‘When Rose comes back, she’ll show us where lots of flowers are. Papa, did you know she knew lots about where flowers grow? But she only told me and Auntie Maria, because Mama only likes flowers in vases or gardens like they have in Sydney. Why can’t we have a flower garden here, Papa?’

‘We need the water for the vegetables.’

‘I like flowers more than vegetables. Espcially pumpkin. Papa, why is there pumpkin?’

‘To eat.’

‘But it looks like dog’s vomit.’

‘Clementine,’ he protested, laughing.

‘But it does, Papa. Look, over there!’ She pointed, and there was a single pale mauve flower that he vaguely recognised as one Maria had picked sometimes. It hung limp by the time he got it back to the house, but he twisted picture wire around its stem to make it stand up in the vase, while Clementine watched delightedly. ‘You made it better, Papa!’

If only he could do that for his wife.

Mrs Taylor did all the housework, or at least cooked the meals and cleaned up afterwards.

The food was passable, even if Flora rarely ate much: kangaroo stewed with whatever vegetable Mrs Taylor could coax to grow with buckets of dishwater, usually the pumpkin that Clementine hated, mashed so that it did indeed look like dog vomit — he tried not to grin every time he saw it piled on their plates now — as well as heavy damper, johnny cakes and sometimes syrup dumplings. It probably never occurred to Mrs Taylor to think of anything different, for she was unable to read a recipe. Her criteria for a good meal was ‘lots’, not flavour or texture.

It was Clancy who sang lullabies to Clementine now and, sometimes, to his surprise, Ezekiel sang ancient music hall songs to her after dinner that thankfully his daughter didn’t understand, though she clapped her hands after each one.

Each evening as Clementine slept, Clancy sat with his wife in the hot, grubby parlour, trying to interest her in the pictures in the catalogues.

‘That carpet now. Don’t you think it would look good as a runner for the hallway?’ ‘Fairy wallpaper! Taylor and I could put it up in Clementine’s bedroom.’

If Ezekiel didn’t give permission for the purchases, Clancy still had cufflinks and an emerald fob he could sell, as well as the ruby signet ring his father had given him on his wedding day, though of course he’d never worn something so ostentatious, except once at a dinner at Rosemere, with his father present and no guests who might snigger at its pretension. Their price would buy some household fripperies . . .