She had just reached this conclusion when Connor’s voice hailed her from the top of the bank. ‘Tilly, they said you were looking for me?’

‘Oh, Connor.’ She turned thankfully to see him scrambling down the steep bank. ‘Yes, it was nothing much, I just stopped by your camp on the off chance . . . Look,’ she said hopefully, ‘you wouldn’t know anything about pumps, would you? This one’s stopped working.’

‘Let’s have a look then. What seems to be the problem?’

‘Well, there’s no water coming through when I switch it on. I know there has to be water in the line, that the pump sucks it in, but it doesn’t appear to be doing it. Could the foot-valve be the trouble, do you think?’

‘Most likely.’ A strong hand reached past her to grasp the mooring line and pull the raft in to the bank. ‘Hold this while I check it. Maybe it’s sucked some weed in and jammed the valve.’

‘Thanks,’ Tilly said. ‘I really didn’t want to have to ask Matt, but he’s the only one home just now.’ She tried to see past his body as he hauled the tail pipe up. ‘Is it that?’

‘Half a mo.’ The foot-valve came up with a splash, trailing a length of thin nylon rope and she heard him grunt. ‘Yep, it’s jammed open. Picked up a bit of rope that must’ve been floating past. I’ll get rid of that so it doesn’t happen again, then the pump’ll just need priming.’ He freed the loop of cord and dropped the valve back into the water, then pulled at the rope, which seemed to resist. ‘Must be caught on a log.’ He heaved again and the hemp rose, bar taut surrounded by ripples. ‘Feels like the log’s coming too.’ Suddenly his voice changed. ‘What the hell?’

‘What?’ Tilly craned forward as Connor knelt perilously on the pump housing to fish something from the river. ‘Don’t fall in!’ she called in alarm. ‘There’s a big croc slide just upstream.’

‘I’m fine.’ He was heaving up a heavy plastic canister, as big as a twenty-litre drum. ‘Well, look at that.’ With a carefully judged leap he landed beside her, the canister shedding river water over his jeans leg as the movement banged it against him.

‘What in the world? Is it somebody’s rubbish?’

‘I doubt it,’ he said, ‘but first let’s get your problem sorted. Have you got a bucket or a jug – anything that’ll hold water?’

‘There’s a bucket in the tool shed.’ Tilly climbed the bank to the little tin hut at the top where spare polypipe, a wrench and some spanners were kept. ‘Here,’ she said, returning breathless from haste. ‘Is this any good?’