She had never packed a trunk before. She was sure she did not do it correctly, nor did she have even tissue paper to put between the layers, and mice had nibbled two of her hatboxes. But deficiencies did not matter. The maid assigned to her at Drinkwater would unpack, clean and iron her clothes, lay them out for her . . . Oh, a bath, she thought, warm water and violet soap, and the pleasure of hands brushing her hair at night, and using a curling iron on it in the morning, so that the face she saw in the mirror might resemble her own again. Ironed sheets, pillows filled with feathers from birds that had died this century, not come out with the first convict fleets . . .

Clancy saw. He did not comment, even when the whole of Clementine’s small sad wardrobe was packed too, the clumsily sewn pinafores, the combinations now too small, leaving her belly bare. He only asked, ‘When do we leave?’

‘The day after tomorrow. I thought we might stay a fortnight at Drinkwater, and then visit Maria.’ She had not even asked him if it would be convenient.

He simply nodded. ‘It’s not a bad time for me to be away. As long as I’m back a few weeks before shearing.’

Shearing was a few months off, she thought vaguely. That would give him time to stay at least a few weeks at Maria’s. Possibly even enough time for her to convince him of the necessity of Sydney for herself and her child.

That night he packed his own trunk. Evening clothes too, musty smelling, but a good servant could freshen them. How long since she had seen her husband in evening dress?

Perhaps, just perhaps, this might work out. It might even rain while they were at Maria’s. How much rain was needed, she thought hopefully, to make the property pay again? A few days of rain? A week?

The day before they left she felt almost gay. She asked Clancy to button one of the morning frocks she had so far not worn there. She had avoided unpacking some of them so that they might remain unfaded by sun and dust when the time came for her to be presentable once more. This dress was Indian cotton, white with blue flowers of the kind not seen in any garden, a happy, frivolous pattern, a frivolous dress to wear in the dust of a drought.

A good dress to wear to say goodbye to it.

She ate slices of cold kangaroo haunch, eggs boiled to hardness and a piece of damper that would be better used as a doorstop. She showed Clementine how a lady broke her bread before putting butter on her plate, and then jam, then covering each piece of bread, one by one.

‘But this is damper, Mama,’ said Clementine, as if her mother hadn’t noticed.

‘I know, my darling. But we treat damper the same way.’