They had one more day’s work to do there. His back ached. The Bathurst burr prickles had swollen his hands: normal after a day’s work. He took a short cut through the garden — no lawn, of course, but raked gravel, with English trees at the perimeter and a circle of carefully watered blooms — to the shearer’s quarters, thinking about nothing except a mug of cold tea and hoping Cookie had a few slices of brownie left, when he saw the young man, dressed in most correct flannels, sitting with his back to an oak tree, reading. Clancy squinted at the cover. Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe.

‘Don’t think I know that one,’ Clancy remarked. ‘But I’m not one for horror stories.’

The young man — not much more than a boy, sharp featured and intelligent — looked at him, amused at this wild-bearded shearer who wasn’t one for horror stories. ‘This is a poem, not the usual thing Poe writes. A collection of poems, actually.’

The young man looked down and read aloud:

‘It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

By the name of Annabel Lee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love and be loved by me.’

Clancy stood silent. ‘I loved a maid by the sea. I married her.’ He automatically reverted to the accent of school and Rosemere.

The boy looked at him curiously. ‘It’s a happy marriage?’

‘She died,’ said Clancy, which was easier than explaining, ‘I killed her, my father and me and the drought, as well as her own grief.’ Nor had he ever been able to speak of the loss of Clementine.

‘The girl in this poem dies too:

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,

Went envying her and me —

Yes! — that was the reason (as all men know,

In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

‘The sad death of a beautiful young woman is a good subject for a poet,’ the youth added.

‘Maybe it’s a good one to write. Not so easy to live it,’ Clancy said shortly. He held out a hand, to soften the harshness of his words. ‘I’m Clancy. Clancy of the Overflow.’

The boy’s hand had the calluses of a rider, not of a workman. ‘My name’s Andrew Paterson.’

‘You’re a poet?’

Andrew Paterson hesitated. ‘Not yet. Or maybe I am.’ He put his chin up. ‘Maybe a poet doesn’t need to be published to be a poet. Or go to university.’

‘You’re going to university?’

‘No,’ said the boy bitterly. ‘I failed the scholarship. I work in a solicitor’s office.’

‘That’s hard,’ said Clancy. ‘What school?’

‘Sydney Grammar.’

‘I was at King’s.’