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mind. He had a deep respect for the other’s common sense, his easy humour. Although theoretically Dave constantly suffered for the oppressed and wanted to disembowel the bourgeoisie, Carl had never met a happier, more contented man.
    Soon Carl turned into Dave’s street. It was poorer, grimier and more depressed than his own. There were no trees, the edges of the footpath were crumbling, half-filled potholes scarred the asphalt. Dark children played around a rusty, abandoned car, their shrill voices filling the air. Shit! It must be school holidays. God! June might be home.
    Dave’s wife was a teacher. Carl approached the house cautiously. It had been a rather pretty weatherboard cottage but Dave had three children and their depredations and Dave’s indolence had led the house into irreversible decline. Broken toys littered the front path and some depressed rabbits cropped the ragged lawn. An old neutered tomcat watched them with lazy patience.
    Carl couldn’t see June’s car so he walked up the front path, avoiding the toys and keeping an eye out for rabbit shit. He could hear opera—a swooping voice against angry discords. Dave was home.
    He walked straight into the front room. Dave was sitting on an old sofa changing a baby’s nappy. The baby was crying loudly; the noise was deafening.
    Dave looked up and grinned. His big brown face was heavily lined and his beard and short curly hair were grey; a faded black T-shirt was stretched across his thick torso. His feet were bare and massive like a Picasso peasant’s. Rude good spirits filled the room. He wiped shit off the baby’s bum and deftly tucked the disposable nappy into a plastic bag. Carl averted his eyes. He saw with surprise and some envy that the music was coming from a video. A tarty-looking blonde shrieked from the screen.
    â€˜Carl, my boy, how are you, comrade?’ Dave shouted above the din. ‘Just in time for lunch. Have a beer! Have a baby!’ And he thrust the squirming child into Carl’s arms and lumbered from the room.
    Carl, his mouth twisted with distaste, quickly set the baby down on the sofa.
    What the hell is its name anyway? Vladimir or Germaine or is it Shulamith? No, it’s a boy—Jesus, what a noise!
    He found the control by the screen and turned the sound down.
    What is it? It really isn’t so bad, although it’s giving me a headache. He found the cassette cover. Lulu. A bit modern for Dave. He pressed the off button on the video.
    Lulu. It’s like Lilly—I must not think about her.
    Lilly was Carl’s daughter. He remembered her early childhood and winced.
    Dave’s so good with them. I’m just not a father—Dave’s so good at everything. Sometimes he shits me. Where did he get the money for that video, for instance? With three kids and everything—Jesus.
    Carl was working himself up into a jealous rage when Dave came back, holding two cans of beer in one great hand and a plate of sandwiches in the other.
    â€˜Don’t you like Lulu, my boy? Never mind, wait till you see what I got from England!’
    He crammed two sandwiches into his mouth and took a big swig of beer. Carl had to smile—Dave was like a big kid. He took a sandwich and opened it cautiously.
    Shit, health food bread. It always hurt his teeth. Still. He sat down. They ate and drank together in companionable silence for a while. This really is a nice room.
    Books lined the walls and the sun slanted through a well-shaped bow window. The baby was quiet.
    Dave finished eating and lay back, propping the baby on his gut.
    â€˜Where’s June and the kids?’ asked Carl nervously.
    â€˜Down at her mother’s. Don’t you worry, comrade,’ said Dave, grinning. ‘How are you getting on with your mother?’
    â€˜Ah, Dave, you wouldn’t believe what it’s like! I have to go to church with her on Sunday.’
    â€˜What!’ Dave was convulsed