Lunch was over, and the verandah beckoned. Us teenagers had just finished the washing up. Mum and Dad sat with their cups of coffee while Pa leaned back in his chair, mug of tea held loosely in large, knotted hands. His eyes swept along the full expanse of the twenty mile beach, from the nearby lighthouse to the distant, misty vanishing point. "Yeah, it's much cooler here near the sea," he mused. "By gum, it was hot on the old station out past Narrandera."

We knew the signs - another of Pa's childhood tales was coming up. We settled in our chairs, anticipating. Pa's eyes changed, gazing further into the distance, focussing into the past.

"I was just a kid then, of course, but it was a good life. Hard, at times. It was a week's horse ride into the town. Even the town was small, but we could order extra supplies once every few months, and the gear'd be there next time we made it into the big smoke."

"But you wouldn't have been able to carry two months' supplies on horseback, Pa!"

"True. Stuff like fencing wire, ‘n that - no, my Grandad had a bullock wagon for that. He paid our way while the farm was getting established, by hauling loads from the railhead to the outlying properties in the district. It was a tough life. He used to swear by goanna oil for everything. Axles not turning properly - goanna oil. Arthritis bothering you - goanna oil. Bruises, burns, cuts - goanna oil. He treated the bullocks with it, or us if we hurt ourselves playing by the creek, or falling out of a tree. When we were bigger, he used to send us boys out to catch the goannas. We'd set out hunting with the dogs, they'd spot a big goanna and it would run up the nearest tree. We had to climb up and drop it down, or maybe shoot it. Some days we'd bring home five or more, so Grandad could boil ‘em down."

"But Pa, that's not how they make goanna oil."

"Nah, not these days. But a lot of good folk remedies have been lost over the years. My Nanna used to add her herbs and stuff to the oil from the goannas, and dose us with it. It was only after I was grown that we started to use vegetable oils and wax as a base. And the stuff's not as good any more."

"So you dragged your supplies in by bullock dray?"

"Yeah, until about 1920, when we bought a car. An old A-model Ford, it was. Betsy, we called her. She could make the trip into town in just two days, and carry back everything we needed. The road was still pretty rough. Potholes and gullies everywhere, especially if it had been raining. But then the river'd be up, and it didn't matter - we couldn't get through in floods anyway."

"How did you manage, Pa?"

He took a big swig from his tea mug. "My Nanna grew most of the food we needed. We'd kill a sheep for meat, we only needed sugar and flour. If the hives were running, we could use honey instead. But some things you can't grow. Like fencing wire."

"Why do you keep mentioning fencing wire, Pa?"

In the sudden silence he turned and looked at us with unseeing, traumatised eyes. Then he sighed, and spoke again. "It was one trip into town in particular - one trip I can never forget. Grandad was driving." He paused again, taking another swig of tea, gulping it as if it were neat whisky. "You've got to understand, Betsy didn't look new any more. Farm work is rough on machinery. But Grandad could fix anything with pliers and a bit of fencing wire. So we set off. We got into town with no worries. Some of the bumps were so bad that we lost a gear or two, but Grandad fixed the gearbox with a stick poked into the innards of the motor. The mechanic in town tightened the old girl up, and next morning we loaded up and set off. Big rolls of fencing wire, with sacks of flour wedging everything in securely. Some new scone trays for Nanna, a new axe head and a gross of nails. The sun was barely over the horizon, and the bird song was glorious. But we knew it would be a long haul.

We made good progress, gained time. Grandad was pushing Betsy hard along the track. We saved time by eating the hotel's packed lunch while we drove. Grandad was giving me a turn at the wheel. There were few cars in those days, we never met anybody on the trip. At ten I was big enough to reach the pedals, and I'd had plenty of experience driving on the farm. But the recent floods had left an unexpected legacy. Without warning, turning a bend in the track we dropped into a new gully. A big sharp rock punctured the sump and we were stuck, high and dry. Grandad said a few bad words and we leapt out of the car. An ominously wide pool of oil spread out from the rock, and when we finally managed to lift Betsy clear we saw the two inch wide hole in the sump. Grandad said a few more bad words. We were in a terrible fix - miles from anywhere, early afternoon and still half our trip to go. Little chance of anybody coming by, let alone someone who could repair the sump.

