EARLY IN THE summer of 1978, I drove from St Kilda to my home town of Eildon in rural Victoria for the single purpose of saying hello to my father. I arrived in the early afternoon, gave my stepmother a kiss and walked out to the backyard. I knew I’d find Frank under the apple tree on the rickety banana lounge he’d rescued from the tip.

“Came up in that little bomb, did you?” he asked.