‘No, Mr Sharpe.’

‘It’s all o’er the town that I can’t sit down.’

‘Which union was it?’

He turned. ‘You interested?’

‘Yes.’

‘Come on, let’s go.’ He indicated, pulled Fi-Fi along, and jogged home. I slipped on my sneakers and followed. Life was long, and there was a lot to be learned. As I walked down the drive, and turned towards number 35, Les said, ‘You oughta keep away from him.’ I didn’t reply.

I knocked, and Ida let me in. She was wearing her too-tight leotards, T-shirt and wrist bands. There had been sightings in the neighbourhood, generally when she went out to check the mail. And on the telly, Richard Simmons offering encouragement. She offered me coffee and said, ‘Is Ernie behaving himself?’

‘I reckon.’

Fi-Fi was already dozing on the lounge, a belly full of chicken schnitzel. She was an overweight poodle, dragging her guts along the pavement between the Windsor and Lanark Avenue, wearing off the hair (you could see where).

‘He’s in his study,’ she said.

I followed a hall of more old-world colourised photos to the lair: a desk, a portrait of Marx and Engels on the wall, bookcases full of hardbound volumes with titles like Theses on Feuerbach, and The Modern Theory of Colonisation. I guessed Mr Sharpe was smarter than he seemed. Here was a world of European history, economics, politics, as well as the remnants of Ernie’s past: photos of him and other men with banners proclaiming ‘8-8-8’.

‘Sit here,’ he said, and lifted a pile of papers from a seat. I did as I was told, and he placed a photo album across my knees. ‘This is how I got started,’ he said, indicating a black-and-white photo with a young Ernie, continental sideburns and slicked-back hair. ‘Age thirty-two, I was elected shop steward at Morphett’s. They made switchboards.’ He and several other men stood in front of a banner: ‘Electrical Workers’ Union of Great Britain’. ‘I met a lot of good men, and they educated me.’

‘How’s that?’ I asked.

‘The history of capital, and how greedy bastards use it to better themselves.’

Another photo showed a slightly older Ernie, this time in a suit and tie, speaking into a microphone at some sort of public gathering. ‘Here, I’m about forty. This is a few years after we migrated. That’s the Waterside Workers’ Hall.’

‘You were some sort of official?’

‘Again, Electrical Workers’ Union. Secretary … Comrade Sharpe.’

‘Comrade?’

‘Too right. Workers stick together, Clem. That’s where we got our strength. Of course, things are different now. The bosses have got the upper hand. And do you know why?’

Ida came in with the coffees. She’d thought better of it, and put on a dressing gown. ‘Ernie, don’t bother him with all that.’

‘He wants to know, don’t you, Clem?’

‘Yes.’

So she shook her head, and left.