She was beyond caring. No, not quite. Now she only wished to be beyond all signs of caring.

‘Mistress?’ Rose took her hand. Strange how the palm of a native’s hand was paler than the back. Rose carried Clementine on her hip. A nanny or housekeeper would have forbidden that posture of the slums.

‘Mistress, come with me. I have a picnic.’ The girl indicated a hessian sack in her hand. A picnic in a hessian sack? Rose must have learned the concept of ‘picnic’ back in Sydney. She remembered how she and Margaret and half a dozen other ladies had been rowed across the harbour by officers from the garrison. The servants had already spread out blankets, cushions, placed the white wine in buckets of ice brought down from the mountains and stored in sawdust for months in the icehouse, and lit the fire to grill the chops . . .

Clementine laughed and clapped her small fat hands. ‘We’re going to have a picnic, a picnic! Mama! Mama, come!’

The words almost broke through her shell. She did not let them. She must be beyond it all. Must empty her mind, her feelings. Stay empty till the drought broke or her heart broke. After either of those, she would be safe.

She walked without a hat. Rose did not see the need for hats. Clementine walked beside her, without a hat as well, her blonde hair streaked even paler by the sun, her small feet in the buttoned boots firmly planted in the dust. Back home on their estate even the poorest farm had a cobbled courtyard, but here was dust, more dust and horse droppings. Clementine sang as she walked, a song the nanny must have taught her back in Sydney.

‘As I was going to strawberry fair

Singing, singing, buttercups and daisies . . .’

Who would teach Clementine the things a lady should know now? Not her, for Flora could not even paint well, nor play the piano, had there even been a piano here to play on. Who would make her dresses, teach her the manners of society?

‘Mama, look!’ Clementine pointed at a flock of red and green birds. ‘What are they called?’

Flora did not answer, because she did not know. She could see Mrs Taylor looking at her resentfully through the kitchen door, watching this woman who did no work while she must peel potatoes and chop cabbage.

There was no sign of her husband, nor any of the men. She had not seen any of them since breakfast: kangaroo steak with fried egg on top of it, served on a cold plate, and a damper, not even sliced and toasted, so they’d hacked off uneven doorstops as they wanted them. Clancy had sliced hers, thinner, but still not even. There had been no butter. What had Clancy said? ‘We’ll be dagging the ewes down the end paddock this morning . . .’