found her looking suspiciously at an ashtray.
âWhoâs been smoking?â
âAh yeah. Well, Carl was roundâ¦â
âThat wimpy little prick! What did he want? Iâll never forgive him for what he did to poor Prue and that lovely little girl!â
âNow, babe, it wasnât all Carlâs fault. I mean, Prue is a lesbian.â
âNo wonder, and whatâs wrong with that, anyway?â
âOh right, honey, yeah, but listen! How about this!â
And he told her about Carlâs mother and the famous legacy.
She listened impatiently.
âWell, if he does get all that moneyâand I hope his mother lives for agesâI do hope Prue gets at least half. I know he hasnât been paying her maintenance. Iâll write to her tonight. Sheâs living in New Southâon that commune, what is it? Amazon Acres.â
âNow June. You better not interfere,â Dave said, amused, but a little alarmed.
âDave, just go to work! Iâve got to put the baby down and youâre in the way. Go on!â
Dave trod heavily down the front path. He was limping slightly.
âHey, Dad, where ya goinâ?â
âIâm off to work, kids.â
âCan we come, Dad? We want to dig a grave!â
âNext time maybe,â he said easily.
âDonât you dare , Dave! You keep those kids out of that dirty place!â
Juneâs voice, roughened by years of yelling at recalcitrant children, carried effortlessly from the house. Her pupils called her Miss Vinegar. Dave shrugged at the boys, went out the gate and climbed into his battered Holden.
*
He sat for a moment reflectively kneading his bad leg. He knew that he couldnât work as he did for too much longerâmaybe he could get a job with the union. He was a good shop steward, after all. That would make June happy. He released the brake and drove off in a cloud of smoke.
Gunning the old car down into Sydney Road, he nipped neatly in front of a tram. Changing up with gusto, he drove toward Coburg enjoying the crowds out for Friday afternoon shopping: Greeks, Italians, Turks, Lebanese, Chinese, Vietnamese. What a place! He was a little early so he parked the car, got out and wandered up and down Sydney Road for a while, looking at the shops and enjoying the people. He paused as he always did at a big Italian furniture store, gazing with wonder and amusement at the extravagantly carved chairs and tables. He stopped at a delicatessen and bought a quarter kilo of fetta cheese. He sat in his car eating the salty slab.
Why did Carl hate Brunswick so much? He didnât have to live round here.
He shook his head and restarted the car. Driving north up Sydney Road and turning up Bell Street, he came to the cemetery gates.
The main gate was locked. He sounded the horn and waited till the caretaker came out of his bluestone cottage and undid the padlock with a great rattling of chains.
âHi, Bluey. How you goinâ?â
The caretaker leaned in the car window. He was a bit drunk and Dave could smell heavy wafts of beer. Blueyâs face was flushed and raddled, veins crawled over his pitted nose, and an incongruously youthful shock of ginger hair stood above his forehead.
âThere you are, Dave. Come in to help Mick, have ya? Heâs got your tools.â
âWhere is it, Blue? Not a sinker is it?â
âNo, no, mate. Sheâs an old one, not six foot, down in C3, in the wog section, you know.â
âAll right. Ta, Blue. Listen, mate, youâve started pissing on a bit early, havenât you? Donât let Bruce catch you. You know the rules. The Trustâll arsehole you if you donât watch out.â
âAh, fuck Bruce and the Trust. Youâll look after me, Dave, youâre the shop steward.â
âYeah, well. Be careful, Blue, all right? You owe me your last sub, by the way.â
âYeah, yeah, off you go, Dave.â Bluey stepped back.