Commos, we called them. Ruskies, under every bed, everywhere! At least that’s what we were told. The Cold War was obviously working well, for as a boy growing up in Sydney in the mid 50’s, I only ever knew three Russians: the Lavrishev boys.

Boris, the eldest, had a good job working for the NSW railways as a mechanical engineer. Alex, the genius, taught me chess and became a professor of Mathematics at the University of NSW. He went nuts, I found out years later, and ended up in an institution. Nicholas was in my class, and loved eating licorice; he was going to be a soccer star when he grew up — weren’t we all? He actually went to uni, studied economics, changed his name to Lowry, and landed a top job in Treasury in Canberra. Did he live happily ever after? I have often wondered. There was an older sister, too, whom I never met, but from reliable sources — mates who’d seen her — she was supposed to be ‘Live and Let Die kind of hot’.

Interesting how life goes. Forty-five years on, I’m living in Melbourne. Yvonne, my wife, who is a devout church goer, invited a stunning young blue-eyed blonde lady home for lunch. She had four kids in tow and, divorced, was doing it tough. We chatted amicably over a lovely meal and then sat around the fire; Melbourne can get cold.

‘So your family is from Eastern Europe, I gather?’

‘Yes, my grandparents left Russia after the war and came to Australia. They lived in Sydney.’

‘I knew a couple of Russian boys at school who lived in the Western Suburbs. Do you know Merrylands?’

‘Yes, that’s where their home was.’

‘Their name wouldn’t happen to be Lavrishev, by any chance?’

‘Yes, my father’s name is Boris Lavrishev.’

Stunned, and with a tear in my eye, I phoned him. ‘Boris, can you believe it? It’s Cal Stewart!’

Call it what you like, but I call it providence.