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Steven high, I have.’
    ‘Barassi, he’s an eyetalian,’ said Wilbur Ong. ‘Go back a bit, them Barassis, though. Not convicts but a fair way back.’ He sighed. ‘We coulda had Barassi.’
    ‘Barassi come from Castlemaine,’ said Eric Tanner. ‘Jeez, there’s a lotta ignorance around here.’
    Stan looked at the Youth Club and shook his head. ‘IT. Information technology. You blokes think the flush dunny’s new technology.’ He turned back to me, coughed a polite cough. ‘Word’s gettin around,’ he said. ‘These people, they’re on the cyberfrontier. On the other hand, they like a bit of tradition. Well, you want a bit of tradition, the Prince’s the place.’
    ‘Tradition?’ I said. ‘Really? Tradition of beer tasting like soap? Tradition of toasted cheese sandwiches that fight with your teeth? Tradition of needing gumboots to go to the toilet? That’s what they’re after, is it? Well, Stanley, you’re in the pound seats.’
    Stan shrugged. ‘Jack, too critical, always bin your problem. Take the world as you find it, my old man always said.’
    ‘Morris never in his life said anything like that,’ I said. ‘Morris can’t stand the world as he finds it. And what’s this past tense? Either Morris is alive or he’s been phoning me every day from the afterlife.’
    Stan’s father owned the Prince and five small commercial properties around the suburbs. I acted for him in his endlessly problematic dealings with his tenants and he sent me instructions daily from his retirement villa in Queensland.
    ‘On that subject,’ said Stan. He leaned his head closer. ‘Listen, Jack, the wife’s talkin to someone the other day, he reckons I could get power of attorneyfor the old bloke, no problem. Eighty-eight, infirm of mind, that sort of thing.’
    ‘Could we get a round here?’ I said. ‘The old technology crowd. Soapy beer will be fine.’
    Stan didn’t move. ‘Course you’d still do the legal stuff, don’t worry about that.’
    I put my face within five centimetres of his. ‘Stanley, when I detect any signs of mental infirmity in Morris, you’ll be the first to know. As things stand, the message is more likely to go in the other direction.’
    Stan worked this out, sighed, went to get the beer. I settled down to a serious discussion with the repentant Youth Club of the Saints’ chances against West Coast on Friday night. Perfect hatred of the non-Victorians drove out any fears about the ability of our side to orientate themselves towards goal.
    I drove home through a cold drizzle, the Lark’s erratic wipers smearing the lights. It was just after seven, the truce time, day people retreating, night people not ready to advance. At the Queen’s Parade lights, I punched the radio, got a boring man talking about tax reform, punched again, got a silly pair of teenagers talking about bad exam experiences, punched.
    A voice said:
Should the new government have scrapped its predecessor’s granting of a licence for a privately run ski resort and casino at Cannon Ridge? Let’s hear your views on 1300 3333, that’s 1300 3333.I’m Linda Hillier, talking with you on 3KB, Melbourne’s station for the new century
.
    It was a voice I hadn’t heard for a long time. Drivers behind me began to hoot. I came back to the present and got the Lark moving, turned left. Outside the boot factory, parked under a dripping elm, I listened to Linda Hillier and her callers. She had the talkback touch: silk and steel, kiss them and kick them. Touch had always been her strong point. Early in our relationship, we’d sat in this car at this spot, glued at the mouth, hands going about their business, the business hands want to go about.
    But that was long ago.
    I killed the radio and lugged the shopping bags upstairs. Each year, the eventide falls faster and only sound and activity can hold the gate. I lit the fire, put on some Mahler, loud, got busy cooking, rang Cyril Wootton’s numbers, all of them. I found him in