’

‘Evening, Clem. He’s as regular as clockwork. The old girl, Ida, is always complaining, but Mr Sharpe says a man needs a drink at the end of a long day. Don’t you agree, Clem?’

‘Yes, Mr Sharpe.’

And called, ‘What do you think, Mr Champness?’

‘Eh?’

‘Man needs a drink at the end of a long day?’

But Les wasn’t about to buy into it. He returned to his paper.

‘I don’t make any notes, Mr Sharpe.’

‘Mum reckons you wanna be a writer?’

‘I observe but … I don’t write it down.’

‘Her brother belongs to the boxing ‘pros’, And he knocks a rat-a-tat on the tip of my nose.’

‘Give it a rest,’ Les called.

‘Sorry, Les. Just having a word to young Whelan here.’

Les shook his head. ‘He’s been warned, too.’

‘How’s that, Mr Champness?’

‘Just get home, Ernie. You’re a disgrace.’

‘Next door to me, next door to me … You there, Clem?’

‘Yes.’

‘Every street has one, don’t you think?’

‘What’s that, Mr Sharpe?’

‘A disgrace. But there’s a lot worse than grog, sung without licence or fee, except in music halls.’

‘A lot worse.’

‘Like miserable old cunts like him.’

We both watched the pages of the paper turning.

‘Where I grew up, Clem, people looked out for each other. Two up, two down, and the kids on the street. Someone like him’—and he said it discreetly—‘they’d be let know. Workers of the world unite!’

‘Get home!’ Les called.

‘Mr Sharpe is quoting Marx again. He was an old Red, organised for some union, and he lives in the past. Do I, Clem?’