While I struggled to find a sensible voice for myself, I pulled out a straw hat from my basket and jammed it onto Clementina’s head, insisting she wear it. Then I knelt to fasten bonnets on the tired, grizzling bairns, tying under their chins the soft ribbons I’d sewn into the bands. By the time they were all shaded with wide brims, I had composed myself enough to explain to Clementina: Ye’re not used to sun like this. Even in autumn, it can fry your skin like a bubbled egg!

I threw my arms around her and Stivvy.

Welcome to Fremantle, welcome to Australia!

~

I had longed for this day ever since the letter had come saying Clementina and family were emigrating, too. Magnus Tulloch had grinned like a clown when I read it to him, but soon his little dance of excitement slowed into pacing. Back and forward, back and forward, the few steps between the Metters and the icebox.

What have ye told Clementina in your letters?

What d’ye mean? I demanded.

Well, is not a land of plenty, this, eh? Not a place ta make a fortune. Doesn’t matter how hard a man works, is not enough, ever.

I looked at him, impatient, but sorry, too. He had arrived in Western Australia a cooper with hopes of going on the land, but now, two years later, he was a cooper still. It was not a thing of shame to me—I had married a cooper and was proud of it then, and could not be prouder now—but something needled at Magnus Tulloch’s pride. So much so that no more was he writing to Gracie. It was left to me to keep strong that thread of family.

Not enough, ever … He was not thinking of Stivvy.

I didn’t tell her anything that isn’t true … I began. But what was true? I had written to Clementina Ratter of all manner of things. I’d described the way the wind billowed rainless clouds and rolled them like puffs of rooed wool across the blue expanse of sky, and the strident birdcall that shook you awake from dreams, insisting you get up, get up, get out of bed and gaze upon the Lord’s work. I assured her she had never yet felt the true warmth of the sun and how it found its way into that cold centre that never left us in the north. I offered her small exotic flowers on spiky leaves, brilliant white beaches, not a bit of shingle in sight. And I hoped she would want to see these things for herself one day—never really believing such a thing could be possible. But now my mind dwelled upon all I had not told her about this imperfect paradise. Was a story true made untrue when you told only part of it?

My voice trailed off. Magnus Tulloch was already frowning—why add to his worries?