Clancy’s first reaction was shock. The men he’d known with native wives had been ex-convicts, no-hopers, men who didn’t seem to care that their children would lack the white man’s life and opportunity. McKenzie’s quiet competence had impressed him, even with the few words they’d exchanged.

Of course old Drinkwater’s first wife had been native, but he had always assumed that ‘wife’ was a euphemism and that Drinkwater had got rid of her once he was established.

McKenzie was waiting. Clancy said quickly, ‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs McKenzie. That smells delicious.’

McKenzie relaxed slightly. Suddenly Clancy felt ashamed. In the last year, he had met more natives working on the properties where he’d been shearing: intelligent, capable men and women who often, like Rose, spoke English better than some of the Irish or Scots.

And there was no mistaking the quiet partnership between these two people. But many — even most — who saw a native woman droving would assume she was for the use of all, or shun both her and her husband. A native stockman was possible, even respected. Mrs McKenzie’s male clothing was more than comfort for travelling. It was protection.

Mrs McKenzie gave her pot another stir. ‘Duck stew, with wild onions and daisy root to thicken it,’ she said.

‘The wife used to cook at Government House,’ said McKenzie proudly.

Or was more likely a kitchen maid, given a charitable job that Flora, or others like her, would have arranged. Mrs McKenzie would have been washing up, not cooking. But this capable woman had obviously learned a lot, even if no white cook had the charity — or insight — to teach her.

‘I doubt the governor is eating as well tonight. His loss,’ said Clancy. Mrs McKenzie grinned at him, as if she guessed this trick of praising the cook had done him well in getting second and third helpings from many a Cookie.

‘And this is Tiger.’ McKenzie gestured at the second man. White whiskers, probably bald under his hat, hands trembling — age or too much drink or sometimes the shaking just got to you — but the old man’s handshake was firm. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘And this is Joe,’ said McKenzie, watching him keenly.

Clancy turned to the youth in the growing dusk. A string bean of a lad, almost as dark as Mrs McKenzie. He wondered if they were related, but the boy’s features were finer, almost delicate. The boy did not extend his hand. ‘Good evening, Mr Clancy,’ he said expressionlessly.

He knew the voice. He shut his eyes, but when he opened them, she was still there. ‘Rose,’ he said and walked away.

Chapter 38

Chapter 38

How to find water in New Country