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message a day is enough gloating.
    In Tom’s family, there’s “before London” and “after London.” The 28th of June 2005 was “before.” It was easier to remember the “befores.” That morning, he had googled Yeats and worked out that STD was all about seizing the day and not some sexually transmitted disease. He knew that all along, he’d tell his uncle, Mr. Expert on dishing out advice about footy and women. He was always curious to know if Joe worked out the subject line before he began the e-mails or after. Joe was an English and history teacher, so everything had a theme. Most times it was the Shakespeare he was teaching. Tom could tell it was
King Lear
those days because the subject line the week before was “Poor Tom’s a-Cold,” just because he wrote to complain about the windchill factor at Brookvale Oval.
    In the kitchen that morning, his mum had been putting some fruit and a muesli bar into her lunch bag and peering out the back window.
    “Check your father out,” she said.
    Tom stood beside her that day “before London,” dwarfing her, because she was so tiny. All ginger hair and freckles, Jacinta Louise Mackee was. Half the time she looked like a kid and not someone who advised the government on how to treat their immigrants. The morning light had blinded him for a moment as he’d watched his dad hunch over the timber.
    “He pencils a line,” she explained, still intrigued after all these years, “and then he stands back for hours, thinking about whether it’s right or not. Next, he’s going to run his fingers along the timber and if there’s one little splinter out of place, he’ll file it back. With my nail file, mind you.
Prick.
”
    But it had been an insult laced with affection. She picked up her satchel and kissed Tom’s cheek.
    “Tell him it’s time to go to work and that we’ve got Anabel’s confirmation talks tonight, and don’t forget to move your crap out of Georgie’s attic, Tom. You know she wants to get things ready for Joe.” She knocked at the window and held up a hand in a wave and then she was off.
    He poured his cereal into a bowl with milk and walked out back to watch the master at work. It had been bloody freezing and he’d regretted not putting on any clothes except for the boxers.
    “You’re going to be late,” he said with a yawn. On the bench was a good slab of timber, a river red gum. His father was making Nanni Grace a table for when Joe and his girl came to visit from London.
    “Straddle it, will you?” his dad said, grabbing hold of the electric saw. “Hold it still.”
    Tom hadn’t been happy with the suggestion. “You better not get that too close to you-know-where,” he muttered, swallowing a mouthful of cornflakes and putting down the bowl.
    His father stared at a spot he missed and began filing again before he put on his goggles and switched on the saw. When it was over, Tom was shaking his head with disbelief, pointing to his private parts. His father was grinning.
    His dad was looking good, he had thought. Not like the year when Tom turned seventeen and Dominic was heading toward some meltdown, courtesy of too many liquid lunches and union negotiations between a hostile government and disgruntled workers. But forty was looking good on him. His father took off the goggles. “Listen,” he said. “Georgie wants you to —”
    “I know,” Tom interrupted. “She wants me to get my shit out of her attic. You’d think a king was returning, the way she’s going on.”
    His dad had shrugged. “He’s her little brother. You know how she is about Joe.”
    “Like you’re not,” Tom scoffed. “His woman’s going to be with him, you know, and he’s not going to be able to do all the stuff you’ve got planned. Can’t imagine Penelope Cruz going to a footy match or at the pub every night.” They called her that because she was Spanish. Georgie called her Pen for short.
    His dad lifted his arm to stretch out a muscle and Tom had