‘No, but the biggest wildlife she’s ever encountered before today was probably a dead fish.’

‘Ah. Well, maybe she’ll like wildflowers? I could take her for a drive while she’s here,’ he suggested. ‘Better, of course, if you came too.’

‘That would be kind of you. We’ll have to see.’ Her heart gave a little skip and she smiled at him before busying herself with the cleaning equipment.

At the camp, he had the tea made and was busy turning the last of a pile of flat little cakes on a small metal plate placed atop the flame of his stove.

‘Pikelets?’ Tilly sat under the awning on the camp stool awaiting her. ‘I didn’t know you cooked.’

He gave an aw-shucks grin. ‘Just trying to impress. So what’s happened to your stepfather while your mother’s up here?’ He poured the tea and passed her the enamel pannikin holding a small quantity of milk.

‘Thanks. He’s in respite care till Mum gets back. Thank God for places like that, or carers would never get a break. It’s a life sentence when a spouse has dementia – unless the carer can afford to pay for help. It’s four or five years since the diagnosis and this is only the second time, to my knowledge, that’s she’s spent a day away from him. She flew up when Francie . . . when my daughter died.’

He dabbed jam onto a couple of pikelets and passed the plate across. ‘Try one, tell me if you think it’s terrible. That must have been hard for you both. Had she seen much of her granddaughter?’

‘Not really. I took her home once, before she was twelve months old.’ Tilly bit absently into the pikelet, tasting the sweetness of jam and the fluffy lightness of the batter. ‘Hmm, tasty. But Mum missed out on a lot – hearing her speak, her first steps with her little arms flapping . . . Of course I sent photos, but it’s not the same. Pictures can’t capture the . . . the essence of a baby.’ Her heart lurched to the echo of once. She sipped her tea. ‘The little things you never forget. Their warmth when you hold them, their smile that’s just for you. You love them so much it hurts.’ The sweetness had turned to ashes in her mouth. She swallowed past an aching throat and felt her eyes tear. ‘I’m sorry, it’s . . . I don’t think you ever get over losing a child. Sometimes I dream that I hold her still and when I wake, I just want to die.’