And then, out the window, I see a huge, new, white four-wheel-drive ute — shiny, chromed, and tricked-up — come meandering up my driveway, crossing the ramp, and coasting to a halt. Christ, I think, they’ve come for me already. My rifles are locked in the gun cabinet at the other end of the house. By the time I could get to them, unlock them, and get them out, the bad guys would have a rifle barrel shoved up my arse. I step back from the window, and watch, remembering there’s an old set of golf clubs in the garage, and a cricket bat somewhere that might be useful for self-defence.

But the person getting out of the car isn’t the tattooed hard man I was expecting. It is a shapely woman with brown, straight hair, slim in tight jeans, and wearing a loose top. She loosens her hair and looks in my direction. It is Elaine Slade, a farmer from two properties down my road towards town. Elaine is the sort of woman who is immaculately, effortlessly turned out, even in work clothes. In my community, it is agreed that she is beautiful, but for me that is academic. I can’t see beauty; it only makes me think of Sarah. So when she gets out of her car, shakes her hair back, and stretches her lovely neck, my only emotion is relief. Elaine has not come to heavy me over the money. She’s probably come to ask to borrow a piece of machinery; although why she would want to borrow any of my broken-down machinery, I’m not sure. I see her step up to the front door, knock, and step back. She says, ‘Hello’ to no one, extending the ‘o’ just a bit, and waits.

When I open the door, she smiles brightly. ‘Hi, Dave. How are you?’

I tell her I’m well, and do not mention that I’ve just received a quarter of a million in cash in the mail.

‘I’m glad I caught you. I thought you might be out in the paddock somewhere.’

I say something about lunch, and she nods understandingly. Lunch is one of the few legitimate reasons a farmer can be in the house in daylight hours.

‘I am sorry to bother you, but it’s just that I’ve had a parcel go missing in the mail, and it’s overdue and very important to me. It’s crockery, from my great-aunt. Not really so valuable, but important to me, and very breakable. The mailman said he left a parcel in your mailbox, and I wondered if you’d mind checking that it wasn’t my missing one?’