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eating the turd sandwich, because he had forgotten all about it; when he finished his fish and chips he and his father left their empty plates on the table and entered the living room.
    ‘Come on, Es, it’s time for the cricket summary,’ Ron said, switching channels.
    His wife sighed. ‘I wish you’d stay out a bit longer, then I might get to see a Joan Crawford picture or something instead of sport, sport, sport!’
    ‘Well, if Tim gets a bit more part-time work, love, I’ll buy youse your own TV set,’ Ron rejoined, kicking his shoes off and stretching himself out full-length on the sofa. ‘Where’s Dawnie?’
    ‘Out with some fella, I suppose.’
    ‘What one this time?’
    ‘How the hell do I know, love? I never worry about her, she’s too smart to get into trouble.’
    Ron looked at his son. ‘Ain’t it the dizzy limit, Es, the way life turns out? We got the best looking boy in Sydney and he’s about fourpence in the quid, then we go and get Dawnie. There’s him, can only sign his name and count to ten, and Dawnie so clever she can win university gold medals without even studying.’
    Esme picked up her knitting, looking at Ron sadly. He felt it, poor old Ron, but in his own way he’d been real good to Tim, watched out for him without treading on him or treating him like a baby. Didn’t he let the boy drink with him, hadn’t he insisted Tim should earn his own bread like any normal boy? It was just as well, because they weren’t as young as they used to be. Ron was almost seventy and she was only six months behind him. That was why Tim had been born simple, the doctors told her. He was twenty-five now, and he was the first-born. Well over forty, she and Ron were when he was born; the doctors said it was something to do with her ovaries being tired and out of practice. Then a year later Dawnie was born, perfectly normal, which was how it went, the doctors said. The first one was usually the hardest hit when a woman began having children at over forty years of age.
    She let her eyes dwell on Tim as he sat in his own special chair by the far wall, closer to the TV than any of the other chairs: like a small child, he liked to be in the middle of the picture. There he sat, the loveliest, sweetest boy, eyes shining as he applauded a cricketing run; she sighed, wondering for the millionth time what would become of him after she and Ron were dead. Dawnie would have to see to him, of course. She was devotedly fond of her brother, but in the normal way of things she would get tired of studying one day and decide to marry instead, and then would her husband want someone like Tim around? Esme doubted it very much. Who wanted a grown-up five-year-old kid if he wasn’t their own flesh and blood?

6
    Saturday was just as fine and as hot as Friday had been, so Tim set off for Artarmon at six in the morning wearing a short-sleeved sports shirt and tailored shorts with knee socks. His mother always looked out what clothes he was to wear, cooked his breakfast and packed his daytime food, made sure his bag contained a clean pair of work shorts and that he had enough money to see him through any possible difficulty.
    When Tim knocked on Mary Horton’s door it was just seven, and she was sound asleep. She stumbled, bare-footed, through the house, wrapping a dark grey robe around her sensible white cotton pyjamas, pushing the few stray wisps of hair from her face impatiently.
    ‘My goodness, do you always arrive at seven in the morning?’ she muttered, blinking the sleep out of her eyes.
    ‘That’s when I’m supposed to start work,’ he replied, smiling.
    ‘Well, since you’re here I’d better show you what to do,’ Mary decided, leading him down the patio steps and across the lawn to a little fern-house.
    The ferns disguised the fact that it was actually a repository for gardening equipment, tools, and fertilizers. A small, urban-looking tractor was parked neatly inside the door, covered with a waterproof