And, yes, he could marry again, one day. Men did, after all. And, after all, one day it would, probably, possibly, rain again, and Overflow would be a property worth bringing a bride to, one with fewer expectations than poor Flora. Even now the house was better than most in the colonies, or could be, if it received what the magazines called ‘a woman’s touch’. A solid house, paddocks that still grew vegetables, an orchard, a cow and calf, a man and his wife employed full time, plus four hundred and sixty-eight extremely hardy sheep, and there would be more come lambing. A woman would marry for security like that, and bear the children Ezekiel longed for. But Clancy would not — could not — marry her. He’d never be a stud ram for Overflow.

He looked at Ezekiel, still chomping. With half his teeth gone, a mouthful took him a while to masticate. Many graziers had walked off their acres in the past three years, men who had lost less than Ezekiel. But his father was as tough as the mutton. Ezekiel stayed: stayed for the potential Overflow might still fulfil. Stayed because he was as stubborn as an old ewe at shearing. Stayed because he had dreamed of handing down an empire, and still hoped that it might at least be a small kingdom . . .

Clancy said abruptly, ‘I need to leave for a while.’

He had expected protest. Instead Ezekiel said, ‘Can you wait till after shearing?’

He would be needed to yard the sheep, to shear. ‘Yes.’

‘Where will you go?’

He wanted friends about him. Horatio Clancy had two kinds of friends: those he had been at school with, had socialised with in Sydney. His only other friends were the mutter of the river and the whisper of the stars. He knew which he needed now.

‘Shearing, if I can find a crew who’ll take me.’ He had become a competent shearer by now, even if he’d never make a gun.

‘You’ll be earning money.’

‘I’ll be banking it too.’ Did his father expect him to send it to him?

But Ezekiel just shook his head. ‘Just as long as you don’t drink your cheque.’ The old man fixed his gaze on his plate. ‘One day this place will be yours. Money in the bank’ll make a difference.’

Clancy pushed his plate away. Money, shearing, Overflow, a future wife, even the days, weeks, years to come. None of them were real tonight.

He said, ‘Good night, Father.’

Chapter 34

Chapter 34

The Simplest and Best Lemon Tart

Line a pie tin with baking paper, then shortcrust pastry. Bake at 200°C for 10 minutes. Beat well 300mL cream, 5 eggs, 225g caster sugar, 185mL lemon or lime juice. Pour into pie shell. Bake at 200°C till set: about 30 minutes. Serve hot or cold with ice cream.

SYDNEY, 1983

SCARLETT