Clementine’s hand froze in the act of eating another spoonful at the anger in her grandfather’s voice. She had her own place at the table these days, sitting on two cushions. Such brown hands, from too much sun, thought Flora, a trickle of anger seeping through her dullness. Clementine’s knees under her pinafore were scabbed too, and her stockings had great holes in them. Her daughter was becoming a hoyden, too much in the company of men. And such men! Men who expected her to turn cook for them, as well as nanny, to deal with bleeding hunks of kangaroo, or the lumps of long-dead mutton Mrs Taylor soaked in water and vinegar for both smell and maggots. She had laughed when Flora screamed.

‘I . . .’ Flora began, then could find no other words.

‘Father, my wife’s name is Flora. I wish you would refer to her with the respect due to her.’

‘I’ll respect her when she starts to be of some use. Cooking would be a start.’

Flora had been taught to make an invalid’s negus of bread sopped in heated wine, beef tea, sugared violets and glacé pineapple, none of which were possible or desirable in the Overflow kitchen. She did manage to make sure Clementine was properly dressed each morning, she thought defensively, and in dresses too, not the trousers the girl was already demanding she wear, to mend her dresses as well as her own, though she had no idea how to mend a stocking, and removing stains was beyond her and Mrs Taylor too, who it appeared had never even considered how one whitened linen or curled a feather.

Flora looked helplessly at Clancy. She, who had wanted to be beyond caring, was being forced to feel again now Rose had vanished. Rose, who she thought had cared for her, loved her and Clementine, who should have been been grateful to have been lifted up to the position of maid, clothed well and fed . . . adequately.

She had imagined Rose getting old in her service, still quietly appreciative of all that had been done for her, being more and more use as the years passed by. But she had abandoned her without a word . . .

‘Flora was not brought up to be a cook,’ said Clancy.

‘More’s the pity,’ said Ezekiel. He stood up. ‘We need to start cartin’ water to the far paddock. The creek there is dryin’ up. By the way,’ he added to Flora, ‘there’s letters for you. Came with the messenger from Drinkwater.’

Who had visited two days ago, presumably to bring those very letters, intercepted by Ezekiel. Flora waited while he slapped them down next to her on the table and saw that each of the three envelopes had been opened.