Miss Matilda was different, people said. She’d made her father’s place, Moura, into a flourishing farm when she was little more than a child, before she’d taken on Drinkwater too. Sampson’s aunt, the one they called Auntie Love, had lived with her for years until her death too. Miss Matilda had even made old Sampson manager of Drinkwater, a native in charge of white men.

Big Moses had told Clancy a story from Pete Sampson, that maybe — just maybe — Miss Matilda was the old man’s great-granddaughter with Auntie Love, though Matilda didn’t know it. That Auntie Love had been the old man’s first wife, but had left him. Which made Drinkwater’s marriage to Margaret bigamous, if that were true, and both sons illegitimate. But rumours flew like bushflies in the bush. The only things you could rely on about them was that there’d always be more.

They were nearly at the driveway now. On impulse he said, ‘I’d like to call in. Meet Miss Matilda. She’s a neighbour, after all.’

Rose looked at him, but said nothing. Benjamin looked at the ground.

‘I hear she has electric shearing machines now,’ said Clancy temptingly. The boy looked interested at that. Clancy looked at Rose. She nodded.

They dismounted just as a young woman came to the front door. Clancy tensed, waiting for her reaction. But the young woman smiled, as delighted as if they’d brought her a gift of a stud ram. She ran down the steps towards them, her hair catching the light.

Clancy had expected a tough bush girl, broad shouldered, her hair pulled back severely, in jodhpurs and a man’s shirt perhaps. Instead he saw blonde curls, a small figure in a green linen dress that was a little shorter than he was used to, with skirts split somehow so they swirled above boots that were elegant as well as practical. Skirts like that would allow a woman to do anything she could in trousers.

‘Mr and Mrs Clancy?’ Matilda O’Halloran held out her hand for Rose to clasp. ‘It is so good to meet you at last! And you must be Benjamin.’ She shook Benjamin’s hand. He looked startled — Clancy guessed no one had shaken his hand before. But the blank look had gone from his face. ‘Good morning to you too, Benjamin.’ She smiled up at Rose and Clancy again. ‘Mr Sampson has told me so much about you, and Mrs Sampson too.’

‘Mr’ Sampson, thought Clancy as he shook the woman’s hand — work hardened and browned, a grip as firm as a man’s, but her fingernails were manicured. Not just ‘Sampson’, one of the contemptuous Biblical names squatters gave their native workmen.

‘I hope you don’t mind us calling in. I heard you have electric shearing machines now.’