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accompany me with some ballet-type music, like Tchaikovsky.
    Dad loved these impromptu concerts too. If he came home in the middle of one he’d grab a beer, blow me a silent kiss, and sit back and listen, eyes closed. And when Mum was finished she’d stand up and come and kiss us both, suddenly as bright and fresh as if she’d just wakened. She’d smile and laugh and they’d often forget about cooking; we’d go out for dinner instead.
    Currently, however, there wasn’t a lot of merriment going on at 62 Veronica Street. Dad had lost his job a few months before and, although he was supposed to be doing consultancy work, he didn’t seem very busy. He was just about always home when I left for uni and there when I returned, and spent a lot of time reading the papers or watching TV. I knew that he was going to a few job interviews, but nothing ever seemed to come of them.
    â€˜The scrap heap,’ I overheard him saying to Mum one night. His voice sounded really bitter. ‘If you’re a forty-nine-year-old ex-marketing manager, that’s all you’re good for – the scrap heap!’
    â€˜Don’t be ridiculous,’ came Mum’s reply. ‘There’ll be something. It’s just a matter of time . . .’
    But she didn’t sound very convinced.
    And the more down Dad got, the vaguer Mum seemed to become. She reminded me of a delicately coloured balloon on a long string – when things got difficult she just floated a bit further away, without actually leaving. It made me angry; want to yank hard on that string.
    The fact that Mum makes enough money to support all three of us somehow made things worse.
    â€˜I’m sorry Tinks,’ Dad said wearily one night when she was opening a pile of bills, ‘that it’s all up to you at the moment.’ Tinks is his pet name for her, a shortening of the Tinker Bell he jokingly christened her when they first got together.
    â€˜Stop stressing, Pete!’ Mum said, her voice all light and floaty. ‘It’s not as though we really need the two salaries.’
    Sometimes it was hard to know whether she was just being insensitive, or deliberately cruel.
    Dad has always reminded me of a cheerful, energetic teddy bear, but as the weeks went by and there was still no work it was as though the stuffing was slowly being pulled out of him, bit by bit.
    Now I heard his car coming in below and waited. Sure enough, three minutes later his head came around the door.
    â€˜Working hard?’ He didn’t actually wink, but he might as well have.
    I swivelled round, yawning and stretching and rolling my eyes.
    â€˜Hmmm. I just can’t seem to get into it. How was tennis?’
    â€˜Demoralising.’ Dad gave a short laugh. ‘Don Davis brought his son and a mate along and they gave us a thrashing.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘Your poor old dad’s just not what he used to be, Al.’
    â€˜Oh, rubbish!’ I cried. But my heart gave a tiny lurch. Standing there in his sweaty tennis gear, hair thinning on top, he did somehow look a bit . . . shrunken.
    â€˜Well, I’m off to the shower, before I seize up completely. You out tonight?’
    I nodded.
    â€˜Well then.’ He pointed a stern finger. ‘Work!’
    I sighed.
    â€˜OK . . .’ Then I remembered. ‘Oh, Dad?’
    â€˜What?’
    I scooted across to the bed, picked up the clipping and held it out.
    â€˜Guess what . . .’
    When I went downstairs again I pulled out the phone book. I went to the Ls, running my fingers down the columns.
    Licht . . . Litcher . . .
    Not a single Lichtermann.
    As my father had remarked, it certainly wasn’t a common name, but in a city this size you’d expect that there would be at least one.
    Maybe Wilda was from interstate or, I suddenly thought, from overseas, on exchange. It would certainly explain her strange first