Then Grandad spotted the big goanna sunning himself ahead on the track. ‘Get after him, lad!' he urged. I thought he was crazy. This wasn't the time or place to hunt goannas! But he insisted, and you didn't say no to Grandad. I headed after the goanna, which immediately ran up the nearest tree. I climbed after it. It must have been six feet long - a whopper! and too heavy for the branch, so I was able to reach it and grab it by the fat tail, just as the branch broke under its weight. We both landed on the ground, and I kept my grip, despite the loud hissing coming from the immensely strong animal. Grandad killed it quickly with the axe head, then began cutting it up. ‘Well done, boy - he's got lots of fat on him. He'll boil down nicely,' Grandad muttered as he butchered the giant reptile. He was right - there was a lot of yellow fat, especially around the belly and tail of the beast."

"So, in the middle of nowhere, Grandad wanted to cook up another batch of goanna oil? Was it Alzheimer's setting in suddenly?"

Pa chuckled. "Well, I thought he was crazy as well. He set me to watch the kero tin over the fire, while he dug around the creek for some mud, and ripped some long sheets of paperbark off the trees beside the creek. I thought he was planning to cook our dinner, with no hope of getting rescued for days. You know, wrap the goanna meat up in bark and mud, bake it in the coals ..."

"Yuk! You didn't eat baked goanna, did you?"

Sometimes, but even though I was a hungry lad, this old reptile would have been as tough as old leather. I said, ‘For heaven's sake, Grandad, don't bake the goanna, stew him gently, or you won't be able to manage to eat him with your false teeth.'

But Grandad just laughed at me. ‘Don't teach me how to suck eggs, lad,' he answered. Then I saw what he was doing. He lined the holed sump with the paperbark and smeared it liberally with the mud. A lot of clay out there, that's why the she-oaks and paperbarks liked it. The patch looked impossible, but somehow it seemed to hold.

Meanwhile the goanna's fat was rendering down well. He'd obviously fed well, because we got about two quarts of goanna oil out of him! With the remaining coals from the fire, Grandad shovelled them onto a thick piece of shed bark and held it close to the underside of the sump. ‘I'm baking the mud as dry as I can,' he told me, seeing I was puzzled. When the coals had burnt through the bark, Grandad let them drop, where they sizzled in the damp soil and went out. Wordlessly, Grandad took the kero tin of goanna oil from me, and carefully poured it into the sump. He treated it like it was liquid gold, not spilling a drop. I suppose for us it was. We had to get back to the homestead.

‘Time to get cracking. Mount up, lad,' sighed Grandad. ‘Let's hope we can make it.' Betsy started well, and Grandad drove as gently as possible, listening to the motor for any sign of problems. We blew a bit of smoke, but the pistons seemed to clatter as usual. After half an hour, we stopped while Grandad checked the oil level. The patch was leaking, but not too badly. We topped up with more oil (which I was carefully holding on my lap in the kero tin) then started up again.

And so our nightmare trip continued. Driving in panicked silence, listening with dread anticipation for the first signs of engine seizing, stopping to top up, watching our supply of precious goanna oil dwindling until only a thin smear was left in the kero tin.

We limped home, and oh! It was a blessed relief when we crested the rise, just on sunset, to see the homestead below, smoke curling out of the chimney. Down there was Nanna, probably keeping the kettle on the boil waiting for our return. Perhaps she had a stew on the fire too, and Grandad and I looked at each other and smiled in relief. We drove on, enjoying the sunset over our home. We'd made it, thanks to Grandad's ingenuity, and goanna oil. As we turned into the final tree-lined drive and the homestead dogs ran out to meet us, the car ran up the nearest tree."

We sat in stunned silence. Pa's face was solemn, gimlet eyes covertly watching us, waiting for some reaction. Then, as our realisation began to glimmer, Pa hastily got up, stretched, and muttered, "Think I'll duck up to the shops - better pick up a jar of that goanna oil." He was striding out of the gate by the time the full impact of his joke hit us.

"You'll need some goanna oil, Dad, after we've finished with you! You rotten old reprobate!" my father yelled in futility.

Pa's distant laugh rippled through the afternoon stillness, and we had to join in.