‘Not ones to hang around,’ Connor observed. Tilly jumped and gasped at the unexpectedness of his voice behind her. ‘Sorry,’ he apologised. ‘They’re in a bit of a hurry, aren’t they?’

‘Yes.’ She turned, a hand pressed to her chest, wondering if she was going mad. ‘You startled me. I thought you’d gone.’

‘I reckoned I’d lend a hand with that, first.’ He nodded at the stiff coils of netting. ‘You seemed to be having a bit of trouble. What are you trying to do with it?’

Tilly grimaced as she pulled herself together. ‘Well, thanks for the trying. I thought it would be easy enough, but it isn’t. I’ve just transplanted my flowers. I want to rig something up to keep the wallabies off them when they grow. They swarm the place in winter, keeping the grass down and anything else they can get their teeth into. It’s good, really, the boys only have to mow through summer. But it makes it a bit hard to grow stuff.’ She was babbling, but it seemed the only way to control the sick thumping of her heart. Because, her brain told her, she couldn’t have glimpsed what she thought she had. It was quite impossible and yet . . . She shut down the thought and concentrated on the present.

‘Right.’ Hands on hips, Connor regarded the problem. ‘First, you need some fencing pliers, and some wire. Where’ll I find that?’

She showed him where the tools were kept. He sorted through them until he found what he wanted, then watched anxiously as he waded through rusting coils on the old wire dump to one particular lot. ‘There could be snakes,’ she called. ‘There’s some perfectly good wire here, right on the edge. Won’t that do?’

‘Wrong gauge,’ he said elliptically, carrying on. When he had what he needed, they returned to the roll of netting at the steps where he quickly fashioned two cylindrical cages about the drums, securing them by means of several short lengths of the wire doubled over the bottom of the netting and hammered into the ground.

‘That should do it,’ he said testing the structure with a good shake.

‘Thank you, Connor.’ Tilly looked ruefully from the finished work to her inadequate hands. ‘I’m afraid I’m useless with tools.’

‘So “mechanic” isn’t listed in your work resume?’ He lifted an eyebrow.

She laughed derisively. ‘You have to be joking! No, I tried a few things during my backpacker period. Worked in a cinema, and a greengrocer. Even picked tomatoes once, at Bowen back in Queensland – that’s a terrible job. Never again!’

‘Why’s that?’

‘The smell. It’s just tomatoes, but it’s overpowering when it comes by the truckload. It must have been two years after I left before I could bear to eat one again.’

‘Bowen, eh? I’ve been there. Is that where you met your husband?’