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mowing first. Get this stuff down.’
    ‘Can’t mow. Total fire ban day.’
    ‘Leaving it’s a bigger risk than the mower.’
    ‘Gordie’ll do it.’
    ‘Not sure I want to trust my inheritance to Gordie coming around one day.’
    ‘Who made you the prince? I’ll leave the place to Luke.’
    You did not want to take Bob seriously, he could take and give, he could dissolve everything you thought solid.
    Villani got the Victa out of the garage, fuelled it, pushed it around to the front. He opened the throttle and tried to pull the cord. It wouldn’t move. He upended the machine, tried to move the blade, brushed his knuckles, quick blood. He went to the woodpile, chose a length, came back and hit the blade, the third blow shifted it.
    ‘First resort,’ said his father. ‘Brute force.’
    ‘Yes,’ said Villani. ‘Learned from you.’
    He righted the mower, pressed the nipple a few times, it was covered in grease and dirt. He pulled the cord. The motor plopped. He tried again. Again. Again, a wire of pain up his arm, into his shoulder.
    ‘Not getting juice,’ said his father. ‘More tit.’
    ‘Filthy, this machine. What happened to never put a tool away dirty, that’s what you always said.’
    ‘Dust,’ said his father. ‘Whole fucking Mallee’s blowing over here.’
    Villani thumbed the plunger until he smelled fuel, stood up and pulled the cord: a piston puff, he tried again, the engine puffed twice, he gave another rip. A roar, dust, lapwings rose from the grass. He trimmed the throttle, pushed the mower down to the northern corner of the house block and began.
    On the second tank, he saw Bob Villani wave. They sat on the gap-planked verandah and drank tea. The dog, yellow of hair and eye, lay with his long snout on his master’s boot.
    For another half-hour, he pushed the machine. The dust he raised mingled with petrol fumes and stuck to his skin, a headache began. It was over thirty, wind gone, nothing stirring, a hot, dead world smelling of smoke. On the long east-west run, itching, dust in his eyes, sticking to his face, he could look at the blue-grey mountain, the treeless dark of the upper slope. It appeared close but it was an hour away, the country was deeply folded.
    At noon, he throttled back, the motor stuttered, didn’t want todie. It was minutes before he could hear the silence. He walked to the tank, disturbing a pair of crested pigeons. They strutted off, offended. He washed his hands, splashed his face. When he opened his eyes, the world dimmed. You didn’t notice this in the city, you needed to be away from the smog for clouds to change the colour of the land, of your flesh.
    ‘Missed a bit down there,’ said Bob, pointing.
    ‘I didn’t actually drive up here to cut your grass,’ he said. ‘The phone rings out. What happened to the answering machine?’
    ‘Buggered,’ said Bob.
    ‘Well, get another one.’ He drank from the tap. The rainwater tasted ancient, of zinc nails held in the mouth.
    Villani cleaned the mower, sprayed it with WD-40, pushed it into the garage. He went inside, washed his face and hands in the kitchen sink, made chicken sandwiches with mayonnaise and iceberg lettuce.
    They ate in the kitchen, the dog under the table.
    ‘Bread’s tough,’ said Bob.
    ‘It’s expensive bread, handmade.’
    ‘They done you, mate.’
    ‘Mark been here?’
    ‘The doctor doesn’t need his old man.’ ‘Maybe he phones and no one answers.’
    ‘He doesn’t phone.’
    ‘Yeah? The phone doesn’t work. I’ll talk to him. The compost heap’s dead. No tomatoes in either.’
    His father chewing, eyes on the ceiling. ‘Not growing anything, you don’t need compost.’
    ‘Not over yet, Dad. You’re still eating, I presume?’
    Bob Villani said, ‘Gordie’s growing vegies for a fucking army, what’s the point me growing tomatoes?’
    ‘Fair enough. How’s he going?’
    ‘Gordie’s Gordie. Be here five minutes after Luke shows up.’
    ‘Doesn’t do that for