He drew his hand away and sat back in his chair, his hazel eyes studying her with an intensity that told her he was struggling to decide what to do. She waited, willing him to overcome his natural reticence and put his trust in her.

‘I’m almost sixty,’ he said eventually. ‘An old man, set in my ways, half crippled and inclined to fits of blinding, overwhelming terror. I choose to live alone out here because I’ve come to despise the cruelties of what man can do to man. I hate their noise, their numbers and their bloodlust for war, and it’s only here that I can find peace.’

Sal could see that he wasn’t finding this easy, but she felt instinctively that he needed to talk, to open the floodgates on all that horror and fear he’d been holding on to so that he could be healed. ‘I found peace here too,’ she murmured, ‘and the chance to be myself – but only because you let me into your world and gave so generously of your warmth and compassion. Now I want to give you the same chance to unburden your troubles – and I think you’re ready to do that, Max. I really do.’

He bowed his head and the dog nudged his elbow and licked his hand as if it understood Max was struggling to deal with some deep and forceful emotions.

Sal watched those strong, capable fingers run over the dog’s head and silky ears. She longed to be the one to comfort him, to hold him close and tell him she loved him and couldn’t care less about his age or his crippled leg. But she said no more, simply waited for him to come to a decision.

The long silence stretched between them, and Sal was beginning to wonder if the struggle Max was going through had proved too hard. She was about to say something when he lifted his head and looked at her, his expression full of pain, his hazel eyes shadowed by memories.

‘I was a struggling artist in 1914, working as a reporter for the Sydney Times. Like so many young fools I thought going to war would be an adventure – a chance to see a bit of the world, prove what a brave man I was, and come home covered in glory.’

He grimaced as he looked down at the dog and continued to fondle his ears. ‘My skills meant I was sent as a war artist – to record the glorious scenes of heroic battle,’ he said with heavy irony. ‘Because of this I was close to every front line, every rat-infested trench and water-filled bomb crater. I saw things no man should witness, and they live with me to this day – just as the constant barrage of the guns and the gnawing fear return every time I hear a loud noise.’