As she pulls off the gown, she looks through the glass at Coop, her Coop, his new skin protected in the all-body pressure suit they have made for him in three pieces. And she smiles, as she always does, at the colour of the fabric that she and Laura chose for the head piece, startling against the white bedsheets. Everyone who comes in for the first time has something to say about it—What a gorgeous shade! Err … that’s different! Sure brightens up this place! But they chose it simply because it’s Coop. The brilliant, flaming red of his hair.

~

They sit either side of the coffee table in the lounge, cappuccinos and an extravagance of Danish pastries spread between them. Laura’s face is pink-and-gold warm. Young.

You know what I saw on the drive in? she says. You know that burnt-out strip just before the highway …

A cool shudder along Avril’s arms. She nods.

… I caught a glimpse of something scuttling out onto the road. Only just managed to brake in time. Thank god no-one was behind me.

What was it?

Echidna!

Avril shakes her head.

Can you believe it? Life from all that ruin …

She picks up a pastry and breaks it in half. When will you go back to work?

I don’t know. Laura shrugs. I guess I should check my emails, though.

What do you mean?

Well, I told them I was taking the long-service I was due but I didn’t exactly wait for permission.

Avril’s eyes widen. Laura! Her mother-in-law’s grin is 100 per cent Coop’s.

She’s curious when Laura clears a space on the table for her Landcare bag. A clunk, metal on glass.

I found something else in Grunnie’s kist, Laura says, leaning forward. Right at the bottom under everything else.

A small pulse of excitement.

Laura takes a large tin out of the bag and turns it so Avril can see. Old and scratched, a few rusted indentations. A faded scene painted on the lid—horse and cart, a man in rolled-up sleeves, two smart women with hats and parasols to match their long dresses. The words Mills & Ware embossed across the top. Laura uses her fingernails to pop open the lid.

The first thing she picks out is small, a broad cone, dirty white with sepia stripes. Avril takes it from her, feeling its rough outer surface with encircling ridges, the inside powdery smooth.

Limpet, I think, Laura says.

A barefoot girl with a bucket, trudging across the shore, prising shells away from rocks, breaking new ice crusting shallow pools.

Next, two books. The first, The Girls Forget-Me-Not Annual of Prose and Verse, covers bound to the spine with industrial tape. And a compact volume of Underwoods, well worn, its dog-eared pages furred at the edges. Laura thumbs it open at the frontispiece and hands it to Avril. There’s an inscription in small, neat letters:

To Miss Margaret Neish Duthie