The Fine Colour of Rust. P. O’Reilly A.

he’s forgotten he was carrying anything. ‘Oh, a trike for Jake. Found it when I was rearranging the junk in the yard. It must have been hidden in that tractor rim for years. No, what’s unbloodybelievable,’ he puts the tricycle on the floor and waves a sheet of paper in my direction, ‘is this.’

      ‘You’d better meet my sister and her friend first.’

      I introduce them all and Norm stuffs the paper in his pocket before shaking Patsy’s hand, then George’s. He looks George in the eye and says, ‘Welcome to Gunapan.’

      ‘Thanks,’ George says, wiping her hand on her jeans. ‘Into cars?’

      ‘Nah, love, I’m a recycler. Salvage and parts for all things man made,’ Norm says. He splays his hands in front of him. They’re spectacularly dirty today.

      ‘Norm, didn’t I buy you some soap?’

      ‘Don’t want to strip the natural oils from my sensitive skin,’ he says turning his hands over to examine the palms, which are equally filthy.