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fish.
    ‘That’s a strong-looking bag,’ Greg said once, after a thorough inspection of the haversack. It was made of a kind of canvas and fastened with brass-edged straps. The boy had never seen a bag like it.
    ‘It will never wear out,’ the old man said proudly. ‘That haversack was in North Africa. They made them tough for the army.’
    •
    So it was to Mr Garland that Greg made his way after his mother had told him the awful news. He hoped the old man would appreciate how badly he felt.
    ‘What’ve you lost, young Greg?’ Mr Garland asked. ‘You look very down in the mouth.’
    ‘We’re leaving Moondilla,’ Greg said tremulously. He was on the verge of tears but trying desperately not to appear a sook.
    ‘Ah, so it’s true.’
    ‘What do you mean?’ Greg asked.
    ‘I heard your people’s business had been sold. Surprised me, ’cause it seemed to be going so well.’
    ‘That’s the problem.’ Greg explained his mum’s plans.
    Mr Garland listened thoughtfully. ‘And you’re very unhappy about leaving?’
    Greg sniffed. ‘Yes, I love this place. I love the beach and the river and watching you fish. I don’t want to go to Sydney where there’s millions of people.’
    ‘Well, if you’re a good boy—and I reckon you are—you’ll fall in with what your people want. They must reckon they’re doing the right thing, and it’s them that has to find the money for everything. One day it will be your turn to make the decisions about what you’re going to do.’
    ‘I suppose so,’ Greg said glumly.
    The old man set his rod aside and stooped down a bit closer to the boy’s level. ‘I’ll tell you something I’ve never told anyone—not even my late wife.’
    Greg nodded eagerly.
    ‘I was in the first AIF, in France. It was a dreadful business, young Greg. Freezing cold, snow at times, the shelling was awful and the German machine guns were terrible. Then there was their stinking gas. Thousands of Australians killed. I finished up in hospital in England. And do you know what helped to get me through?’
    The boy shook his head.
    ‘It was the thought of being able to come back here where there were no guns and no stinking gas, just the sea and the river and the fishing. So I’ll give you two pieces of advice. Fall in with a good heart with what your parents want to do, but keep the picture of Moondilla in your mind. And when you’re your own boss, you can come back here.’
    ‘What’s your second piece of advice, Mr Garland?’
    ‘Be the best it’s possible to be at whatever you do. If you’re successful, that will help you to come back here.’ The old man’s face softened in a way the boy had never seen before. ‘I’m going to miss you, young Greg. Although I won’t be here to see it, I reckon that one day you’ll return to Moondilla. That’s the kind of young man I think you are. You’ll come back here and do things that people remember.’
    ‘But you won’t be here,’ Greg said, again feeling like he might cry.
    Mr Garland shrugged. ‘Nobody lives forever. I could have, and probably should have, died in France along with my best mates, so I’ve had a fortunate reprieve. And I’ve caught a lot of good fish.’
    •
    Some three years later, a parcel arrived at the Baxters’ home in Sydney, addressed to Greg. It wasn’t Christmas or his birthday. ‘Who could be sending me a present?’
    ‘If you open it, you’ll find out,’ Frances said, handing him a pair of scissors.
    Once he’d cut the packing tape, Greg tore the cardboard box open and let out a whoop of excitement. ‘It’s Mr Garland’s haversack! It was in North Africa. There’s an NX number on it.’
    ‘And there’s a note inside,’ Frances pointed out.
    Greg withdrew the single piece of creamy notepaper.
    Dear Greg,
    Keep the dream alive.
    Your old fishing mate,
    Albert Garland.

    ‘He didn’t forget,’ Greg whispered. ‘He knew I liked his haversack.’
    ‘The really worthwhile people never forget,