He sat staring into the shadows. ‘Not at my age. It’s just, Ida. Still, I shouldn’ta pushed her.’

‘She wanted to talk but you …’

‘Just goes to show, young Whelan, stay off the grog. You sneak one in?’

‘No.’

‘But you have a smoke, don’t yer?’

‘Don’t tell Mum.’

‘Stay off them, too. Look at Yul Brenner.’

‘Who?’

He read the side of a box in front of us. ‘Musta been years.’

Soapbox Speeches. In texta. He opened the box, retrieved a pile of papers, and sat. ‘I thought I’d chucked them.’

‘What are they?’

‘These,’ he said, blowing dust from the sheets, ‘were my Kapital.’ Then he read. ‘Comrades, gather round and hear what they have in store for you.’ He waited, eager for an opinion.

‘For who?’

‘The workers. Even as we speak, managers are counting beans, working out how many jobs they can shed, and where these jobs will go.’

I didn’t get it.

‘See, the date, 1973. The managers at Alcott’s were already deciding how they could send work overseas. Be sure, comrades, each of your jobs will be sold down the river.’

Maybe he could hear the applause.

‘You cost too much. Foreigners work cheap. Be assured: this country will have no manufacturing by 1990.’

He was in full flight: a factory of eager ears, raised voices, red flags.

‘First, the machinists will go. We know that’s coming. I’ve seen the tenders. Hong Kong. That’s where they’ll make your children’s pants.’

He stopped for breath. ‘That was a good bita writing, eh, Clem?’

‘What is it?’

‘A speech I wrote when I was a delegate.’

‘It’s good.’

‘But I never gave it. I was scared of public speaking. More than six people, forget it. So, this is where it ended up—with the others.’

He took the paper-clipped soapbox speeches out and read the titles: ‘On the Rights of Electrical Workers’, ‘How the ACTU Has Let Us Down’. Then he tipped them out of the box, and another. After this, there was a small mountain of paper on the floor. He said, ‘Every Sunday I’d sit writin’ ’em, while other men actually got up and spoke, and took control.’

He had enough to make a decent fire. They smelled cat-pissy, but everything in his shed smelled cat-pissy. ‘Why didn’t you get someone to read them for you?’

‘Doesn’t work that way, but if I could get this lot published …’

And I thought, No, not really. ‘Communism isn’t so popular now. Not with all those missiles pointing at us.’

‘Taken.’

‘But you’re right, they make a lota stuff in China now, don’t they?’

‘If people hada listened we wouldn’t be losing our jobs. And my other speeches. Coupla hundred, I once counted, and a not a word was spoken. How’s that for a waste?’

‘Bit like Peter,’ I said.

‘How?’

‘Six years at university, and he mows his lawn with a scythe.’

‘You gotta be careful, Clem.’