‘No. I sold some things to pay some bills.’

‘Sold what? You can’t do that without telling me.’

‘Just a handful of cows. They were threatening to send the sheriff out over the unpaid rates.’

I can lie without shame to my still-wife, even though the fact that she’ll accept the lie shows how low we’ve sunk. The sheriff probably would have come for the rates. But Sarah is not motivated by money, or afraid of its absence. When Dad died, we found out he still owed money to his brother, Henry, for his part of the farm — Henry’s inheritance. It was money that we had to find. We paid Henry out, but not before a few robust conversations about our need for a reasonable time to pay. Henry was Dad’s younger brother, and a lifetime after leaving the farm he was bitter about how long it took for him to be paid out. Sarah and I toughed it out together. She was always gracious about hardship. We were a team then.

‘But you went to the races?’

‘Just to get off the farm. See some people.’

‘You don’t like the races. You never go to any of your friend’s places. Mick says you’ve got bundles of cash in the house.’

‘I had a big win on the horses.’

She doesn’t believe me, but she’s had enough of the conversation. ‘Don’t do anything stupid, will you?’

‘Course not. How are you going?’

‘I’m good. I might have a job. Fran has been terrific.’ The line is quiet, and I let it be. Fran is one of her oldest friends — someone who never wanted Sarah to move to the country and marry me. ‘I’m feeling like I can do stuff. Cope with stuff. You know, get on with things. I was hoping you might be feeling the same way.’

‘Definitely. I’m starting to get some work done on the farm — spraying weeds, fixing some of the machinery, and cleaning things up a bit.’

‘Did you get the oats in?’

‘Not yet, but I’m about to.’

Sarah knows the oats should have been sown by now. She knows ‘not yet’ means ‘never’, but she can’t let herself care anymore.

‘Are you still off the grog?’

‘Yep.’

‘Okay. Look after yourself.’

Mick has kept one confidence.

‘Try to see some of your mates, won’t you?’

‘Sure thing.’

When she left it really hurt me, and probably cut the last of my moorings. I’ve been floating around like a leaking balloon ever since. But there was a small part of me that was glad to see her go. I knew she wouldn’t be able to move forward if she stayed with me, and while she was around she was a constant reminder of how I’d failed. After a while she stopped mentioning it, but I knew she always thought it.