Connor was back when they arrived home. They saw his vehicle first, then his lean figure seated on the verandah. He was using the binoculars to watch the segments of visible river where the water had changed to pewter in the failing light.

‘Good day?’ he asked as the women climbed the steps laden with lunch boxes and thermos, and to Tilly, he said, ‘I made tea, and helped myself to the cake. I hope that’s okay?’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘And I enjoyed the day. Can’t stop to talk now though. Do you mind if I have first go at the bathroom, Soph?’

‘Go ahead. I’ll shower while you’re getting dinner.’ To Connor she said, ‘So, you found your way about okay?’

‘And back again, yep,’ Tilly heard him reply as she hurried to her room. It was actually a little later than she had planned on. She yanked her clothes off, then stepped under the shower; she’d meant to wash her hair but it would have to wait. The hot water was bliss on her tired shoulders but she rationed herself to a few moments only before stepping out and drying off. The others would be just as eager for the bathroom so she pulled on a housecoat and sped to her room to dress, tutting in frustration when the hand reaching for her hairbrush encountered an empty space.

Tilly stared blankly at the dressing table, then discovered the missing item on the far side of the table. She must have put it there in the morning’s rush, unusual for someone as set in her ways as she was. Gerry used to tease her about her little routines . . . Tilly banished the thought. This was no time for woolgathering. She felt with her toes for the flat sandals she’d left beneath the bed and tutted again, eventually getting down on her knees to locate them, pushed almost out of sight. It was always the same when one hurried, as if the universe was aware of your haste and determined to frustrate you.

Her seedlings had survived the afternoon’s heat. Uncoiling the hose, she sprayed the beds then hurried across to the animal enclosure where Mickey greeted her with reproachful cries. ‘I know, I know, but you’re not actually starving. Besides, you could easily find your own,’ she scolded. Unlike Harry, who stalked across to stand tall before her, spreading his wings demandingly, the missing half of his beak rendering what should have been a stately sight a pathetic one. With the joeys’ bottles empty she was done, for the possum was going dinnerless. Being hungry would provide the impetus for him to leave when Luke released him later that night. Possums were like butcherbirds, she had learnt: they tended to know when they were on a good wicket and would hang around indefinitely.