Now, he took a moment to think, consulted the manual (not that he needed to) and disappeared below the bonnet. I threw a few more darts. Noticed the chalk scribble, the addings-up on the blackboard beside it. All the numbers formal, structured, the same. ‘Who wrote this?’ I asked.

He checked. ‘Yer dad.’

I studied the numerals, as if they might tell me something. The chalk was still sitting on the wooden frame. I picked it up and traced the numbers. Perhaps this would provide some clue about my missing father. Who’d left no clothes, toiletries, papers. Nothing. But the father, I guessed, who was standing beside Mum, and toddler Jen, and baby me, in a photo in Mrs Donnellan’s house. A photo they’d all missed in their conspiracy of denying me a dad. A solid, real, smelling, speaking, remembered old man. Mine was a ghost dad. A bit of chalk, a pair of shoes, but not much else. A whispered comment from Aunty Maureen before she realised me and Jen were listening. But Mum hadn’t realised Mrs Donnellan hadn’t realised. And there he was, this grinning man standing with the family that time had forgot. ‘Was he any good at darts?’ I asked.

‘He was okay, I suppose.’

‘Could he beat you?’

‘What’s the point of throwin’ those things?’

Always how it was. Dig, but the ground was hard. Dad, apparently, had caused it all. Then Jen was in the doorway. ‘Mum says youse should come in.’

Pop didn’t reply.

‘Pop?’

‘Gotta get this done. If you wanna help you can get us a drink.’

‘Bloody hot in here. Clem, Mum says—’

‘We’re workin’,’ I shot back.

‘Doesn’t look like you’re working.’

‘We’re working,’ Pop growled, and she retreated. I heard the fly door slam and Mum going off and ‘Xanadu’ fading in and out of the ether.

Pop laid more parts on the ground. Then he stood back and said, ‘Gotta go down to Repco.’

‘Want me to come?’

‘No. Get going before—’

But it was too late. Slam. Slippers on the pavers. Mum at the door. ‘Dad, come in. This is bloody ridiculous.’

‘I gotta get this done.’

‘It can wait till tomorrow. There’s a change coming.’ She glared at him.

‘Clem said he’d drive me to Repco.’

She looked at me, as if I was part of the problem. ‘Then you’re both inside, right?’

‘Can’t stop workin’ cos it gets a bit warm.’

‘At eighty-two you can. You will.’

Datsun 120Y. Four angry cylinders; plenty of rust, seatbelts that didn’t retract. Sink-hole bucket seats with cushions. Radio hissing eastbound and down, although north-east, actually. Working despite the dust and Coke spray. A glove box full of gas bills and two-for-one pizza vouchers, and a fuel gauge that didn’t work, of course.