‘Dinner,’ said Mrs McKenzie abruptly. ‘I’ll make that cheese soufflé I promised you for an hongtray, before the eggs go off. And you’ll have meringues for afters, and for smoko tomorrow.’

Hongtray? Entrée, Clancy realised. ‘Meringues? Out here?’ he asked. He’d last eaten meringues at Rosemere. Meringues and a soufflé out here with the goannas . . .

‘Would you like to know the secret?’ asked McKenzie.

‘Well, actually, sir, I can’t see myself ever making meringues.’

‘True enough,’ said McKenzie, glancing back at Rose, then watching Clancy with sudden wariness.

The soufflé was as good as any he’d tasted in Sydney, baked in a smaller billy sitting in the camp oven, with a couple of inches of water around it. It was not browned on top, like the ones Clancy remembered, but it was light, delicious, frivolous and supremely funny, out there where the stars blinked up to eternity and mosquitoes hummed like an orchestra, though thanks to one of Mrs McKenzie’s liniments they stayed away from his skin.

They ate the soufflé and laughed. They ate hunks of roast emu and discussed stock prices. They’d ride south again, but maybe not as far this time, McKenzie suggested as they nibbled on meringues, for the drought was biting even deeper down there, and you didn’t have to go far beyond the border to find cheap stock, or even animals the owner would give away to save the cost of shooting them or the effort of hauling their carcasses far enough away from the homestead to avoid the worst of the stench.

Clancy sat by the fire after the others had gone to their swags. There was no work tomorrow. No cattle to water, or stragglers to round up. He could laze all day if he wanted to and have meringues for smoko. He watched the flames twist and wither into coals, then carefully shoved ash over them, to stop the fire spreading but keep it ready to spark with a few dry twigs the next morning, when he found McKenzie next to him. The old man was in the long underwear he wore to bed, even up here in the heat. He hadn’t even put his boots back on. ‘Need to have a word to you,’ he muttered.

‘Well, I’m here,’ said Clancy. He hesitated. ‘Look, I think I know what you’re going to say. I’m in love with Rose. I have been since the border. But I gave you my word and I’ll keep it. I’ll never lay a hand on her —’

‘Knew you loved her,’ said McKenzie bluntly. ‘Girl like her, how could any man your age not fall in love with her?’

He doesn’t even notice she’s a native, thought Clancy. These days he too had to force himself to remember, not to strike up a conversation with a man with dark skin in the street, invite him to share a beer.