Scarlett nodded. Her husband’s death, then her son’s disgrace, even if the man he accidentally left to burn in the Drinkwater church had tried to kill Jed and her baby. Mrs Ryan had sent Scarlett a Christmas present the year before. Just a box of chocolates — possibly she had no idea what gift a medical student in a wheelchair from a wealthy family might want. Did Mrs Ryan assume she was William’s girlfriend, or just his flatmate, giving him free rent in return for help?

A knock and the door opened. William hadn’t locked it.

‘Only me.’ Alex put a bottle of red on the table. ‘Château Plonk, in the bargain bin at the bottle shop.’ And then to Scarlett, ‘Got your notes ready?’

They sat side by side at the table, heads together over their notes, comparing observations. ‘One case isn’t enough to build a paper on,’ argued Alex.

‘Yes, it is. Prof thinks it is. How many men have prostatectomies? More and more these days. And how many are checked for keloid scar tissue in the decades afterwards?’

‘But they’d notice reduced urine flow.’

‘A GP might put that down to further prostate enlargement . . .’

And William watched as he stirred his cheese sauce, slid the moussaka into the oven, placed lettuce and cucumber in the salad bowl — shop bought, for the few vegie gardens in Gibber’s Creek had to be meticulously tended with rationed water, and their produce was precious. Even Broccoli Bill had taken a storeman’s job at the Whole Australia Factory that year. The river by the commune still had pools of water but, as Bill said, even if the water was so thick with duck droppings that it would fertilise the veg forever, taking it would mean no water for the roos and the wombats.

They sat at last, Alex and William at either end of the table, Scarlett in the middle in the cushioned chair that gave her back and arms more support, though she just felt pleasantly tired now, not that dreadful weepy weariness that had marked the first few months back at uni.

The moussaka was superb. She helped herself to more as Alex spoke of the old warehouse an acquaintance had converted into a living area. ‘It’s great. Just one big space, except for the bathroom. The whole of the front facing the harbour is glass, though the other end is a bit dark.’

‘Glass tiles,’ suggested William. ‘Let in light, but no one can see through.’

‘I’ll suggest it to them. It’s the kind of place I’d like. Big black leather couches and movable screens about the bed . . .’

‘Not very practical for kids,’ observed William.

Alex shrugged. ‘Who wants kids?’