Which explained why McKenzie’s workshirts were faded blue stripes or pale green checks, fabric a woman might have worn but a man could too. McKenzie laughed as he saw Clancy’s look. ‘That’s why I don’t go buying her flowered skirts or nothing. But she’ll have silk flowers for her bonnet, and a couple of pink silk camisoles as well. She can dress as pretty as she wants to under them shirts.’

Clancy blinked. Mrs McKenzie in silk camisoles under her men’s shirts . . .

‘What about Rose?’ he asked.

‘She’s got an account too, and a bankbook. I opened it for her, of course, and put her money in it. She’s got a tidy sum. Can’t get it herself of course — if anyone knew she had it, the government would put it “under protection”, which means they’d take it for themselves. But she can give that bankbook and a signed cheque to anyone she trusts.’

‘I mean, does she like dresses?’ asked Clancy carefully.

‘She does,’ said McKenzie equally carefully. ‘But you know, son, I don’t think it would be a good idea for you to buy her one.’

Clancy’s cheque was enough to see him right for several years, added to what he’d saved already, or even set up a small holding, if he had a mind to.

He didn’t.

Charters Towers was hot, the streets even wider than Gibber’s Creek’s. The pubs were big too. The beer was good, but he didn’t touch the rum. The beds were even comfortable, for it was too late to head back to camp after McKenzie’s shopping, and Tiger was still on his spree. There were vegetables on the plates of steak and eggs, and if you ate fast enough, the flies didn’t get a chance to breed on your meat before the food got onto your fork.

There was a post office too, where he collected letters from Maria and sent several back to her, plus a sheaf of poems from young Paterson as well as a missive from Overflow which he glanced at — yet another demand that he be home in time for shearing. He bought paper, borrowed a pen and ink and blotting paper and scribbled a note:

Dear Father,

I’m afraid the droving will keep me away from Overflow again this year. I hope you are well.

Your affectionate son,

Clancy

His duty done, he went out into the heat again, had another steak and more beer and then a final walk before meeting up with McKenzie. They’d wait at the camp another few days for Tiger to get over his hangover, lose the last of his cash and ride out to meet them.

There were hardware shops and drapers . . .

He stopped at one, peering through the window at the bolts of cloth, then, on impulse, went in. ‘Do you sell ready-made clothes?’