I stroll to the chook yard with no real purpose. We used to let the chooks out in the morning and shut them in at night to protect them from the foxes. I haven’t bothered with that for a long time. The chooks get to run free, going where they want, and nesting where they want. Most of the time they seemed to end up in the chook shed after dark, and so far all eight of them have survived. I look in the nests that I haven’t checked for over a week, and find nearly fifty eggs, some of them laid on the bare dirt next to the nests, and some of them in the open ground of the yard. I put them in a bucket and take them outside. I pick up one of the clean brown eggs and weigh it in my hand. It feels like the perfect missile. I hurl it at the centre of a huge box tree nearby. The egg splatters beautifully, but slightly off mark. I try again, and improve a little bit. I keep throwing until all the eggs are gone and the tree is painted in yellow and egg shells. I feel some pleasure in that.

In the morning I am driving, on my way to Fythe Trees, and after that to track down the mailman and have a word. It is dawn, and I have only slept a couple of hours, but I am fresh enough, and sitting still is an impossibility. My money is now back in the tool box. I pass Elaine’s turn-off, and ignore it. I need time to think about Elaine, and thinking about things that upset me isn’t my strong suit.

In town I go to the only remaining bank, and deposit $20,000 in cash — half from the box, and half won on the races. The teller looks surprised and a little pleased. I know her. Yvette Hill. Her husband used to be a stockman on Ben Ruder’s place until he was smart enough to get out and get a job managing a farm nearer town. But the presence of Yvette means I am probably starting gossip that I don’t need to. If the notes turn out to be marked, I’ll say they must have come from the bookies. If not, then I’ll be able to go for broke, put my money into several accounts, and spend like a … well, like my father did. I’ll do that in a much bigger town than this one.

‘Yvette,’ I say, ‘you don’t happen to know a Dave Martin, another Dave Martin, who lives out on the eastern side of town?’

‘Of course,’ she says, and smiles at me like I am a cretin. ‘Everyone knows Marto. Lovely guy. A real hoot.’

‘Has he lived out there long?’

She shrugs, and blows her lips out. ‘Probably ten years, I’d say.’

‘Oh. Right. Thanks.’