It was a short labour, though Clancy shuddered at every moan from the tent. For the first time he wished his wife was white so that he might have taken her to town for a doctor or a midwife’s care, though Mrs McKenzie’s preparations — the camp oven with some boiled leaves, the billy of a quite different tea, the dried mushrooms to be burned for soothing smoke, the string and the scissors, both of which had stewed in the tea, along with lumps of moss that had been boiled in yet another tea then dried above a smoky fire — reassured him. At last the longest scream of all ended with a cry.

A baby. Two more cries, suddenly silenced.

He stopped himself from running in there. Mrs McKenzie and Rose had made it very clear his place was outside. At last Mrs McKenzie emerged, her arms empty except for a bloody sheet.

‘No!’ He surged to his feet in anguish.

‘A boy,’ said Mrs McKenzie, wiping the sweat away from her eyes or maybe it was tears.

‘He’s . . . he’s well?’

‘Of course he’s well! Having his first feed, even though there’s not much to drink yet. He’s going to be a good doer, that one. Never seen a baby so quick to want a drink.’

‘And Rose?’

‘Go and see,’ said Mrs McKenzie indulgently, and he knew she was crying too, and McKenzie, and even Tiger was sniffing a bit.

He looked tentatively into the tent. Rose glanced up at him, the bare baby against her bare skin. His skin was paler, though the baby creases looked dark. For a second he wondered if his son was striped, and then forgot it in his happiness.

‘Are you all right?’ A silly question for the most transcendent moment of his life.

But Rose grinned. ‘Look at the size of him! He’ll be carrying a bullock by the time he’s walking.’

A son. His son. He thrust away guilt that he was glad the baby was a boy, not because he wanted to found a dynasty, but because a daughter might remind him too much of Clementine and, even now, he was not sure he could bear the pain.

He sat on the ground next to the fresh quilt she lay on and touched the boy’s tiny fist. The small hand grasped his finger. Clancy laughed. ‘How did we manage this?’

‘The usual way,’ said Rose, smiling down once more at their baby.

‘What shall we call him?’ He could think of no male version of Maria, and his son would have enough struggles in his life without the name Ethelred. ‘McKenzie!’ he yelled.

‘What is it?’ McKenzie appeared at the tent door. ‘My, he’s a big one,’ he added, looking down at the boy, as proud as if his own genes were carried in the tiny form.

‘What’s your first name?’ demanded Clancy.