‘Yep. East of the river mouth.’ Luke showed him. ‘I was there a day or two back, checking out a fire, so there’s not much growing in this area here. But this long inlet to the east’—he tapped it—‘wasn’t burnt so there there should be plenty of vegetation. You looking for anything in particular?’

‘Tree orchids – there are a few species native to the area,’ Connor said. ‘Then the general health of the flora, and any noticeable weed infestation, that sort of thing. There must be boats that come ashore from up in the Straits – half the country’s environmental problems are carried to our shores by foreign boats. It’s not only plants, of course – insects, reptiles . . . The Indonesian gecko, for instance, must’ve got here on a boat.’

Sophie nodded. ‘We’ve plenty of them.’

‘But what can you do about weeds?’ Tilly asked. ‘Once they’re established, I mean? You can’t pull them all up – not thousands of them.’

‘No, but if we know about them, the research johnnies can work on a possible solution. It’s how the CSIRO beat the prickly pear back in the thirties. They found an insect that killed it off. That was well after it had invaded huge areas of grazing country and nearly wrecked an industry. These days we’d rather nip things in the bud.’

‘Before they seed,’ Tilly said.

His lips twitched, acknowledging the joke. ‘Exactly.’

‘Well, I expect you’ll want your lunch then. Will you be camping or coming back?’

‘I’ll be back, I think – if that’s no problem?’

‘It’s fine,’ Sophie answered for her. ‘Come and go as you need to, just let Tilly know about the meals.’

‘Of course,’ he said, ‘and thanks. They’ll be a treat. I get pretty sick of my own cooking.’

‘The tucker’s great here,’ Matt said loyally then ducked his head, pretending a sudden interest in the map.

That evening Luke snapped off the television when the news ended and proposed a game of cribbage. Connor readily assented, though Matt, setting out his chessboard mutely, shook his head.

‘What about you, boss?’ Luke looked at Sophie, who shrugged.

‘I suppose. I haven’t played for years though. Join us, Till?’

Tilly declined. Cribbage had been Gerry’s game, and she was suddenly, unbearably, reminded of winter nights in their old fishing shack with Francie in her cot, the wood stove warming the room and Gerry’s handsome face alight over the cards as he cried, ‘Eights the weight!’ or ‘Seven in heaven!’ He knew all the calls and played with a fierce enthusiam she had loved but never matched. Swallowing, she shook her head. ‘I won’t, I think. I don’t much care for cards.’