‘I’m sorry. I should have had something sent in . . .’

‘Fathers,’ said Mrs Clarke indulgently and she trod down to the kitchen.

He stepped quietly into their bedroom. Flora lay quite still. But her eyes were open, he realised, staring at the stained ceiling. ‘Our child is beautiful,’ he whispered.

‘Yes. A daughter,’ said Flora flatly.

Clancy gazed at his daughter, sure that she gazed back, even if her eyes didn’t quite focus yet. Eyes like the dusk sky, lashes as thick as she-oak needles, and Flora’s perfect skin. ‘I don’t think there has ever been a more lovely child.’

Flora did not reply.

He sent a letter to his father the next morning to say that the child had been born and that Flora was doing well. They would leave the hot, cramped house in Sydney and come down to Overflow, as soon as Flora had recovered. They had the baby baptised with the name of Flora’s mother: Clementine.

Chapter 8

Nancy’s Apricot Chicken

Place 2 frozen chickens in casserole with 6 cans apricot nectar, 2 cans vegetable soup, 1pk noodles, 2½L of water. Bake till everyone is ready for dinner.

SYDNEY, 1979

SCARLETT

It had been a month or, more exactly, thirty-three days since she had last attended a lecture. Scarlett lay in bed and looked at the ceiling. A month was — possible. You could catch up on a month’s work. Even two months, perhaps. But not three months . . . and it wasn’t just knowledge either — you could acquire knowledge even in bed. She was missing pracs, dissections . . . she didn’t know what she was missing, which made it even worse.

And she was no better than she had been thirty-three days earlier.

Oh, the fever had come down. Her glands and throat felt normal. But the weakness remained. She could feed herself — just — but depended on William still to carry her to the bath, the toilet. Nor had they made love . . .

‘Lunch. There’s a choice of Mum’s corned beef or Nancy’s apricot chicken or Leafsong’s very yellow soup.’

‘I’d go for the soup. Nancy’s apricot chicken is best kept for emergencies, like assaulting burglars. She hasn’t even learned to take the plastic-wrapped gizzards out of a frozen chook before she throws it in a casserole.’

‘Thanks for the warning. I’ll mark it “burglar use only” then.’ William turned to get the soup.

And suddenly she loved him, this big — okay, ginormous — dark-skinned man who was so kind and patient and beautiful. And never once in the past thirty-three days had she been less than sure that this was where he wanted to be, with her.

It felt . . . peaceful. As if a giant question she had never known existed had been answered. She loved William Ryan. And he must love her, surely, to still be there, to look after her so carefully, even seeming to enjoy doing it, even if he had not kissed her properly again, and probably wouldn’t until she was quite well. And, being William, he would keep on loving her, in a motorised wheelchair or not.