Flora followed her numbly up the steps. The door opened directly onto the mean little parlour — definitely not a drawing room. It was furnished in the shabby genteel style of twenty years before, an ornate sideboard carved with cherubs, a faded brocade sofa with carved legs. Even the grandfather clock was carved to within an inch of its life, though the side table and chairs were obviously home-made. Papier-mâché vases held paper flowers — Maria’s work no doubt, using instructions from a Ladies’ Own Companion like a poor clergyman’s daughter. Another vase held spindly feathers. A stuffed owl gazed from under glass.

She almost laughed. She almost howled. But a lady did neither. A million wild birds outside and they put an owl here under glass. The only surprising beauty was the carpet, Persian but not quite, reds and blues in a delicate pattern. If she only looked at the floor, she would be all right . . .

‘Your room is through here. And Clementine’s next to it . . .’ Maria took the child from her expertly. Clementine was awake now, her small fingers reaching for the face above her, unaware of the blemish.

The two rooms opened straight from the parlour. Not even a hallway. A third door opened now as Ezekiel Clancy entered. ‘Welcome, Flora,’ he said, his eyes resting with suppressed accusation, first at Clementine, then at her.

She had not even realised till then that she had failed in her duty in not giving him an heir to compensate for his other losses.

She fainted.

Chapter 11

Apple Pancakes

120g grated apple, 1tbsp lemon juice, 65g SR flour, 2tbsp caster sugar, 1 egg, 125mL milk

Sprinkle apple with lemon juice to stop it going brown. Mix dry ingredients; mix in egg, then add apple then milk; stir till smooth. Drop spoonfuls onto a hot greased pan; cook till bubbles appear; turn; cook other side till golden brown. Serve hot with butter, or maple syrup and ice cream, or lemon juice and sugar, or cold with butter and possibly jam.

GIBBER’S CREEK, 1979

JED

It was a Monday: Clancy was at school and Mattie had been taken to visit her Great-Aunt Flinty for the day with her grandparents, to enjoy Felicity’s menagerie of wounded animals and Flinty’s famous apple pancakes.

‘I don’t know who I feel sorriest for,’ said Jed. They sat again on either side of Sam’s bed as he breathed in, breathed out. ‘Ezekiel maybe, working all his life for family respectability, never being loved or truly happy, or Flora. And Maria, of course. At least Clancy’s story had a happy ending.’

Jed blinked as Nancy raised an eyebrow at her. ‘He did, didn’t he?’

Nancy shrugged enigmatically. ‘I told you — this isn’t the story you were expecting.’

‘But Clancy loved your Gran, didn’t he? And they had your dad, and you and Ben . . .’ Clancy had also died long before his beloved grandson had lost his life in a prison camp in World War II. ‘And he had the bush, just like the poem said. He had love and joy and the bush around him: And the bush hath friends to meet him . . .’