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Boss. George Alister.
    Yeah I used to, says Boss. I was at school with him.
    I thought you went to school in the city, says Wallace. City school.
    Wallace is working hard, sweating and red in the face. He is trying to make up for Spit and Roy.
    Before that, says Boss. When we were just little tackers. Up in the old country school. The little one-room school.
    You was mates was you? Wallace asks, wiping his brow with his arm.
    Oh, I don’t know about that, says Boss, folding his arms and looking up at the sky. We used to knock around a bit. Don’t know you would have called us mates though.
    Wallace finishes the vine and inspects it, picking off small shoots with his fingers.
    Well, he’s dead now, he says.

    After knockoff me and Wallace go down to The Imperial to join George Alister’s wake. Wallace leans over the bar to talk to Les.
    Where’s all the mourners? he asks Les. I thought they were supposed to be mourning here.
    Les is sitting on his stool. He belches and blows out his cheeks. He does not move from the stool.
    They were here, says Les. He is looking at the counter, waiting for Wallace to put money down.
    Don’t tell me they’ve gone already, says Wallace. How can they have gone already? George Alister dead, where’s all the mourning?
    They were here, says Les, but now they’ve gone.
    He nods his head towards the counter.
    Wallace pulls some coins out of his pocket, grumbling. He slaps them down on the bar towel. Les looks at the coins and slides off his stool with a grunt. He pours Wallace a pot and keeps his hand on the lever, looking over at me.
    On the wagon, Les, I say.
    Les snorts and shakes his head. He drags himself back up onto his stool and the stool creaks. Les sits on that stool all day long. He’s a fat little man with a fat little gut and a puffed up face and he sits there belching and when he belches his cheeks blow out. Everyone says Les looks like a toad up on that stool of his.
    Wallace drains his beer and leaves the pot on the counter. He comes back to the table and sits down.
    Bloody mourners bloody gone home, he says to me. Not very sentimental is it? Not much chop George Alister’s mates.
    You want to go into the ladies’ lounge, Smithy? Les calls over to me. I’ll get my wife to make you a nice cup of tea. We’ve got Devonshire too, if that takes your fancy. Does a nice scone, my wife.
    Piss off Les, I say.
    Les looks at someone down the bar, grinning. The man says something and Les laughs.
    Wallace looks at his watch and shows it to me.
    Gone home already, he says shaking his head. What happened to paying your respects?
    He stands up and goes into the lounge.
    Hey Les, he says coming out, was the widow here?
    What widow might that be Wallace? Les asks. He throws a grin at the man down the bar.
    Wallace stands there pushing his glasses against his face.
    George Alister’s widow, he says. Nora. Nora Alister.
    I believe she was, says Les.
    Wallace comes back to the table swearing.
    What bloody widow he think I was talking about? he says to me. Bloody George Alister’s bloody mourners, who else’s widow he think I was talking about?
    He’s just having you on, Wallace, I say.
    Wallace swears and turns in his chair.
    Well, how about Roy Thompson then? he yells over to Les. He here?
    Roy Thompson? says Les. Was Roy Thompson here? he asks down the bar. He shifts on his stool, listening, and turns to Wallace and nods.
    Wallace winks at me.
    You see him go, Les? he asks.
    Les belches, shaking his head.
    Wallace looks at me again.
    What about the widow? he asks Les. You see her go?
    I wasn’t keeping a book on it, Wallace, Les says.
    Wallace turns back in his chair and leans over the table.
    Roy’s gone, widow’s gone, he says quietly.
    He gives me a look.
    The man down the bar says something to Les and Les grins.
    Hey Smithy, he shouts. How about an apple juice? We can water it down if it’s too strong for