I held the side of the block, positioned it so it would slip into its cradle.

260Z Sports. Pop had developed a reputation for Datsuns, and people came from all over. This time, a man named Harper, who’d said, ‘I got her new, but she never had enough grunt.’

A new engine. And although Pop hadn’t ordered it yet, he’d decided we should remove the old one first.

‘Righto, help me.’ We pushed the hoist from either side. The engine rocked, so I steadied it. There were holes where he’d unscrewed the oil and air filter, where the transmission and exhaust manifold had been removed. He’d bought another manual, sacrificed another bedsheet, laid it on the ground, drawn the outlines and positioned the parts of the puzzle.

‘Down.’ I held the engine in place as he worked the chains again. The block lowered, but he was in no rush. It settled into the cradle and the chains loosened. ‘Done.’ I helped him return the hoist to its spot in the corner. Then he said, ‘Good job.’

He walked around it, wiped it with a rag, and said, ‘Still get a decent price.’

If he could see it through, find a buyer, manage to mount a new block. Mr Harper was in no rush. Pop took out his papers and Port Royal and started rolling.

‘What next?’ I asked.

He surveyed the parts on the ground.

‘No rush.’ Like he wanted to enjoy each moment. Perhaps (I wondered) because it might be his last. Mum had already given him a lecture about the sheet. His was becoming a world of templates. If memory failed, it had to be helped. Like the list he’d made of every Datsun he’d ever fixed. Starting with the Fairlady 1500 (1967), through to the 720 (1984). In between there was the 510 Sedan, Roadster 2000, 240Z Sports and dozens more. He’d cut out their pictures, and made a calendar. Stuck each one to a board he displayed on his bench. A life in Datsuns.

Mum came in with salad rolls, put them on the table, noticed the sheet and shook her head. ‘Bring in the plates when you’re done.’ Before turning and going in.

Pop positioned his teeth, bit into the roll, and his falsies clunked. He used a finger to push them back in. ‘Soft rolls,’ he grizzled.

I smiled, and examined the Datsun calendar.

‘I remember each one,’ he said, standing beside me.

I pointed to the 300ZX (1980). He said, ‘Fella named Jones. Just around the corner. But he smashed it up a few months later.’ Then he sat on his stool.

‘Didn’t you do Ron’s car one time?’ I asked.

‘One time, but I don’t think he was happy. Never asked again.’

I sat beside him. ‘Wonder what he gets up to in his shed?’

‘Makes car seats.’

‘What he really gets up to?’

He continued working on his roll. ‘You’re too much like yer father.’